The story of a vessel

Cracked, pale limestone lines the edges

And the cedars lean in along the old creek

To confer on the tragedy and pass the news

Along to the rest of the forest

Carried on the calls of chickadees

The life has run out

Which once covered mossy rocks

And nourished reaching roots

Traveled to the very tips of leaves

Feeding blooms and sweet fruits

Yet the rains will come again

And the clay-bottomed creek will fill

Not beautiful on its own

But as a vessel of life

My child, he will do the same for you

Your cracked edges will soften, then heal

And your water will never run out

And your mouth will never go dry

He is a spring welling eternal life

Then, be like the old creek

Cover the parched places

Dig deep till you find their roots

And give of his water freely

And eat of his good fruits

Magic hour

Before the blinds are parted by early morning light

Or the dewdrops shine back at the sun

I am held in a cocoon of warm light

My pen, my mind, and me

And I start the day like a creature leaving

Hibernation

Heart rate slowed,

Vision dimmed

But with each conscious thought

This common Thursday turns to celebration

As I remember no one else in history

Has ever seen the inside of this room

Or read the same poems and passages

Or used this pen

In the exact way

I am today

And isn't that its own kind of magic?

Consecrated

It seems a pity that the Christmas tree

Grows and grows all its life

Into this splendid, treasured thing

Chosen for its beauty on a cheery Saturday

Filled with cocoa and carols

And then lifted onto the family car

Driven with great ceremony to a new home

Decorated with gold and lights and funny little ornaments

Only to be stripped

Of its dressings

Left without light

And thrown out on the side of the road

For an unceremonious delivery

To a forgotten place

See, if I was a Christmas tree

I’d prefer to grow up in the center of the home

Little and scrawny at first

But at least cared for as a tree,

For who I am and not for what I symbolize

But then someday I would grow tall

Tall enough to hit the roof

And then grow right through it

Weaving my branches through the slats and melding with the floor

And everyone would know my house as the place where the tree lives

Not a place where decoration makes me special

But a place where my roots mean I belong

Driving in Beirut

The trick is to yield —

Never be too firm, too committed to your plan

It's a game of give and take

Where you never have the upper hand

See, driving in Beirut is not about rules

It's art and following clues

Watching their eyes,

Anticipating moves

Trusting they don't want to crash

Anymore than you or I do

It's a bit like living here too

You can make your plans

But most likely

The car will break down

Towed away for no reason

Or the petrol station closed

And that's ok

You just become prepared

Prepared for the rules to change

Because nothing here is ever the same

But isn't that what we love about this city

Her ability to reinvent herself

Clinging to history

But blended with the modern through and through

See, living in Beirut is not about rules

It's the art of yielding

Of building

Of writing a song

And hopefully we can learn to listen

And translate the street noises into melodies

And our own pain into harmonies

And remember the best symphonies

Don't progress in a straight line

They swell, they subside

And I think I'd be better off if I lived like I was driving in Beirut

And left behind my straight line

Pressure

The words come slowly, trapped

Inside like a dam holding back the ocean,

Letting not a milliliter out;

Concrete criticizing every glistening thought

But what if something broke?

A hairline fracture or a hurricane:

What could shake the wall till it shatters

That carefully fortified, steady steel,

Which only has so long until the force of

Nature’s endless crashing, heartless thrashing, pride smashing

Waves,

Break free.

Then the words come streaming

Gleaming as they run over my head and hair

Soaking me to the soul

Now I can tell you that I am lonely

Homesickness

The girl who never got homesick

Not once, not even when she avoided breakfast

So to not face those strangers alone

Is now surrounded by a hundred loving faces

But the tears come quickly

A billowing current lies just below the edge of her eyelash

Flowing in and out, always in motion

And if the girl lets down her shoulders even a millimeter

The tide comes rushing out

Pushing her down, drowning her out

Her home, that green place without hills

Floods in, replacing reality with nostalgia

And she sees everything through the lens of a camera

As if the theater is empty and everyone else in on screen

And she just sits there frozen, gulping down a scream

For Caitlin

Inside my basket of broken bread

My words lie stale with regret

A friendship left to natural destruction

Swirling gossip and storms of pride only left

Crumbs of words unsaid

Thoughts unanswered

Paths carefully tread

I wish I could make it whole again

Fresh again

Where the scent of two souls in unison

Stops people in their tracks

Breathing in the sweet air, looking for the source

We were like the bakery around the corner

Friendly green door, dinner to share

A haven and a place to lay your cares

Yet when the shop down the block

Raised its sign and offered beer

I wanted a pint of a new variety

Meanwhile you decided you were tired of me

Shut the door and boycotted my plans

So I left our bakery

Tidy shop and circle of friends

I wanted freedom and a little gin

A life spiked with spontaneity

A place to start all over again

I never said I missed you

Pride and jealousy blurred my lens

Your stupid perfect shop

Your two new perfect friends

I would do it better

A greener future without sins

My complete, perfect life

A whole new group of friends

I wish I could make it whole again

Healed again

Where the braiding of two hearts in harmony

Stops people to marvel

Wondr’ing at the divine’s power, helping us forgive

We would be the thrift shop by the flowers

Eclectic, not worse for the wear

A new look and a place to mend some tears

Inside our basket of torn up pieces

There’s room to reimagine what’s next

A friendship stronger for its journey

Of being ripped up and sewn back again

Threads of words now said

Learning to be honest

Laughter shared instead

Yesterday's nightmare

Pinned to the ground

A man’s five fingers press into my back and legs and neck

So heavy, he must not be human

For what human can hold another down with a single hand?

And the voice travels down from far away

As though his head is the heavens

And his hand only an executor of his will

‘You are trash’

‘You are trash’

The voice is menacing and so sure

Not insecure in the least

This is not a play yard bully, nor a malicious friend

This is evil itself

And he is not kidding

Worse than the painful pressure of his fingertips

Is that I believe him

And as the stars circle above my head

And my body gives up

The air in my lungs is replaced by shame

As if I had the wind knocked out of me

But like air, the one thing I need to live is hope

And now he’s here telling me that I have absolutely none

Because I have nothing to offer

And I am trash

As the dream restarts and the voice begins

I am mercifully, rapidly sent

Out of my nightmare

That voice almost killed me

Because I thought it was true

But when I woke, I knew there was one that loved me

Love saw me as a whole person

Who was trying and failing

But in the end, was a little bit like him

And that’s enough

Enough to not be trash, but rather a human

With hopes and fears and faults

And the potential be much more

If I also chose to love like him

When I grew up

My hair is in a bun

Slipping out like a school teacher

Twirled up high like a ballerina

Controlled like a queen

It’s just not me

My skin is blotchy and itchy and red

Like a teenager

An old me

28

But I feel like a kid

With dirt under my nails

Whose sentences trail…

Off, when I meet someone new

A kid who has wrinkles

Beginning on her chest

From a few too many days when the sunscreen was missed

A kid who’s alone, eating soup off the stove

Wondering when, if ever,

She’ll have to grow up

Rip out the pages

I’d like to be a professor in a classroom

Or a diver from Batroun

One mystical and somewhat musty

The other wild and uncouth

Shall I be civilized?

Or should I better run?

Run from the bindings of wisdom

Yellow pages, leather sown still

Books are fine if you do more than read them

Leave the script behind

Take the dialogue out for a ride