Hot

A hundred and twenty in the shade
Dries your eyes
Burns your lungs
Broils your skin  --  it's red.
Head steams
Muscles fail
Body shivers without control
Eyes see the invisible -- the non-existent, too
You can't move
Peace.

Desert

Hundred twenty in shade -

eyes dry glass, cracking, crackling

whining lips peel off 

Real Food

First day in Europe -
watering mouth reminding
how tasty food can be

Summer Night

Humid summer night

Body aches anticipation

Exploding release

Punish the Cautious

Loan seekers

Punished by FICO

For shopping around

A Nation Under Attack

An unarmed mother

Panicked  capital to halt

A terrorist joy

The Republican Party

A failed Obama

not enough for failed party

to win election

Obama

Freedom destroyed by

A self proclaimed liberal

Like never before

Maia

There was a young girl who shot arrows

And later she also got parrots

She played out all day

Or the piano she'll play

Hoping parrot would start eating carrots

Poetry

Pages of long words

Fit into a few lines

Of forgotten art

Modern Medicine

When I visit the doctor who said

That her job is to only treat head

Cause the treatment of spine

Is no business of mine

She is rich, but her skill is sure dead

A Religious Question: Haiku

Can you attack those
Who see you as violent
To prove them wrong?

Off With His Head

A man named Muhammad

Who called for Jihad,

Which some say it's love he was preaching about

Could make no mistake

And no harm he could cause

But your head would be chopped if you doubted his laws.

Poisons: Haiku

In China, US
Companies poisoning us
Protected by law

The West and the Islam - Haiku

 

Leaders of freedom

Apologize, once more

To dark tyranny

The Movie And The Rampage

A peaceful protest against a movie

In Libya, Egypt and Yemen too
It's love, and a bad movie, that sends on a rampage
The silent majority –
who claim to object the fanatic minority –
To ask for blood and the heads
Of those
Who do not understand
What love and tolerance truely mean.

-----


A man of love, we can call him Jilel
Who adored promised virgins of hell
Not a bomb on his person
Not a saw to chop heads
Bad director must die, he would yell.


 --------

Movie go to hell
Then we'll be in peace again –
Preaching tolerance.

Snapshot

Five thousand were killed in Syria in August alone.

Assad, their president and an optometrist, is in love with his wife

And goes shopping to make her happy

Often on line.

A UK university still call to boycott Israel.

Assad does not live in the UK any more.

The Arab world blames Israel

They must have planned it all along

Especially the UN failure

To stop the bloodshed.

The same UN that appointed Libya

To head the Human Right Commission.

Barbara, my neighbor, is truly upset

Her favorite chocolate is out of stock

And will probably never be in again.

The small shop that made it

Is being digested by a giant

And their secret recipe, that was in the family for generations

Is substituted.

But the children in Syria would have loved a piece.

At least those not among the five thousand

Who do not mind how inedible it has become.

Obituary

Immortal giants:
1. Elvis Presley, August 16, 1977 (aged 42)

2. Michael Jackson, June 25, 2009, (aged 50)

3. J. P. Morgan, March 31, 1913 (aged 75)

4. Julius Caesar 15 March 44 BC (aged 55)

5. Steve Jobs October 5, 2011 (aged 56

6. Joseph Stalin, 5 March 1953 (aged 74)

7. Jesus, unknown

8. Genghis Khan, August 1227 (aged 65)

9. Napoleon Bonaparte, 5 May 1821 (aged 51)

10. Leonardo da Vinci, May 2, 1519 (aged 67)

11. Albert Einstein, 18 April 1955 (aged 76)

12. Thomas Edison , October 18, 1931 (aged 84)

13. Confucius, unknown

A day like any other

The day life ended was a day like any other. 

People walked down the street, airplanes flew overhead, 

and robbers broke into the local bank.

The day life ended, the sky was blue, the sun was shining, 

and a few white clouds drifted westwards with the wind.

A dog was running down the street, chased by his owner.

No one knew it was only hours before the wind would stop blowing,
the sun would freeze in its orbit, 

and no mind would remain to observe.

If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears, what is the sound of the one hand clapping?

But there was nobody left to answer.
Because the day life ended, was a day like any other.

Ocean

Swimming towards the rising sun.

The sea is like a mirror.

Underneath deep blue.

Above pink clouds are floating,

Amongst complaining sea gulls.

The water is cool against my skin.

Swimming away from the setting sun.

The swell is strong,

Pulling me towards the island.

Breaking waves are roaring.

Dark above, dark below.

I can't tell sea from sky.

Prompt: The Museum

Once again, I could not stop myself from going to the museum. It's become my passion, my obsession. I faked sickness, killed aunts and uncles, just to go there once more.

I stepped over the No Entry sign. A broom and a bucket stood in a corner; the air smelled of dust. The Sea World was down a corridor illuminated by a single dull-yellow light bulb.

Wax fish swam in a glass ocean, a fishermen, holding a rod, stood on a rock above them. Suddenly, a strange smell. Someone was breaking the air-conditioner pipe. “My treasure,” a voice mumbled from the broken pipe. A white creature, half a man half a slug, appeared, it's eyes glittering as he saw the pond. Quickly he crawled to the rock where the fisherman stood. “My treasure!” he called again, as he dove down into the sparkling glass. Green splash stained the surface of the glass, cast shadows on the fish below

In the Dark

Mick, cramped in the driver seat of the small Fiat, keeping his knees wide open, one on each side of the wheel, steered the car along the dark road. In the seat next to him, Loretta's head rocked with each turn, her hand tapping Mick's thigh lightly with the tune of Stevie Wonder's Saturn that played quietly on the radio. A real oldie thought Mick. The small 800cc vehicle sputtered up the serpentine road. The large trees extended their fingers above them, casting eerie moon shadows on the road ahead. It had been over an hour since the sun glided into the sea. Mick extended his hand to reach for sleeping Loretta. It's not long before we'll be at the hotel, me and Loretta together for the first time, he thought, as he stepped on the gas.

Something crossed the headlights. Mick's mind was racing as he struggled to lift his foot and slam the break. What was it? Where did it come from? Was it was alive or an object? The car skidded forward groaning to slow down. Whatever he had seen was not there any longer. But then with inconceivable rapidity, a crash, the Fiat heeled to the right, sharply, turned, and came to a pull stop.

"What was that?" screamed Loretta. Her trajectory had been broken by her seat belt, and now she was shaking in her seat.

"We hit something. Don't know what," said Mick, his blood draining from his face. "Are you ok?"

"OK? How can I be OK?" Loretta undid her buckle and open the door. "I'm sure you killed someone. I told you not to drink before we left. But did you listen to me? My father will kill me. What are we going to do now?"

"Calm down. It's probably just branch or something. And I did not drink. It's not our fault. It just appeared out of nowhere."

"Don't you tell me you didn't drink ..."

She never completed her sentence. A bang sound came from the engine, the car lights flashed like a lightning and then nothing. No sound, no light, even the moon or starts were nowhere to be seen.

"What's happened?" whispered Loretta.

"It's dead." Mick, said, failing to reignite the engine or turn on the light.

Slowly they stepped out of the car. Utter darkness. Loretta stepped towards Mick. "Hold me she said. I am so scared."

Mick pulled her towards him and put her hands around her, and for a moment the feeling of her breasts pressing against his chest – full and soft – was all his could think about.

"Where are we?" whispered Loretta.

But no one answered. She was standing in the dark, all by herself.

Summer

Summer Days --

Cicadas are praying

for ever lasting summer.

Silence

Deep blue eyes lingering on me.

Lips soft, shimmering with wetness.

Hair rolling down the shoulder. Long and brown.

The corners of her mouth crawling upwards,

with a hidden smile.

Fingers lightly resting on mine.

A frozen moment of forever.

A Writing Prompt (10 min)

The end of the party was nowhere to be seen. Morning has broken, and that was when things started to happened.

“Would you mind your own business,” I heard a voice.

“My business is all yours,” another answered.

I turned around. A tall giraffe was arguing with a monkey, high on the tree above her.

“If your business is mine, how come you're sitting in my tree,” asked the giraffe.

“I was here first,” sulked the monkey.

“No you were not,” insisted the giraffe, as she started climbing up the lower branches.

“It's my tree, it's mine,” called the monkey in agitation. Then, he picked up an apple and tossed it at the giraffe. The apple bounced off the the giraffe, and hit an old lady, who was fervently clipping badges to her yellow apron.

“She is turning all green,” screamed the monkey, fleeting up the canopy.

“Let me help you Dear,” offered the giraffe, and with all his might tried to pull off the apple.

He failed, and this is the reason that until this very day, old ladies with green hair, carry giraffes whenever they stand under an apple tree.

The end.

Train Station

Walking down the staircase,
jostled by emerging passengers,
faceless cleavages and breasts
smile at me, 

then they disappear 

forever.

Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself

When the world treats you badly

When you're blown out of course

Who will you blame or accuse

Is it your skill or the bourse?

If things are not as you want them

and you feel like kick or a punch

Who will you set as your target

Yourself, or the next door bunch?

Whenever things don't work

they way you want the to.

And lets be honest,

they hardly every do.

What is your target of anger,

what do you want to destroy?

Is it the world around you

or the reason you see it so?

Writing prompt (10m)

The Arab Spring

 Twitter removes twits
If the state asks. Who is state?
What about freedom? 

Art is the Message

Can words convey the message of a piece of art? This is my attempt

A large square room. Total emptiness.

Black walls; black floor; black ceiling.

The room is bright, but no light source is to be seen, as if the air itself is glowing.

I cannot see where one wall starts and the other ends, where the floor or the ceiling end.

Shadowless black.

A white cross in the middle. 

I approach it, and stands at its center.

A small window opens in the ceiling, straight over my head.

Enough to show me the grayness of the clouds.

Never before did I notice the full rainbow of grays that blend into each other.

Then, a small patch of blue

And a ray of yellow.

The window above my head shuts.

Blackness again.

Blackness without beginning or end.

The light dims.

Too gradual to notice the change.

But I can see my feet no longer.

Nor my hands.

Darkness.

Snow White confronts the queen to discuss her attempted murder

“No,” bellowed Snow White. “Killing me is not the proper way to resolve our differences. I'd expect from a queen your age to act more maturely."

“Well, maturity is not what made me a queen. Being a queen is all about effectiveness. It's about time you should learn it, young princess.”

“But you failed. What does it say about you?”

The two remained quite, until Snow White could stand the uncomfortable silence no longer.

“I'm going to tell Dad,” she said eventually.

“And this you consider mature? Lets solve it, the two of us, here and now, once and for all. No fathers, no dwarfs.”

“And no mirrors,” added Snow White, making a threatening step toward the mirror.

“No, not my mirror. Leave my mirror alone,” cried the queen. But she was late. Without a hint of mercy in her heart, Snow White lifted a club from an empty armor in the corner, and with a large swing of her body, she smashed the mirror she hated so much.

“Help me,” cried the mirror, as it's shards blasted through the air and scattered on the floor, where they stayed until the cleaner swept them away.

The End

BC's two paragraph challenge

She had gone weeks without a shower, knowing that only by her smell will he, with hollow eyes, find her. She locked the the door behind her, dropped the curtains to hide the full moon and waited – just as he had instructed.

A scream from the neighbor next door. He must be there already. A bottle of ketchup banged through the window. Shuttered glass flying. She was lucky, not so her cat, hit by a shrapnel. Just as he had told her would happen. Naked she stood under the cat, with the ancient book in her hand, showering in its trickling blood. Tonight she will be married.

The Funeral

“I was preparing your twenty first birthday,” she started, her voice faint, yet barely quivering. “You were always brave, Josh. The only thing you feared was that people would find out how sensitive you really were ... But this is what I love about you, Josh. You don’t have to be ashamed. I adored it when you read your poems to me. You inspired me. Now I want to read to you my very first poem: 

The first clod of earth drops.

