Jun 19, 2016


In the silence of night something cracks open,

A light, a prayer, a heart…

Dear God,
You know everything; the measure of the immeasurable, the bounds of the incessant, the sadness I’ve carried with me all those years, the weight of my loneliness, heavy as a dead body, dragging and deformed. My pain, which rises as mountain waves, drowning and crushing me. Take them, please take them from me, I can’t carry them anymore, I suffered and endured and now I beg you, don’t turn away from me, help me find the peace I desperately long for.

Jun 18, 2016

What isn't

What isn’t, all that isn’t; the people no longer alive, their names less and less spoken, their numbers deleted, medicine bottles left silent and untouched on tables. The dandelions unblown, the wishes not made, taken now by the wind.

Are the trees not tired of it all, dying then living then dying again? What was the meaning if it all? What was the purpose? The old rose bush ceased to flower, giving it all up, not wanting this tiresome repetition over and over again.

Life is but a moment I thought, it wasn’t the myriad moments I had looked outside to the garden wondering whether my Peonies had bloomed yet, it wasn’t the moment when they finally did, ravishing fuchsia blooms as big as saucers, drooping lavish colour, seduction and delight, No.

Life wasn’t in those moments. Was life the moment I decided to gather a few of my magnificent flowers to place on my dining table that sunny warm June afternoon?  No, no life wasn’t that moment, life was the fleeting moment I walked to the kitchen to fetch the scissors, full of intention, full of knowing, assertive, that this is what I will do, I will cut a few flowers to place on the table and the room will light up with colour and life and beauty, that very moment when I knew, holding the hard, rigid, cold pair of scissors in my hand, unrepentant and willing. That moment when I knew.

Jun 17, 2016

Darling! Grief is too vast.

Driving, I see the narrow road widen and stretch as if materialising right there and then before me, a path, a direction laid just to carry me, a world formed anew. There is more road, there is an endless road for me to travel and there is you, there is you at the end of this endless road.

In the gaps of things there is so much. In the little gaps of things; a keyhole letting through a flood of light, a universe of darkness. In the small gaps of things life is gently but surely seeping; in the gaps of people’s conversations, the words unsaid, the phone calls not made, the happiness that could have been gained, the misunderstandings that could have been unravelled, but no.

People don’t get closure, they don’t overcome, they don’t even move on, they live with holes, like old timber houses, full of holes, termites and rats. They take pills, they go on holidays, they laugh; loud, sad, dishonest laughter, they sleep, they eat, all the while a hole grows inside them.

Darling, words are too clumsy, grief is too vast, too complicated for the lucidity of language to fathom. Darling, I’ve lived with you a thousand lives since you’ve left me. I sleep with you every night.

Jun 16, 2016

Thuesday morning

The loud noisy rumbling of the rubbish collection truck outside. This is how day after day passes, though time is an illusion. The last thing I did last night before going to bed was put the bins out, the domestic waste and the recycling, and here is the truck now, slowly moving up the road demanding to be heard, urging me to wake up, to start the day, as if without opening my eyes the day will not start, as if by not rolling up the blind the sun will not rise, without opening the creaking window the birds will not sing. I must get up, I must pull the bins back inside, I must prove that I am alive, that the day may start and the turning clocks in my mind and the rush of blood through my veins and the millions of heart beats and the breaths that must be taken. Time is an illusion, life is an illusion, I have willed this day to happen, I have made it happen simply by pushing my bins outside for the collectors to take in the morning, pushing my wheelie bin outside I suggested that there be tomorrow, another morning, a new day, another life. 

May 13, 2016

For many days - Recorded Poem

I've always had an unusual attachment to the rain, my last name is the Arabic word for rain! but that's not it, I've always found rain magical, a reoccurring miracle, "there is water falling from the sky!" I feel like shouting whenever it starts raining, then: "why isn't anyone completely bewildered or in awe?". But I never do shout these things, as I know I'm probably the only person that passionate about rain. I find rain soothing when others might find it a nuisance, I find it inspiring when others might find it depressing or dreary. The sky too, her unpredictable mood swings, her ability to shift from utter unreasonable wrath and anger to the most gentle most forgiving most beautiful temperament without being a bit apologetic about it!


A Million Meetings - Recorded Poem

This is an unusually sweet and romantic poem I wrote about knowing there's someone special out there, someone you know you will meet and love deeply someday..  someday soon.


Being Born a Woman - Recorded Poem

'Being Born a Woman' is my angry feminist poem, not a new poem, I wrote it a while back but never recorded it. As a feminist I find myself feeling frustrated, offended and angry by so many social practices that have unfortunately become the norm; everywhere I turn I see an add for a facial cream that promises to make me look 10 years younger, because as a woman of course I'm not allowed to age! There are breast enhancing bras available for 12 and 13 year old girls in all the major stores now. If a woman is ambitious, driven and chooses to work and pursue a career, to try to break the 'glass ceiling' she's labelled a man eater, a control freak, a bossy bitch, mean, cold, ruthless, emasculating. But when she decides she's content staying at home and taking care of her family she's criticised for not having ambition for not wanting more from life! Women are the only creatures who can be criticised for being 'too loving'! although I'm not sure how a human being can be 'too loving'?! We are criticised for being too trusting but we're also criticised for being too insecure to be able to trust.. etc.. 

WARNING! I get VERY emotional and angry when reading this poem, not for the faint-hearted.