Over The Potomac

The turbulent girl dreamt a tempting tomorrow

The county bus is here. Her freezing feet can finally seek refuge on this four wheeled morning coffin. She walked up the stairs and emerged in suffocating warmth, mummified in a black winter feather-stuffed raincoat, from neck till below her knees. Her head and hands stick out from it like a stray penguin by the shore wanting to escape from the ugly seals towering the bus seats. Passengers glued to their seats as if they were treasures. Funny as those ideas may seem, but she was tired. She detests the daily routine of a tombish silence and a draining trip to and from Loudoun.

Her eyes are scouting for a window seat at the corners of the bus. She luckily found one, next to a blond young man who appeared important or so he tries to be. Soon as she asked him to let her inside, it was as if she’d asked him to pass her his favorite peanut butter sandwich. He silently collected his belongings and gave up his aisle seat and walked away. Strange as she hadn’t studied his features quite as perfectly as she would have wanted to in her good old days. she has a ring on her finger and shouldn’t double the glance to her favorite type, now that she’s taken, lest she’d lose her grace. That’s what her religion taught her. At least that one ain’t worth one bit of her attention.

Her eyes, glued to the window, watching nature waiting to unfold underneath the glooms of a cloudy winter. In her mind thoughts hustled, what could have possibly triggered “this”? and what is this? Is it racism? So her dark skin and hair made him think she must look Pakistani, Afghani, Persian or maybe Arabic. Perhaps, her Middle Eastern  face reads terrorism, or close enough?

They crossed the Potomac! She couldn’t help but think that despite a lengthy and wealthy river the Potomac may be, it might not be as benevolent and giving as the River Nile. She was nostalgic, and anxious to live a fine spring day with friends and family by the river. After all, she was a turbulent girl that dreamt a tempting tomorrow.

(to be continued)

May Kosba

Deliberative Contemplation


Emma Florence Harrison ( 1877–1955)

Pride is her sin

Bless the revolutionary road

The youthful dreams churning within

Haunted by ghostish whispers

In a fictional world of her own creation

Had she mastered the bliss of humbleness

Conquest of wisdom would have been her daily ritual

A free spirit she is

Pushed the freedom button, lit crimson ambition onto her records

Diven into the jaw of the monstrous sea

Sailed away on a lonely journey towards one of the coldest wests

What easted east and wested west

One man lied to geography and so history followed

Music is her wine

Dancing in the flames of endless joy and pain of choices, and the in-betweens

Oh, how painful are the in-betweens

Misguided in the realm of endless doubt

Between right and wrong lies an eternal drought of faith

Bound by fate …. an untiable bond

A fateful obligation to utter submission to …. fate

Who can escape their fate

Fate or destiny or God, can we differentiate, before the end draws near,

Can we negotiate what would our fate become, before clean slates are definitely erased

A mountain of deeds hides underneath her troubled conscience

Good or bad, even when intentions are resolute, actions deviate

The good, the bad and the ugly reside in every particle of human race

Are choices predetermined or free-willed, our thoughts tirelessly race

Pride is a sin among many others

The old man said: “unsheathe your sword in the face of temptation”

“Against your heart, ignite a revolution”

“Remember, repentance remains the man’s sole road to salvation”

Whether atonement for wrongdoing is a predetermination or choice

Forgetfulness stays a curse and a solace

There’s an insatiable curiosity about the purpose of man’s existence

As men fall for their causes – soon she’d fall too

Perfectionism is a myth when death hour strikes too soon

Losing My Ithaca/Ethica

Once upon a time I stumbled upon an Ithaca

Like butterflies, I flew in the air searching for a temptous nectar

I set out on a land where Ithaca was far and near like a shooting star

Cut the miles, trooped its length and width, till I reached

God knows how hard I shook it, till all doors had flung open before me

I felt the rush of the Atlantic had sworn to off the face of the earth wipe my existence

Even though I was forced by the mighty gravity to the deepest depth of the blue

I miraculously surfaced my glooms

Bitter taste of victory whirled in my world like a dizzying dance of a whirling dervish

I crumbled in my own temple of Ithacas

Woke up to a festival of crumbled ones

Losing ithica, after ithaca

So many seeping through my tightest slots of patience

As a nail crowns your finger, Ithaca covers me

I preach it in my poetic salon

Enchanted other heretics seem to be by my desperate delusions

In a world Ithacas are benevolent works of divinities

I am haunted by my fear of my fear

Who could be more helpless than a running deer from the monster’s claws

Only a human

With too little strength to die for an Ithaca, with an Ithaca, like an Ithaca

Inspired by the original Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy

The Day I Raged

I woke up to a burning sunlight

Silenced howling fear within me

Stood tall before you

Driven by the monster of your creation in me

Your power outweighs mine

But my passion for this blessed land can flood gold mines

You confuse patience with humiliation

I know I had to correct you

Teaching you the hard way about re-exploring me

Is what you taught me all through our history

Too late when I lived years licking your stinky shoes

Kicked my pride across corners of your corrupt capital

Wore my heart on my sleeve

Dived into my brothers waves of anger

Wouldn’t care less if my neck is what your mad dogs chase after

No, its not their revolution

It is their revolution, plus my revolution and our bloody anger

Waited longer than camels in Sahara without water

Maybe I am a speaking animal but my thirst won’t stand any longer

Because of you I am a walking encyclopedia of human mockery

They laugh at me, beat me, crucify me, kill me and turn my ashes into their wine pottery

Haven’t you had enough of this insanity?

