Flocks

A storm approaches

From where I do not know

The thunder is loud

The lighting lights up the sky

                Flocks of birds

                At different altitudes

                Are flying in and

                About the storm

                                At a high altitude

                                There is a distressed flock

                                Being battered by bolts of lighting

                                Yet they continue to fly directly into the storm

At a much lower level

A determined flock fly close to the earth

Hail strikes at their wings

Yet they continue in defiance

                Above the clouds

                There is an overstocked flock

                They fly in every direction

                Unconcerned with anything around them

                                Closely in front of the storm

                                There is a healthier flock

                                A few try to fly back but are unsuccessful

                                The others do not even bother




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Shameful Father

....But father, if you cannot explain it then who will

I read about it in the textbook

But I am not filled with the emotions

You and my uncles display when you discuss it

....Tell me father,

Were you in prison?

Were you tortured?

Did you fight for grandfather’s land?

Were you in battle?

....Well, father

Did you, at lease, donate your money?

Did you donate your services?

Did you donate your moral support?

....All right, all right father

I see you do not want to discuss this matter further.


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My Pen and I

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere

I ponder my thoughts and stare

At the ocean and the dove in despair

My pen is in my hand

As I lay across the sand

Wondering about the plight of my land

The waves rush to meet the shore

As my pen hurries to complete its chore

Engaged in another battle ever more

My thoughts are occupied with the occupation

As my pen shoots rounds of ammunition

Paralleling the strength of a military tank division

With one word, my pen can expose the enemy

With one verse, my pen can build on the memory

With one poem, my pen can maintain our identity

Now the waves have come to challenge me and my pen

Will we continue to write for the sake of our children?

Or will we run like many a chicken?

Undaunted we continue to write

For what is proper and what is right

We shall never stop until we win the fight

We will yield only to the dove

It is a symbol of our love

For peace and the Mighty One above


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Drowned With Torture

A smelly cloth bag covers my head

Wreaking with urine it controls my air

The pain overwhelms my wrists

Handcuffed to a chair not fit for a child of two

My eyes cry out for sleep

Awakened before my chin hits my chest

My testicles are indifferent

Shocked by the electric prongs each hour

My scars no longer scream for comfort

Bewildered by the severity of my endurance

My mind no longer thinks

Drowned with torture and pressure to confess

My spirit is indestructible

Revitalized by thoughts of my identity

My will is full of determination

Unwilling to sign a confession

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Questions of Conscience

                                Questions of conscience

                                Ring within my being

                                Questions for which

                                There is only one answer

                                Questions which beckon

                                To be asked

                                Who am I?

                                Other then myself

                                To whom do I belong?

                                Other then myself

                                Where does my heart reside?

                                Other then within myself

                                I am and always

                                Will be a Palestinian

                                I belong and always

                                Will belong to Palestine

                                My heart resides and

                                Will always reside in Palestine


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The Awakening

The night air is still

I was sound asleep until

A dream awakened me to the realization

That my spirit is still under occupation

The clock ticks the seconds away

A never-ending tick-tock-tick everyday

Is time really on our side?

Or is it a convenient place for us to hide

A day goes by then a week

My spirit grows ever so weak

I am thousands of miles away

I have not returned not even for a day

Twenty years is a long time

Being away from Palestine is a crime

I joyfully sentence myself to the cause

To do everything I can within the laws

However, I look around me and I see

Other people happy-go-lucky and free

They seem so generic so bland

Why should they be concerned about my homeland?

I will go through the trouble and toil

To inform them about the oppression on my soil

Once they are informed they will take action

For the American people have plenty of compassion

Once they learn Israel gets billions

They will write their Congressmen by the millions

So I will take up the cause and donate to the cause

                                I will do it without pause


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Seasons of Pain

Winter snowflakes slowly fall

In no time at all

They will become Spring rain

Still I have not overcome the pain

                                When the rain dries into the Summer sun

                                I find it hard to have any fun

                                Autumn leaves fall to the ground

                                Winds of peace are never found

Seasons come and seasons go

The world has to know

The weather changes seasonally

But occupation continues endlessly

                                Years have come and years have gone

                                We use the gun, we use the stone

                                Years have fast become decades

                                Our refugee camps are battered by air raids

Time passes into eternity

Peace talks never reach maturity

Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring

The birds of Palestine have no reason to sing






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