The two-legged wolf

He didn’t like the jungle.
He loved the speed
A two-legged wolf flying
– from vine to vine
– from swing to prance
His locks trail in the night light
Sprinkled with blue moonlight drops.
Above a pack of growls and blood-filled gaze

These feet,
Planted on moss-stained branches,
stride across these rocks,
– water, splashing from beneath
These drizzles of light have
fallen around…
… him.
That is a smile you see

Wolves don’t fly
men don’t fly

He is a two-legged wolf flying

Night words

Night words
guide me into dreams.

They carve smiles
on sleepy faces.

They drown heads
in wet pillows.

They fill sheets
with ridges and sawdust

A cold sunny day

It looks like sunrise
and it terrifies him.
He is not afraid of daylight.
au contraire! He loves it.
He loves the warmth. The light
finding rest on his skin. The sensation of hope
and the beauty it reveals to him. He loves
daylight and the life it grows in him

Yet, he is terrified.
For he sees nightfall beside the horizon.
And the cold of night beyond his fence.
That it recedes for a day does not mean its demise.
He fears, with a bone-rattling dread, its return.
And his tremble pre-empts it.

The sunrise,
his world of hope
is forever cast in his fear
of night.

It is a cold day.

Found in the rubbles

Radwan: “Yes my love” he responded to her.

Honestly, I am about to explode inside.
I can’t express what’s happening inside me
I have to smile against my will so the kids don’t get scared

His eyes spoke of a fast paced dance –
the Charleston, of tears, rage and hopelessness.
His pride seats and watches with crutches
scattered over uneven
rubbled grounds.

It is much harder to dress in a smile
when the heart is seated in tall flames.

Look at how his feet wobbles as he holds up his little girl.
she misjudges the burning in his chest for love rising from his heart.
She responds with a firmer hug and her head, finding rest
on his shoulder.

His is a craftsman’s chisel; exquisite in crafting his smile
Fingers washed seventy-eight times
so they seem soft on
her tender sides.

God, please,
may she have hope
in a world with quiet nights.
One, where her lungs will (only) be assaulted
by pollen-grains and the smell of stars.

He rocked her.
He found that he could
sneak his cries out while he swayed
to her breathing.

The scene
Man in black, daughter in pink.
It is dark and the rubbles sleep with a whistle and dust.
The tarpaulin sings along with the wind and whistle.



Inspired by

Sweet nectar

The craft of language,
and the art of persuasion
is almost more pleasing than
the idea shared, in itself. The one
whose heart finds a fruit worth more…
worth more than the sweet nectar of passionate
discourse, finds a night’s trouble.

She, dressed in the dark night sky, sparkles
with stars and street lights. Her quiet is
the torment clouding his slumber
till it slips by the night stand, and
the bright of notepads and
phone screens shine.
She is night, caught
in the thrill of

He is trapped.
Swirling in the rhetoric
of ”if’s” and “how’s”. The spin
of theories and presumptions. His
mistress; night, chides away his slumber
and fills him with longing. One for the
moment, when he will wring the heart
of the unbeliever, and with acumen,
straighten their crumpled foreheads
into smiles and understanding;
the taste of sweet nectar
drowns his slumber.
He revels in its

He lies
with night. Covered in
a frown and a smile, a pulse
and a calm. Sleep has
evaded his


another ode to sad nights

She doused her excitement
with tears. It hurts more
when they visit for a second.

Flame’s don’t thrive well when
garnished with cocktails of gasoline,
water, and wine stained napkins.

If she cries herself to sleep
tonight again, I will break down.

Fathers should kiss their
babies to sleep.


The laugh that echoes through
deep nights. Witnessed by junk food,
cold drinks, night shifts, and empty chairs.

Best friends meet at McDonalds.
Late nights add flavour to love.