Perchance you notice the Rose that was in my ceramic vase, read it not as a statement of my housekeeping (in)ability. Read it as the remains you’ve left behind, within me. (This poem was published in her poetry volume titled

Bitter oranges hang from trees Like solitary dervishes Spinning through balmy Mediterranean nights… Comfortably numb oranges Overdosed on their own bitterness Stoned inside their sulfuric-marigold skins Until, Just a little pin-prick Wakes them up And they come pouring out In

This is a dead wood its colour ash We walk through it holding conversation like hands There the dust of a passing car brings travellers Who disembark, the woman takes our photo and amazes her men With her ability to

Earth taught me to live with all, to outlive all, to evolve from season to season knowing stasis is death, to be ever on the move, within and without. Fire taught me to be aflame with desire, to dance, dance,

Cold islands of clouds float in the sky. The fire red horizon melts into the stream. Space stretches itself. Sunk in your arms, I float free. A hundred bodies have flown out of me. I am unhooked from the burden

Red blood drips from the Sun’s wounds and flows from the horizon unto these silent shores.  The Sun’s rays take in the dust; shadows flee. In a while the moon’s flag of victory will flutter in the sky.  Once again,

1. The walls of your palace are made of snow. The game of reason is cold and slow. 2. You cannot tell your love apart: The Queen of Ice sits in your heart. 3. How well we understand in tongues

Butterflies are artists who fly around with paintings in both the hands They exhibited paintings to the people when there was no such practice Later cave paintings, murals and canvases emerged The fleeting butterflies still fly around with paintings in

Sunday comes flying like lightning opening the golden doors of heaven on the wings of sunbeams. Monday rises from hell’s kitchen with the pungent odour of the smoke from charred pot of milk . Tuesday crawls in bleeding, from its

A poem – Has a date with me.  When pain sleeps easy in my sinking pulse, the pale faced moon touches the horizon, When day sinks into the sea, the night is washed ashore.  In the twilight hour, when the