By the River

  August 31, 2020 So you don't believe in the Devil,  What luxury! What privileged skepticism! How peaceful must your sleep be,  Wrapped in angels, undisturbed by demons.  I witnessed the Devil with my own eyes.  I can still hear his mangled maniacal laughter as he Crushed bones and stamped out  Souls in his polished black shoes.  The Devil wears a white suit and  With perfect precision and keen attention Takes notes on developments of —                                                    child experiments.  With haughty grace, he marched Over dreams and futures without Chain to restrain his impulse Nor bond to   slow     his     pace.  The title for healing attac...

July 27, 2020 Doubt, old friend.  Welcome home.  Your nest awaits —                                You, alone.  O’ winged devil, Whose shrieks Tear holes in                           Our beliefs. Let not your                        Eyes weep Or your shrill Sounds                cease.   We may chase       ...

August 13, 2020 12:00 AM in Qalqilya I feel my wife tap my shoulder. The way her hands strike with increasing force pulls me quicker from my dreams. Dreams of a time long gone. A time that exists only in                                                                                               fragmented memories. They are not even all my memories. Among my own, min...

  May 3, 2018 I see beauty in wrinkles;  the lines that scar the faces of the elderly.  When I glimpse an elderly lady knitting ferociously, her hands moving in unison, following the patterns they have mastered over years of use, I notice her face. There is a story etched into her body, the tattoos of age. Scars from a life lived: experience, which became memories, which became wisdom. When I see the elderly man drinking coffee with an old friend, I see the beauty of his ancient skin. His eyes peer out onto a familiar world; a world he has watched tear itself apart, mend itself, only to begin tearing at itself again. His face shows the years: the years of war, of joy, of hardship, of love. Memories are carved into his old flesh by the greatest sculptor, Time.  We live in a culture that adores youth. There is an innocence to youth, to be sure. There is unearned confidence, a naïve bravado. In youth, there is hope for the future, unrealized plans. The young look to th...

September 9, 2020 I step into your hallowed chamber. History celebrated on slabs of marble.  My heart cannot help but quicken its beat, my feet feel lighter as I  Walk up to your likeness, feeling small before your pedestal and  towering shadow. Here you are, surrounded by the eternal words you penned,  Declarations of liberty that have been recited, rehearsed, and rewound,  Music to the oppressed. Your ink crippled kingdoms, and made a mockery Of monarchies. You look so noble as you peer out past the white pillars of your palace,  As if your eyes see into the future of the beloved country you helped birth,  Have we disappointed you, I wonder, have we failed to love and live up to  Your ideals?                                           ...

September 23, 2020 I am a river.                 Languishing, leaping, winding, raging _ becoming.                                                               Going at once somewhere and nowhere.                                              Crashing into, and swallowing rocks along the way.                 At once being s...