Everything around me is still
The soft lights ward off the cold
My worried heart is unsettled
Every minute makes me old
Time seems to drag on and on
Not sure I can take much more
I’m waiting for my angel
to walk in through that door
There is nothing to do but wait,
so I wonder about her day
but what’s taking her so long?
Did she somehow lose her way?
I think about my visit
My first time to see her place
In my glimpse into her life,
a weariness I can trace
She flew away to this isle
to try out her angel wings,
and in following her dreams
she untied the home spun strings
“Our children are not our own.”
Oh, great Gibran*, can’t you see?
My precious 18 year old,
Will always belong to me!
Oh yes, she may live elsewhere
Have a family of her own,
but she’s my little baby
and in my eyes she hasn't grown
I wait and wait and wait
Please, God, let her be alright!
I look out of the window
at the blackness of the night
I think of all those mothers
who wait for their children dear,
whose tired and aching arms
long to hold their loved ones near
The wait for them is fruitless
Its end is a tragic woe,
for death holds back their loved ones
The "Wait of Pain" will not go
My heart shares in their sorrow
My soul weeps for their plight
For though my daughter is late
She’ll be coming home tonight!
For Waiting Contest by James Rogers
September 9, 2015
*Khalil Gibran was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer of the New York Pen League. There recent move, The Prophet, was about him.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
Mary Jane aka ganja, grass, marijuana and a host of other names.
Serenity is yours to gain
being led in dance to fairyland
swing waltz with Mary Jane
Sapped by undue stress and strain
tango’s for two yet ‘lone you stand
serenity is yours to gain
When music sounds an odd refrain
discordant noise in every strand
swing waltz with Mary Jane
One-step, two-step to higher plane
wild rumba to a one-man band
serenity is yours to gain
Cha-cha and spruce your addled brain
Skunk, Lebanese, most every brand
swing waltz with Mary Jane
When life is sucked dry vein-by-vein
reborn yourself with spliff in hand
serenity is yours to gain
swing waltz with Mary Jane
A SPECIAL VILLANELLE TO ALL GANJA-GUZZLING OL' GEEZERS
Copyright © delysia hendricks | Year Posted 2011
Exhiliration comes (thanks dad)
Cassius Clay in his day,
quick as lightning he did thunder,
watch him fight,
an awesome sight,
one man wonder.
At 4 I had a bully sure
Murphy was me a slapping.
Dad taught me fisticuffs the cure,
Murphy was no longer rapping.
A bouncing in the Valley some,
Keeping bad guys out the door,
3 guys wanted me to fight,
So I said “oh for sure.”
As we got outside,
One jumped to punch at me,
I ducked his punch ,
Dislodged his lunch ,
An he was on the floor.
His mate grabbed me,
So I slammed this guy ,
Into the bloody wall.
But he’d rise and grab at me,
Never punched him, not at all,
Just slammed and slammed on he.
3 knock downs of the bigger guy
He just kept arising , (tough bugger)
Twice for the middle guy
And the third,
Off the wall was enterprising.
when you have won the fight.
Lebanese mates came to help,
The three were put to flight.
Well I guess i do posses the makings of a brawler,
and with the fairer sex perhaps a little crawler,
so come n visit me at least then in your mind,
and passion slips between your thighs ....
oh no no no never mind ....Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name Give Thanks
Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011
Farewell to Mustafa Bad reddine
We salute you
Murderer of humanity
You have received your just rewards
Zulfiqar has sliced you to pieces
Mohamed spits on your body parts
On examination they saw
The sum of the parts has no heart
You tried to fell the great trees
The cedars of Lebanon
Rafik Hariri now has you on a leash
You thought you were Daesh
Your army of hatred
Gives you Hitler salutes
While intellectuals feed you pork grinds
You are now buried
In hells fires with your fellow pigs
In morning headlines of the news today
At the breakfast table
With bacon an eggs and coffee so sweet
Your death, truly was a treat
This man killed 1000’s in cold blood, Americans, Israeli’s, Jews, Christians and Muslims, for him blood was simply blood. That 1000’s attend his funeral shows you how we have yet to learn about humanity.
Rafik Hariri was the Lebanese Prime Minster killed in a car bombing in old Beirut, organized by Syria and Bashar al Assad and carried out by Hezbollah and Mustafa Bad reddine.
