You must go to the edge of all desire
where the stone rises in six-sided columns,
each basalt rib a frozen syllable
from your fifty psalms, stacked vertically
like a wound that learned to hold the sky.
Hallgrím Pétursson was know a pastor and a poet
born when Iceland slept under ice,
you carved a ribcage from a spear's dark entry.
We built your aching into this tower
Hexagon by hexagon, a mountain that breathes only
in angles sharp as prayer. Here,
at the edge, a candle flickers
where your last word still spills blood
and waterinto the stone's cold listening.
Forgive us.We made your grief a geometry.
And it stands.
14/May/2026
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 5:20 AM UTC
January was never meant to be the beginning.
Maybe the year starts slowly on purpose
A quiet stretch, a deep inhale, the soft ache of waking up.
February shook off the snowy water.
March followed with a gathering of strength,
A slow return from past to present,
When a greener future rises to itself,
April when it begins.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 11:34 AM UTC
They could not read the writing
—Daniel 5:8
The word END in the train window—
cleaning crew scoured, failed.
A dove lands on the mint.
Saturday morning, I cut greens, leave the window wide.
Blessed are the peacemakers (Matthew 5:9)
booms from the television
between more homes flamed, more hands flattened.
I beat my knife against the board,
call it sword‑into‑ploughshare practice.
It just smells like coriander.
Father has a single voice, never will be delayed.
The dove says come home.I save him a chair
and watch the word refuse to be erased.
Mar 21
Mar 21, 2026 at 9:25 AM UTC
I.
Her lipstick, stocking with nailset
An early self portrait
that spring has landed.
II.
Spring needs a local hiking
bed: pungent mulch ambushes
your March shine notepad.
III.
Sunshine plashes down.
Through warm waves you saw days
Unfold at your feet.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 8:02 AM UTC
Horse is a year that rapped with a new skin
Vowed with a new voice. And followed it up with
A new emperor dress just touched
to a new mirror. Won't you greet it?
Move a cosmetic box to settle it in?
Yes, please have a room for it.
I will rush to empty it, to put on a fresh sheet on
an aged oak bed. look around, I used it
for my past selves. they, who surrendered
their past skins, past voices and
Past emperor’s dress, I placed it all in the mirrors
as I walk under the dark,
the road appears.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC
The sun returns, a lengthening thread
To stitch the wounded earth from white to green
A whispered argument with what was dead.
Beneath the frost, a stubborn, hidden bed
Of bulbs now stirs—a bold, unyielding scene
Their pushing is a question thinly spread.
The river, loosed from its icy stead,
Chants melt and motion, restless and keen,
A fluid claim where frozen words had fled.
Then hope, not mild, but in sharp temper bred,
Wears winter’s doubt like a mantle, seen
In light that argues with the dark it.
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 10:10 AM UTC
She remembers little of everything,
the littlest of her childhood. great were
the stories in which her mother deciphered
the world to her. said, all that would rot meant
it had disobeyed the almighty.
We would inspect the fresh produce,
isolate the righteous from the wicked—
small hands in charge of divine duty.
She’d speak urgently to the rotting,
plead with them to be good. it was
futile. for they’d be thrown in the bins
& taken wherever the defiant went.
later, she would pray to be spared, to have her wrongs
concealed. to which, she’d say, silly child
no such decline could come your way.
a mother’s love, the closest thing
to a god’s mercy, is made flawed & forgets it.
in her mistakes, i can see: all that decays,
knows where to find me.
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 8:27 PM UTC
(Pre: Guernica 1937 – Baghdad 2003–Ukraine 2022)
The horse is Guernica’s, Baghdad’s, Kyiv’s shriek.
The bull is the state, the shroud, the briefing’s lie.
My thumb recalls the blast, the psychic breach.
A net of needles—Mariupol’s sky.
The tower’s hair is steel, in shards, it cries,
Spinning the drained grape of work, the question: Why?
More the bitten grasp than the prey’s demise.
The memory-dog climbs the oak where rubble lies,
Showing what we knew, with our averted eyes.
We write, and so we participate, devise
A witness from the story we revise.
That we love and suffer makes the silent shriek rise.
A horse is a horse. A bull is a bull.
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 3:36 AM UTC
In Abu Dhabi where the sun does rise,
A city gleams beneath the skies.
From Sheikh Zayed’s grand, sacred halls,
To Corniche’s waves and desert calls.
With every dawn, through every night,
Abu Dhabi shines with light.
Through every step, in every cheer,
Abu Dhabi’s soul is near.
In every glance, in every song,
Abu Dhabi’s heart beats strong.
With every dream, in every dance,
Abu Dhabi takes a chance.
In every smile, in every tear,
Abu Dhabi’s spirit is clear.
Through every storm, through every sun,
Abu Dhabi’s journey has begun.
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 11:51 AM UTC
In Kyiv’s subway shelter, a girl folds
bullet casings into cranes—wings etched
with Psalms hummed as shells tarnish sunsets to brass.
On Donetsk’s front, soldiers pluck petals
to pad boots where redemption sprouts
from blistered roots.
Beneath Gaza’s shattered solar grids,
ants weave fuse-wire nests between Quran
and rifle text—six-legged imams reconciling steel.
An Israeli ****** texts his Palestinian pen pal:
Your olive grove grew through my scope last night.
They meme Moses and Mohamed vaping
under the Red Sea’s algorithmic tide.
This is why laundry dances on Mariupol’s balconies—
why tank crews plant sunflowers in tread marks,
why Bedouin teens stream TikTok psalms
where Hagar’s tears salted dunes.
But lick Crimean wounds, let Gaza’s dust
baptize your lens, love the enemy’s laugh—
to hear sparrows in AK barrels chant Salaam
in C minor, eggs cracking into maps
where mines burst figs even Judas craves.
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC