I live in North Africa, but I was born and raised in the American South. As a youth with a weary head and restless feet, I couldn’t get far enough away. But now that I am gone, I finally know what ‘home’ is and what a great affect my upbringing had on my life, and therefore on my writing. I’ve always had a passion for the arts and I’ve finally arrived at a point in life where I have the freedom to actually focus on what inspires me. I write mostly poetry, but I have also been working on a novel as well as a book of personal narratives and memoirs. I started my blog to share some of my ideas about writing as well as some things I have been working on, to get feedback, and perhaps inspire others. For more, check the 'about' section .
Your kiss is jazz in a
dark room full of
and the breeze
that blows the curtain
tip toe, tingle, tear apart my
the same meaning.
t he smoky
enrobed in the glow
of the street lamp.
Your kiss is jazz
in a dark room full of
My thoughts on the letter C… Nothing stands out more than Cancer.
In early october of 2014 my dad started having back pains; the reoccuring trouble of a lifelong athlete. Speaking to him on the phone I nonchalantly told him to go to the chiropractor and have his kinks worked out as he had done so many times before. After a few weeks of regular visits, the pain seemed to get worse instead of better. My mom was worried sick.
They were in Kentucky and I was a continent away in North Africa where I had been living and working for three years. There was only so much I could say or do being so far away. But I was worried even more than my mom was. If something happened to my dad, who would be there to take care of her? Towards the end of October she called me and said his pain is worse and he is hoarse with a bad cough. I knew. He went in for tests. They found cancer, they said. A spot on his lungs, they said. I was hopeful. There is surgery, there is chemo. There are options. There is a chance.
But a week later he was dead. And I never got to say goodbye.
Soon after I stopped blogging here, I just stopped blogging. Not only did I give up my blogs, but I gave up writing altogether as well as anything creative. Why, I can’t really say. Depression, lack of will, lack of time, boredom, lack of ideas, not giving a damn…
My dad died suddenly in November and I’ve been bombarded with so many emotions and writing has always been my way to cope, to express, etc. So now I find myself again searching for an outlet to share my pain, my grief, my guilt, even my happiness. As my dad always supported my creative endeavors and would be disappointed at my doing nothing. I started a new wordpress for this purpose, thinking that this one had been deleted. I can’t express how delighted and refreshed I feel reading through my old posts, rereading poems that I wrote so seemingly long ago.
For a while now, I’ve been a member of the secondlife virtual community. Recently I became involved with a group of artists in an online university setting, so to speak; like-minded individuals creating and sharing. This has also inspired me in many ways to get back into the arts. Something in my soul is crying out for my return to this world, and so here I am.
She kissed her mother’s head passionately until the smell of her hair filled her to her toes. In what had become an evening routine, she walked back down the narrow tiled hall, counting the steps it took her to arrive to her own room where she gracefully wrapped her black cloak around her slender frame. With a quick glance to the mirror, she tucked the few stray raven hairs beneath the satin fabric of her scarf and said a quick prayer before getting into bed. She took the folded paper from the table at her side and put it in her pocket, as she did night after night. It was a letter to her best friend, just in case.
Tonight was the night, my dear Salma, it began. They took my life, but not my dignity.
When morning came, the dust had just settled. As the area was cleared, there she was: the girl in the black cloak lying among the rocks and wreckage of her former home; her eyes wide open, but far, far away.
Take another drink you know
to have me
crushed beneath the weight
She is the light in every room. She is the shard of glass that dances across the floor after the bulb has shattered into a million pieces, all like her but none like her because she dances and they only fall. She is the open window and the curtain blowing; she is the breeze that causes bumps to rise up on your skin while you sleep in the middle of a naked night. She is the bead of sweat that forms just below your nose after the chill is gone and the twilight is torrid and tempered. She is the morning sun that enters your eyes when you first wake, and the first word that pushes its delicate head through the space between your sleepy lips. She is the inhale that follows. I am the exhale, the emission, absorbed into the trees.