Category: Poetry Sessions
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Winter Bones
Today I feel as cold as winter bones, As harsh and unforgiving as icy rocks; Sharp and lifeless as is folded steel, Drifting like a spaceman far above. Tethered, I see the Earth below. The swirl of light and skies, Laughter booms, I hear it from here. The world glows with life… Still, I feel…
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Murph
Cannot believe you’re gone, Murph, your battle at last at an end. You fought heroically, a battle of attrition in rebellion against the spread. The courage you possessed, can I even know or comprehend? A will for life ever defiant and burning fiercely red. So brave and resolute were you in your fight. It’s why…
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Winter Winds
Those winter winds feel like spider webs. First the breeze catches my ears, a slight shudder signaling a shutter-full-year. Upon the busy boulevard, where booze is bought in boisterous bars! Where laughs are loud and ladies laud, and all the assholes, they seek applause. Pacific Winter Winds, they greet our coasts. The taverns walls littered…
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An Effigy
First there was a sequel now a third! A month of trilogies–the pain, the hurt, and the loss. The credits named three obituaries, another one joins the ranks of those two lost. Still I expected its coming, though I knew not the face, for God always works in cruel wonders when he decides to greet…
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Two in a Week
When death strikes twice in a week, There are hardly words one can speak. One was young, a prodigious youth. The other old, but deep her roots. Imagine that both their hairs were red, Young Robert brilliant, he left things unsaid. He had refined hands that imitated life, And a spiritual nature, his heart was…
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In the Abyss
In the abyss, beneath corral green. Like Sisyphus, but it rolls downstream. As fates connive and unwind their spools, Dreamers dance–they are dancing fools. Bowie sent Ziggy towards the Moon, As the pastor King marched to certain doom, When Marilyn kissed the chosen son, They told us then that the war was won. They say…
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Bodyaches
My body aches with the crack of time, Upturned, upended–the bending of the days. I lay here in quiet supine The grim news of a world in wait. Folded and handled, Like linen too white. They rock them their slave ship, Oscillating from fake left to far right. The deafest ears They come with the…
Writings by Samson Mousa 