Zulfiqar = great sword
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
On December 7, 2013 a bomb blast killed former Lebanese Minister, Mohammad Chatah and several others. Less than an hour ago, another bomb blast took place in the Dahieh area in Beirut. My husband is away....my daughter is out at a friend's house, and I'm sick to my stomach of not knowing......where is safe, where can we go? This is the latest Post on FB by a student of mine showing a picture of the explosion. "New Year....New Bomb."
I'm tired of this. I'm tired of the rest of the world turning a blind eye. I'm tired of feeling guilty because I'm in my nice warm house and there are Syrian refugees living in tents. There are little children dying of the cold. I'm tired of hearing of the blood of martyrs being spilled. I'm tired of hoping and wishing for peace for this country and knowing....it will NEVER be. I'm tired.
I'm tired of reliving fear. Tired of worrying about the safety of my brother who lives in the downtown area where all the political figures have their mansions. I'm tired of hearing him talking about some embedded glass shard working its way out of the skin of his face...even now. He and his wife were injured in the bomb blast that killed Prime Minister Rafic Hariri years ago, scarring their faces for life.
I'M TIRED OF THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I AM TIRED...
Eileen M Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
A cosmic river
of boomerang bullets
fired decades ago ripping through
Indian flesh Black bodies
Lebanese souls and millions more
of assorted uncounted Others each
little lead blob morphing through
ancient mosques and bible belts
Algerian dead ends in Mexican villages
erased lives scattering through space time
shape shifting as they return to the unholy
source of gold diggers graves and Left Bank royals
a rush of karma fueled vengeance
returning as a no-mans jihad against
Copyright © Ricardo Gonsalves | Year Posted 2015
He dresses as the fool
But does he fool you?
In clothes of rent
Torn twisted and bent
He drinks to excess
His voice is loud
He spouts obscenities
But he runs like the wind
Catch, me if you can, he shouts
The maze of traffic makes his jams
He speaks in riddles
Like old men, from ancient lands
He collects bottles and begs for lamb
He mumbles, I am homeless, kiss me hand
He is crazy for this is sure
He lives in alleys like a whore
Jets above fly overhead
Their orders received from a street called Hamra
As their armies invade, so bold
The homeless man, their leader
The man from Hamra
Notes: Hamra Street is a somewhat famous street in West Beirut. It was one of Beirut’s trendy areas before the civil war, and was frequented by poets, writers, and intellectuals.
During the civil war, and before the Israeli invasion of 82, there was a bum who lived on Hamra Street who was really a spy for the IDF of Israel. No one paid him any attention, being a street beggar, at the time when there were many. Not only was he collecting intelligence, he was the running a network of spies at the time.
From a Lebanese restaurant/coffee shop I frequent, I am told many fascinating stories from all over the world. What a lovely feeling to sit among people of all religions, nationalities and opinions, and share life’s experiences.
Thank you Diwan
Anyone who happens to have any first hand experiences referencing this poem, I would love to hear from them.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013
[21/09/2015 9:18:41 PM] P.c: while i stand on this stage
talking to you and the rest of the race
you see the cloths you wear
the places you live
the friends you have
the parents who love you all
while we talk about the Syrian refugees
things get interesting
not positively but more pessimistic
seeing their houses being blown to ash
friends lost cause of cross fire
parents some there and some gone
with the shoes you even where now
some children go barefoot
some dont realize how bad this maybe
19.5 millin refugees says the most of this
i dont know what is worse
knowing this statistic
or knowing that half are children
we all see how privaleged we may be
but would you like to pay back to society
help the others in need
seeing to those who bleed
not always physically but emotionally
with tears of sadness
experience the lose of many
running from home
losing all types of cloths
not even seeing you house as home any more
cause the windows are blown out
the door on the floor
with bullet holes scattering the wall
u wonder what was home like before the war went on
now all you can recall is the herds of refugees
running across lands dangerous or safe
climbing the border to be clear
as i personally know
i got a friend in the country next door
he talks as he sees
them fleeing in and crowding the streets
there is 3/4 percent of the populations Syrian rather than Lebanese
the country is in chaos
while others around the world barely notice
we got to try
help them some how some way
imagine walking miles
with no shoes
a father or mother
or not even both
escaping the country you called home
because the war raging around has destroyed everything you got
you are only a child
younger than the double digits
surviving the storm and one of the worst wars on this earth
now once they get to their new "home"
do you think they are treated fairly
my god please, look around
they are blocked at the borders and tear gassed cause they are so many
they are rejected from all
the put tents up and sit tight
die from the cold in winter times
a new article said
" young boy at the age of 7 dies from the cold even though being held in his mothers arms"
this just makes me sick deep down inside
realizing refugees aren't treated right
even though they are exiled from home
we got to make a change"
Copyright © Dylan Manassian | Year Posted 2015
Tonight I'm your
Now my heart is all
Let me sleep in your
I want to be happy
You are my rose and
I want to smell you
Fear for you and
care for you
Now I can change
"My Darling" I shall
From now I'm yours
From now you're mine
On my finger I'm
putting the ring
So hide me in your
heart and impress
Cause today , my
life starts over
Tomorrow I will wake
up by your side
Together sleeping on
the same pilow
I'll kiss and wake
I feel happiness in
I know you want
& I'll give it to
you from my heart!