Soon, only memories remain.

The hole in the ground is filling.

But not in my heart

That will remain open

Forever.

Sarah paused, her eyes landed on us, his team, and I realized that for those who did not know her, she would seem expressionless. But I could see how painfully she was biting her top lip and I wished that she, her words, and the entire ceremony would be over. I wished that I would be over. I wished that I would be anywhere but here.

Sarah stepped down. She did not stop. As she wandered away, a feeling of relief washed through my body: inappropriate lightness, unlike anything I had felt for weeks. I would not need to speak to her after all. I would not need to tell her my story.

Learning to read - an excerpt

It was my favorite present, a book, and not just an ordinary book. With a boy and a girl sitting on an origami animal, smiling and waving at me from the hard sky-blue cover, this was my first book in color. “My First Encyclopedia,” grandma read the letters on the cover, and I delved in.

A picture of a tall gray skyscraper in New York; an Eskimo wearing white fur and holding a spear standing by his Igloo; an English double-decker riding the streets of London, and a rickshaw pulled through the alleys of India. Each page was a treasure of hand-drawn pictures, and under each picture, a caption, which grandma kept reading to me until I’d memorized them all.

I sat with my book on the black and red sofa in the heated library room, listening to the wind blowing outside. It was a stormy night, as stormy as in the black and yellow picture of a horse hanging on the wall. The horse, carrying an empty cart, was waiting patiently in the storm for an old man, who was collecting seaweed in knee-high water far in the background. “I hope he makes it safely to his horse,” I thought when grandma told me that the storm outside was so fierce that I’ll need to stay the night.

As night fell, lightning was flashing, thunder roaring, rain was drumming on the window shutters, and I remained lying on my stomach memorizing the pictures and their captions. I was oblivious to the smell of eggs frying in olive oil rising from the kitchen, where grandpa was preparing my dinner. I ignored my favorite treat: a glass of hot chocolate and a plate of fresh coconut cookies that grandpa had laid on a tray next to me. I was surrounded by thousands of books, but aware of one only, which now I knew by heart.

The following day, street glittering clean and sporadic patches of cumulus clouds drifting eastwards in the blue were all that was left from the storm. On our way home, I read everything along our path. I read ‘Police’ on a blue and white police car and ‘Taxi’ on a taxi. I read ‘Grocer’ and ‘Barber. ’ I read the black letters on a ‘Beware, Enemy Area Ahead’ sign, and the street names in white letters on navy background on every house entrance. Climbing the staircase to our apartment, I read every neighbor’s nameplate. By the time we reached our door on the fourth floor I could read. And the first person I wanted to share my new skill with was Michelle.

Heading for the Demonstration - an excerpt

(image credit)

From the court behind the clock-tower a few hundred yards away, I slowly became aware of an unintelligible, yet clearly orchestrated rising and falling chant. It sounded like yet another demonstration, I smiled, heading for the uproar.

The medieval fountain-court at the foot of the tower was a favored venue for heated demonstrations. The stone-paved yard could accommodate several hundred people, and the circular wall that had once surrounded the village fountain, which had not seen water flowing in decades, was regularly used as a podium, from which passionate speeches and pleas were delivered. It was a popular place for many unauthorized protests, as the ragged stone pavers and the freshly-painted blue iron-poles surrounding the court made the place inaccessible to police cars. Whenever trouble erupted, the many roofed alleyways that once led to the old gaol, too narrow for horse-mounted police, provided easy escape routes. A demonstration here was something I could not resist.

It didn’t matter that I had no idea what the demonstration was about. Seldom did I identify with the protestors; rarely could I find an event that didn’t tingle my cynicism. 

