He left her hanging, so she hung herself on every word he had said. Her mind had been compromised and she couldn’t form sentences in all the jumbled up mess; of the broken words that fell out in the sun with meaning far less. She broke her nail trying to untie the rope, her face displayed what it was to lose all hope. Swallowed some pills and let the night take her out, no one could tell what ’twas all about. A different colour for everyday she bled, crying through florescent lights with signs of dusky red. She could have been a constellation, but left a tangled mess of veins as her consolation. Her fallen grace had nothing lacking, she hung her sins out to dry maybe laughing. On gusty days when sheets are snapping, the clothes line did a harmony of cracking. One stubborn clothes peg stood triumphant on the line as the last sock flies away sublime.
Every evening at the appointed hour after the golden sun is engulfed by the vast ocean, the marble minaret echoes carrying the call to prayer in the summer breeze. The shining domes pointing their fingers to the sky, open up reflecting the vaults of heaven singing melodies of God’s names. The god-fearing and the god-trusting all assemble as one, through the pillars of marble cravings peace enters their souls. Inscriptions in ornate calligraphy decorate the walls inside out, it’s like fuelling your spirit with the necessary food and water it needs without a grain of doubt. You come here to strengthen your faith, you go to ask for forgiveness, some come to test the waters while other pray to give up the hate.
Builders of this beautiful mosque knew where they drew inspiration from; and they made her static in a timeless dimension. She never asked for the love of the sun, nor the calmness of the moon light, she didn’t wish on the shooting stars nor complained to the unfair heavily skies. She took every pain and tear from the haters who kept her awake every night. But when she did raise her hands up to her prayer, what do you think she asked for? Through every single day she raised her hands to the direction of the sun and prayed: For her name to be taken with the one who gave her breath, the du’a in the air was the only one who knew how much she cared.
He knocked over the cup spilling all the milk onto the floor,
the topless cup swirled in the flux creating imaginary snow angels.
He accidentally fell into the milkiness of thoughts in white;
Like a ball of dust in a storm rolling to the tunes of a sultry breeze.
The al naseem twist his views as it whistles and howls past,
his dangerous heart seeks dark pretty strangers that will never have a name.
He blew rings of smoke into his lungs before he stubbed to give up yet again.
Filling his veins like the delicate stream of warm milk on the floor.
Fear in his bones of the unknown, he feared the routine,
as the empty carton of milk sat on the edge of the table.
Wishing it would all end his lungs withered.
He gathered the streams of white into a frothy puddle:
the more he gathered, the stickier it got.
Don’t cry over split milk, but it was the crying baby who gets it.
The fool just sits there with his wounds being salted by the passing sea breeze.
She is a lunatic and a beauty on the edge.
In a world that screams for her to change everything she wants to be,
She celebrated every fall by dancing in her favourite gown.
She flew sixty feet above the ground because her spirit never learnt how to crawl.
She threw her heart around and made mistakes, like loving never caused her any heartbreaks.
She didn’t do things the normal way, she questioned every why without raising her hand high.
She read books of poetry and drank her white wine,
She loved her alone which filled most of her time.
Through this was where she mapped her way across the world,
The streets she would walk and conquer what the tides hurled.
One poem at a time, she wrote her wordsinalign;
It was her mind that was ammunition, it was what men marked as a waste of time.
Pretty faces win arguments more often than the ones with hearts that win wars.
What were people hoping to express, if all they see is four walls.
A tornado of love and chaos, when she opened her heart she filled the skies with fireworks,
Painted her destruction coloured walls with shades of the rainbow.
Like a wild card entry that knew she didn’t have to be like the rest,
It was love that she spoke about in a world that was deaf.
While people wore small holes in their large shoes,
She ran around with larger holes and drank her booze.
She was proof of what happens when you cross the grass,
Smirked at every person who said “Thou shall not pass”.
Being alone in a country you don’t know can get lonely. They said.
But have you ever wondered how it would feel like to be lost in an unknown land with no one you know as coming home to an East?
You walk the tall streets with signs written in words you can’t speak.
You sit down in a coffee shop that makes your coffee bitter and strong, and you listen to the bustling noises of the door swinging open, footsteps on the staircases, the blender crushing the beans and the music that faintly plays in the background of supercars and trucks that make traffic a struggle to get through. Because they are always going somewhere.
There is something about this coffee shop on SZR as I sit down to write poetry, I wonder how many conversations have happened on these tables before me. Has anyone laughed, cried, sorted out their break up, made up, kissed, said words they wanted to take back or sometimes didn’t. Has anyone written them into a song, a poem or maybe a letter even? I am sitting here where life has woven their conversations into poetry and left me as a spectator to arrange words like birds sitting on an electrical line. Imagining emotions that give me chills in my spine.
I love this solitude that stirs my soul like the wind does to the sand dunes piling them on like salted honey during the most beautiful sunset you have seen. I like to lose cities in myself, like the lovers who have lost themselves right here on this table. I want to carry the ache they have across all the countries I set foot into and heal them with every passing day.
Alone? What do you do for fun, they ask! I’m busy. As busy as the Dubai city streets with a soul as colourful as it’s sunsets. It’s not complicated, just a passion about keeping my flame alive.
Draped in all six yards she stood in a cafe, it’s a timeworn cliche, but I simply want to say: She wears her wrinkles like an ocean wears its wave, she raised me like a lioness stronger than the brave. Taught me to overwater the plants and said giving is better than getting, live like there’s nothing worth regretting. What breaks us doesn’t stand a chance, she’ll protect and pray to be saved from even a glance. She can tell from the sound of your voice miles away, when your world revolves into folds of grey. It’s not only the one that I call Maa, it’s the force that build the life I saw. I never write poems about her ‘why’ they ask, she fills my heart in full not through the words I can make last. ❤️
Skies in perpendicular angles, speak of days that have my heart in entangles.
With beauties that shine with whites flowers and golden hair, the heart of gold he will not care.
Blue, yellow, orange and black, he wasn’t looking to fall for love it was what I lacked.
Shadows go up against all ninety degrees, my heart shivers in the hot summer breeze.