Celebrating Writer’s Ink in Perle
By Mohamed Al Khalifa
The liars deceive,
with a trick up their sleeve,
They smile and conceal,
their true self they won’t reveal,
A mask they wear to your pleasure,
a chameleon, a coward, with measure,
To not expose their fragile state,
slaves to their fear, a sad fate,
Their weapon a honey coated tongue,
versus of treachery they have sung,
On hearts they broke to their delight,
colors of promises to your sight,
Patterns of hypnosis to entrance,
under beats of seduction they shall dance,
Till you’re wrapped in their gentle embrace,
a subtle kiss, a slow stroke on the face,
You close your eyes to this bliss,
only to wake up to a sudden hiss,
A stab to the back you open your eyes,
cold and alone to your surprise.
Your memories tainted by their dark art,
their music still echoes at heart,
Nothing but silence and glooms embrace,
your actions you shall trace,
Was it you who did something wrong,
or was I a burden on them strong?
In a maze of questions you will dwell,
swaying injured broken and unwell,
Time shall heal the pain someday,
and you have taught us in someway,
Ask yourself my slithering friend,
are you happy with the actions you send,
What goes around comes around,
your careless actions are homebound,
Rather your real demise is inside,
true self is lost on the forgotten side,
You faked a front and that’s how,
you don’t know who you are now.
A Letter to King
By Burhan Alawadhi
To what civilizations do we owe Time, Space, Direction,
Surely thine own Limits itself; to “humble origins”
They speak of numbers and letters unbeloved by the most beloved
Of constellations and objectivity; bequeathed
They snicker at each other (Nay, at themselves)
Pre-meditated was their mockery
In the depths of shadows, they were at each others’ arms and throats
They bathe together, drown together
They were ambivalet; and loved it
It was this very polarity which sparked their revolts
Their bangs heard ‘round the world
Tectonic clashes are loudest when ricocheted
Off deaf drums
The desecrated marsh, the others’ haven
Recant recounted reveries and rejoice
Against your pattern as maimed man
Your compass, the cold arctics beg you
And to them you march
Not for salvation, nor for resolution
Not for yourselves, nor for retribution
You march not for greed, guilt, or vengeance
But to spite – for whatever rivers run through your veins
Are as tainted as the sewers you’ve created
The Doomsday clock is painfully punctual
And as its dial settles at its comfortable notch
Like fingers poised at enemys’ feigned disposition
The ticks silence fireworks and gunshots alike
And during our last hours
Steered by our fatal fatalism
We pray not for mutual salvation, nor for resolution
We pray not for ourselves, nor for retribution
We pray not for greed, guilt, or vengeance
But to spite – for malifecence is this
Most exaggerated of traits
Of maimed man
The tocks silence what we could not
Nobody wins; only the dismal recluse
The pathetic coward turned his head; a delusional statistic
He turned off the sun
And wept for world
He awoke viceroy of nothing
By Ashwaq Shukralla
In this holy hour we cling to God the way a child does a balloon on a string standing on the top floor of a building that’s become a ruler measuring the rising sea it is surrounded by. In an earlier version of the tale, little red riding hood was fed her grandmother’s flesh. Hey, we do what we can to keep safe.
We go on.
We are ourselves. We are each other – like sunflowers turning toward the sun – our salvation our truth.
Ever present and ever struggling,
To be dug up like treasure, drawn up like sails.
Let me give you a hug;
We are magnificent folk.
Clocks And Coffee
By Laila Al-Yafi
He always rose ahead of dawn,before the night had left and gone.
The house was still, blanketed in darkness.
Awash in midnight blue. Until the colors of morning’s gold and pink
Sang the arrival of anew.
His sentinel of clocks all around
Gently breathing, as if alive with tick-tock hearts beating.
Their little drums and chimes, their melody of times.
Then the smell of coffee
Of Texan pecans and toffee
Signalling the change of time and tide
For the night-time waves we rode would change
As we reached the shores of morning.
Weekends with my Father
By Maram Jaberi
Every Friday afternoon he sits on the bench,
Tells me the names of all the cities he’s seen,
The veins on his hands maps of the world.
On Saturdays he sits on the porch and lights a cigarette,
Asks me to stop growing up so fast,
Ashes falling onto his lap.
On Sundays he sits at the table,
Tells me the closest thing to paradise
Is weekends with his daughter.
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