I see through the eyes

of my childhood.

I project my memories,

black and

white and

grainy on

whitewashed walls

that meant something

to me

once.

I walk through

these nameless streets,

where so many

beautiful girls

made me swoon,

where jacarandas

and olive

and citrus trees

whose twigs are laden

with twittering sparrows

stand in glorious bloom,

with youthful legs,

brisk and easy.

strutting along.

dancing more

than walking.

And they take me places

that are no longer there

(at least, not in the shape I remember,)

but that I can clearly see still.

I walk past faces that I knew,

but they are few now

and no longer carry

that luster of youth.

I barely recognize them.

They are now strangers.

and it could be

I am a stranger to them.

and to these streets.

and to these walls

closing in on me.

The lilt of home

is lost

as life is

ebbing

haplessly.

we sat drinking

the milk of lions

and smoking argila

way past midnight

the curtains drawn

the candles burning

outside, the curtains were drawn

Baghdad is burning

do you see the glass

half full of water

or half empty?

I asked

I don’t see the glass!

one said

I don’t see the water!

another intoned

we all laughed

I mean if I were holding a glass

with some water in it

would you see it as half full

or as half empty?

would you be giving me the water?

the poet asked

yes!

then I will see it as an uninterrupted

flowing fountain of bliss

a blue ocean

a cleansing rain

washing away

incertitude

and making

between my toes

hope spring

to life

to life

we all echoed

and downed a shot

I’ll keep a picture of it

he continued

in my mind

and dream of it later

when the sun

announces

the day murderous

and reality claims

me

as one of its straying

sons of Iraq

but …if we were two

we would fight and kill

each other for the water

and you would end up

drinking it

by then, it would be

blood red and murky

we heartily laughed

at his gallows humor

because that’s all

there was to laugh at

I walk along

graffiti streaked T-walls

in Baghdad thinking…

there has to be a reprieve

for a heart that shuns

the hatred 

there has to be

some crumbs of happiness

leftover here somewhere

some love

some crackling

good-hearted laughter

left here somewhere

to subdue the barking

of the guns

and the stomping

of the boots

the horrors of war

could not have seeped

into all the cracks

of every wall

and every soul

a child somewhere

still remembers

between every

gut wrenching

cry and cry

how to smile.

 

but, look here!

you see boot prints

on doors kicked

into broken homes

these rooms

their walls are splattered red

they contained the screams

of agonizing men

and yes! the laughter

of maniac terrorizing men

it’s not the laughter I’m looking for

it’s not the laughter I’m looking for

within these T-walls

dividing the city

and garroting the life

out of it

we have achieved peace

and buried the peace

of mind and the sanity

the innocence

the laughter

the love

the tender smile

there has to be

a child somewhere

still remembering

between every

gut wrenching

cry and cry

how to smile.

 

I stand looking

across the dusty street

at the cinderblock walls of

her humble timeless dwelling

swept by desert sands in

need of a more peaceful

place to amass

and speckled by shrapnel and bullets

whose crackling sound

I can still hear

if I put my ear against the wall

the slugs lie where they dropped

like dead flies

like dead people

the rusty metallic front door

whose chipped green paint

faded long ago

sometimes the wind would rattle

I see her as she

finally comes out

clad in a black abaya

the hardness of her face

tampered by a mercurial smile

her eyes squinting against

the perfidies of the world

as she walks past drivers

hailing potential customers

blurring into a background

of people adrift in their own city.

 

don’t venture down those ominous

ways

I warned

don’t thread into that austere

city

the harbinger of death was here

and I heard your name called

dearly

 

 

amidst the dead,

those waiting to die,

its height surpassing

the crossed swords,

the ziggurats,

overlooking the Tigris

flowing red and

the xeric landscapes

beyond its banks,

an even sadder

palm tree stands with

its palms shredded

by gloom,

its trunk blackened

by the dried blood

of children spilled

by demoniac extremists

who eulogize the fallacies

of contrived divinities,

by nefariously obsequious

politicians effusively

touting ostensible

policies while insidious

jaundiced knowledge

looms menacingly.

Amidst this dying

world, an even sadder

palm tree stands

its shrinking dates

like diseased eyes

witnessing nothing.

it’s so easy!

it’s so easy!

fear comes barging in

so easy.

and death!

crisp and guileless.

it’s so common now.

it’s such an easy sight.

recalcitrant children

wrinkle their noses at it

and walk on so easy.

to get kidnapped.

and to never be

seen again.

so easy.

for courage to abate.

before this persistent

madness, for faith

and hope to become

second rate.

so easy!

to loose the history,

the family,

the life

in this ramshackle cluster

of laughter, of tears

in the folds of this

easy daily violence.

it’s so easy.

to cement the little pieces

of this broken life

by fear.