* "Life Partner" was
my translation of an
Arabic song called
"El Yawm = Today" by
my favorite & famous
I'd like to thank
Nancy & the original
poet Marcel Mdour
for producing such
** Dedicated to all
Nancy's fans all
over the globe!
Copyright © moein jr | Year Posted 2014
You remind me of sleep.
A nap on the cool tile
That makes the heat rush
Out of my cheeks
In all shades of
Red and pink.
You remind me of rest.
You remind me of the feel of scented blankets.
Rough and soft,
All at once.
Florid but not too flowery,
Delicate in all the right amounts.
You remind me of lonely laundry men
That long for a woman’s
Love and ironed sheets.
You remind me of home.
You remind me of food, lots of food.
Too sour for my
Eyes to bear while opened.
Too sweet for my
Belly to accept
And mouth to greet without
Too spicy to keep
The sense in my ears,
And too plain at times.
Too blend for my body
But you know what they say…
You can’t eat the same thing every day.
You remind me of God.
Sufis spinning round
And round with Him
Reborn in their faces.
Hajj traveler’s huge suitcases.
Pure Zamzam water,
And rosaries made of beads so green
That Mother Nature
Bowed down to them.
You are my sudden leap of faith.
You remind me of sweet melodies.
Arab voices that pierced seas
And sunk ships.
Tunes that blurred out
Whatever notes in this
unjust life that made no sense to me.
You make sense to me.
You remind me of Lebanese mothers.
Molding poetry with their
Own hands while making Kebbeh.
Collecting the burdens of the world
In small glass jars on their
While chopping greens with
Knives made of War
That chopped their
And no I will not forget.
I want to stay this way;
Happy with my grief,
Wearing it around my finger
Like it was some sort of
Wedding ring I wanted to show
Off to this unjust world.
Copyright © Maya Kaabour | Year Posted 2010
The ten year old child sat by the water. They saw what was happening and it wasn't good. Affecting them greatly, bringing nightmares and nasty flashbacks. Things their young mind struggled to comprehend. Seeing the Syrian soldiers shoot at the Lebanese fishermen, killing some. 'It's what we do, open fire. Ask questions later,' commented a soldier. He seemed nonchalant even happy.
The child witnessed many things, some random, others not. All were harsh events. Against a backdrop of beautiful blue water, history was made. A rickety biplane clattered by. From its belly dropped a tin fish - a torpedo. It entered the sea and thudded into a Turkish ship. And with a boom detonated. The ship sunk, first ever by torpedo from a warplane. What of her crew?
The child saw another ship, quite low in the water, sail from a harbour. Many people were aboard. They weren't happy, it was no holiday cruise. One teenage girl cried. Her mother explained that her father was killed by the North and he'd worked for the Americans. Now they fled for their lives and needed a home. They were Vietnamese boat people.
The child was fed up of seeing sad things. This didn't mean they weren't still a witness. Now a different boat full of unhappy people fleeing bad events. On their way to Italy and Europe in search of new lives and again, happiness. Many boats had sunk with hundreds drowning. Lampedusa is full of illegal immigrants, outnumbering the local population.
We ask, how can a child see so many things, all tragic, from so many locations? It's a surprising answer: we, the reader, are the child, the 'observer' of events. We see it firsthand or on the news. And things are worse not better. What will we observe next? Something happy? Or a new Titanic? Our ignorance can be naive, doing nothing isn't innocent. It's incomprehensible.
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2015
It was hot yesterday. How hot was it you ask?
It was so hot outside that I'd rather be in class doing math,
It was so hot when I heard a joke that was funny I actually forgot to laugh.
How hot was it at one o'clock?
Hot enough to make me feel like I didn't have time to check my watch,
Hotter than Megan Fox wearing wool socks with Crocs
Walking across hot coals to ask me to elope and I said "No thanks, it's too hot."
How hot was it?
Like a billion degrees.
I wasn't even willing to sneeze,
Because in this heat,
That would bring me to my knees.
I felt like I was Lebanese in the summer,
Or a Burmese Python putting the squeeze on a woolen sheep with a sunburn.
How how was it?
Would you like to discuss it?
Hotter than the temper of some guy who's Kate Upton's cousin,
Hot enough to cook a Tuscan Raider without an oven,
Hot enough to make Darth Vader sweat in the vacuum of space over Russia.
How hot was it?
I was in a state of coldness withdrawal,
I wanted to jump off the Empire State Building just for the breeze from the fall.
It was hot enough to make PETA say it was okay to rain cats and dogs,
And believe me, I was appalled.
Copyright © Tom Murray | Year Posted 2015
We were supposed to be discovered
By Columbus in Fourteen-ninety-eight,
But we had the Arawaks and Caribs
Already there, so Columbus was late.
We are a Cosmopolitan Nation
Of every color, creed, and race,
Call ourselves a Callaloo people
With all the mixture in this place.
The Black people or the Africans
Came to the Caribbean as slaves,
The Indians came as Indentured
As Laborers and not as Braves.
We also have a good blend
Of Chinese European, and Japanese,
Most of whom came to do business
Syrians, Koreans, and Lebanese.
But we thank God for our mixture
And now the whole world could see,
That people of many cultures
Can live together in harmony.
Copyright © JACQUELYN STURGE | Year Posted 2007
the question is not
“if,” but when the Israeli government decides to
just what do you think you’ll be doing?
will you be home watching afternoon television,
maybe “The Talk,” or “Anderson Cooper,”
guzzling down Coca-Cola & stuffing yourself full of
garlic knots or
will you be picking your kids up from school?
slaving away overtime at work?
making sweet love to your lovebuddy in a jacuzzi?
munching a handful of shrooms alone in your room?
like a chicken with its head cut off,
the Israeli government preemptively attacks, invades &
using their nuclear energy program as the
will we americans wonder why the empire didn’t step in front of
our crazy little brother &
tell him to chill out?
or will we sit back & let him charge in as he did in 1982
when he invaded Lebanon, killing nearly 28,000 Lebanese, Syrians &
Palestinians (not counting those wounded)?
will we just give him a little slap on the wrist,
“now, now, little brother, you know you can’t go and do that without our permission.”
will we think about the domino effect that will occur
will we cry “why do they hate us?” like we did when
will we pretend we knew nothing of this psychotic venture,
or will we just hope that nothing comes to the shores of the
it’s just one more country whose oil we need to rape & drain,
it’s just another people that weren’t doing what they were told,
since they kicked out the Shah in 1979,
the fact that the empire’s crazy little brother struck first will
be seen as a good thing,
and it will be paraded all over the american media as
“something that needed to happen---
something that was inevitable.”
will we be able to
remember where we were
when those first stealths fly in,
and in the same breath,
ignore all the tenets of
UN Security Council Resolution 1887
which calls for peacefully resolved nuclear weapon
disputes, in opposition to
if on that day,
when all caution is thrown to the wind &
the perpetrators within the little brother of the empire
close their eyes & flick the switches,
we current residents of the empire,
have the audacity to ask what exactly is happening
when the world starts to spin upside down,
we should be so lucky that someone will be left alive to
slap us hard in the face.
Copyright © andrew delapruch | Year Posted 2011