My last demonstration had been in the height of the autumn duck-hunting season, when I found myself marching amongst a vocal group holding anti-hunting banners. I felt I could support their cause. But when they started bragging how they’d covered a popular hunting pond with diesel to stop hunters, I couldn’t resist asking if ducks preferred to be shot or poisoned.  They were quick to introduce me to their entire collection of verbal abuse, and although I managed to diffuse the tension and prevent the situation from evolving into a fist fight, the fast heart beat, the clenching fists, and the clarity of the ready-to-fight mind empowered and excited me for many days.

Fights were not the only reason I was attracted to demonstrations. In protests, especially unauthorized, I found the drama and fervor that were missing from my everyday life in England, where the only heated arguments I witnessed, outside pub quarrels, were about sports and weather – neither could I care about.  I missed vibrant colorful characters; eccentrics who loved to express their unconventional ideas and were not afraid to let raw emotions clash. I craved heated debates and the intensity of feelings they created. All this I found in demonstrations. And of course, it was a great place for seduction.

Memoirs - an excerpt

My mother tells me that the first snow of the year started covering the city as she was leaving the birthing ward to walk back home, carrying me in her arms, still wrapped in a blanket she’d borrowed from the hospital.  A nurse, horrified by the sight of my mother stepping into the storm with a baby, called my grandpa, who drove the streets, seeking us through the falling snow in his big white Opel car – a rare sight those days where walking and buses were the means of moving about.  My father, who was studying for his university degree, could not make himself available that day.

My grandpa would swear that no sooner had I entered the heated car I opened my eyes and smiled when I saw him. That was the moment he knew that I’d be the son he’d never had, and insisted that my mother and I would live with him and my grandma until my father finished his exams.  Their apartment became my second home, and for years my mother would drop me there a few times a week, on her way to work.

My very first memory is from their living room. Clenching the crib’s bars, barely standing, I’m rocking my crib backward and forward. It has metal hinges that squeak when the crib slides, inch by inch along the smooth stone-tiled floor towards the window. This is my favorite spot in the house. Through the glass, I see the monastery in the valley beneath me. Shadow-like bearded figures, wearing black from head to toe, are walking on the monastery’s roof; others are strolling amongst the olive trees that surround its fortified walls.

It was a fortress of mystery where talking bears and wolves, witches and bandits, kings and princesses lived their adventures; adventures that grandma fed me at meal time, while I was sitting in my highchair facing the window.  Whenever I got excited and begged to hear more, she’d pause her story and force a few more spoonfuls into my open mouth. Because for her, having grown up hungry, there was nothing more sacred than not leaving any food on the plate.

At the end of the day, before taking me back home, grandma would place a large crystal bowl of fresh fruit and some smaller serving plates piled with nuts and pretzels on Batten-lace mats on the living room table. “You never know who might visit when we are away, and how far they’ve walked.” She’d say, leaning a welcome card against the fruit bowl. Under the big printed golden ‘Welcome’ she wrote, ‘We are sorry we were not home to greet you. Please take some refreshments and come again soon.’  Then she checked that the door did not accidently lock and pushed me in my stroller back home, half the city away. 

The morning after

(image credit)


They drunk together.
They played together.

They couldn’t not touch each other.

The night was warm.
They both were hot.

Your place or mine, she asked.
They chose hers.

They both liked it.
The following day, her boyfriend didn't like it.
She regretted it.

Rape!
Now he is in jail.

Narcissism

(image credit)

Many a face
on the net he assumes.
A soldier, a teacher
a child and a groom.
He can be any person
he’s wanted to be.
There are no limitations,
the net set him free.

Friendships, affairs,
they are all within reach.
Discussions, new feelings,
his life is so rich.

One day she appeared,
just like that on his screen.
The fairest of women,
avatar of a queen.
So funny and smart
and they always agreed.
The cyber was great
He was lucky indeed.

Now she’s broken his heart,
and he tends to forget
that it’s his own creation
that's made him so sad.

The Merciful God has Mercy Only on Those Who Mercy Others

Blinded by hate
crusaders can’t tell
the gates of heaven
from those of hell.

It’s not with blind hate,
it'sclear heart and mind
that shows us the way
and lets us see God.



(image:http://perhydrol.deviantart.com/)