Were I in Beirut
A peninsularity of sand water . . . and time

Were I to cross the street to  Rue Monnot or cruise Hamra . . .

The air vibes incessantly .
The faces intrigue
The scents taunt and make my imaginations swirl

Laughter , chatter and comebacks in a language I don't understand

The feelings real , tangible
as the sunsets of their dreams

You heard me !
I don't write silly love poems anymore .
At best they become bleak .
They are the ships at sea scuttled by storm .
The aircraft that lose power and crash into the ground .
The miners of affection when the roof comes down .
Don't ask or make a sound .
I'm committed to silence so don't you mess around .
THEIR evermores doomed from first kiss and sworn bliss .
From the cradled vows
to the certain anyhows
Don't ask me about love poems anymore .

Is a heck of a person,
Too much of everything.
She eats too much,
She cries too much,
She laughs too much,
She exercises too much,
She shows too much kindness.
Her too much roots are deep in me,
And will stay there forever.
29/8/2024

A girl in your hands is worth more than two in their bush .

Dare the day
to raise the light
To dedicate
itself to the Sun's respite

To crush
the shadows
kidnapped
by night

To free the wounds
of fright or plìght

The sunny ray's raucous
crackling whips
Soon the darkness
will be flipped

To hear
the moans of
grinding time
The wheels spin on
as the engines whine

So does the day
dare the night ?
Yes it does
to the Sun's delight

I threw my poem to the wolves
They then tore apart
every word
They swallowed down all the thread
then they languished
for soon they fled

For this was nothin̈g new
Just another sitting
on a Sunday church pew
For every poem has its cross to bear
Before it's cruxified
and rise in air