I feel sorry for the day you and I stand before Him

We’d both negotiate mercy

The one that seemed like rain in the desert on one of your drought days

I trust there would be no bleaker than a tyrant’s destiny

You should know

One true death awaits me

Don’t care if my raging shakes our fake complacency

I shall die – pride is my best ally

Promise kneeling no more before the false deity

May Kosba

That Day I Raged – Onislam.net (Fine Arts)

Kianga Ellis reading


Hearts on Her Socks

It hails outside a window in her freezing house

Warmness in her heart ceases to reach her cold feet

It is a cold night indeed

Escapes the cold under thick blankets

Locks herself up in a room

Never been so darkened

Unaware of what had sent the glooms under her rainbowish ceilings

Her cold body slips under the covers

Fading beneath the layers

An attempt to hide a prideful desire in flames

It is a lonely night she feels

Finally seeks refuge

In eaten fantasies and memories

Eaten by time, pain, pride or fear

Fear of sin

Sin begets sin

And so on

Feeding off the bits and pieces of good old memories

Is the least she can achieve of happiness

Perhaps send itches of desire to a calm retreat

The least of sins are thoughtful ones

A marble body lies on her cold bed

Unturned gem

Only not in the dirt

Even in the wildest moments of time

Roars down her throat she swallows

Lying there like a mummy

History exposed in a museum of painful endings

She remains unturned

You must envy her perseverance

She masters the wait

Never compete with a woman keen to preserve her slate

Seduction at this hour

A hazard to her Godly pact

Though this Oceanus chaos versus reason

There are facts

Skin aches to touch

Lips long to part

Flower impatient to blossom

Unyielding yearning

For a season so far apart

Blue with suppression

One of her excellent skills

Bury it all inside

She smiles “what a beautiful coffin!”

And what a cold coffin!

Sleep is the best solution

Before some fool ignites a revolution

Lit up the fire in her holly devotion

Prayers are her favorite of soul lotions

Rouses – ablutes – prays – then back

Bidding sleep a warm welcome

Soon retrieves the previous situation

This is a curse or worse

Cold feet electrocute her blinks

Pursued cold all over her body down to the end

Astounded at the sight of her pair of socks

Red hearts blaze with envy on it

Stole all warmth once coated her naked veins.

May K.

Arabic tune by Wael Kfoury


Love’s tears drip on his skin

Countless failures in destiny wait his will out

I watch his weakness glare down on my fate

Each drop is a falling brick out of the wall

In my heart they fall

Building impossibilities

Conspiracies in disguise

I linger in this moment of perfect silence

Amid the nearness of our distance

Shielding his fading faith in survival

Making my way through his shattered walls of protection

While he cultivates a past perfect future

Commemorating my forfeiture

He cries out – I cry inside

An empire in ruins sleeps in my heart and his conscience

I am his knightess in shining armor

Who came for their promise to salvage

 I wipe the tears of the crocodile

They pour unto my lips unending turmoil

Taste so bitter on my truthful tongue

Hurricane blowing behind his eyes fail to meet my Nile

Succumbing to will-bending lies so versatile

I am defeated on my own land

My kingdom he overstands

Cried me a river of pain

Submerged all chances of survival

Ignorant to the book of pain

Of which I’ve become an avid disciple

 May K.


In the Grip of a Gypsy


In his mind she is the unmelting iceberg ~ the unconquerable highland ~ insanity wrapped in a cloak of a doomed fate ~ the arrow unleashed into his heart ~ she’s a woman ~ even in the wildest of his fantasies impenetrable ~ untraceable ~ untouchable ~ unlovable. He is alone in his strife ~ can’t help but fill the vacuum of his infatuation bubble ~ he is in love. True or false ~ this he fails to prove ~ yet he waits and waits and waits. Wait is time ~ time is patience ~ and what do you know about patience or time or wait ~ only words may fill up the vacuum and suck out the life of boredom ~ the man is always honored to seek martyrdom ~ in a love he sees a sacred mission ~ she is not holy ~ yet her holiness has a differing definition. In his heart she is a desert rose ~ a desert storm ~ she must belong in the land of chonic drought ~ yet her chastity quenches his doubt. She is a gypsy ~ stole his heart on a shiny morning ~ danced with bare feet in his heart ~ unplanted his heart away from its veins ~ wrapped in a blazing fear of losing in the sweetest yet sacred of warfares ~ she is still colder than cold ~ her resistance rages like a cold wind blows on a northern land. In her heart he is a man of words ~ his passion draws a lustrous flicker on her virgin walls ~ vanilla smells sinful on her skin ~ derails her unblinking resistence ~ yet his love she defies ~ singed beyond repair ~ brutalized in a not so distant past ~ recreated a cell of well-engineered bars of doubt ~ erasing pathways to where her land is sought by lovers and thieves of a heart so sad and tired. There’s a lump in her throat ~ her bitterness revives her wounds ~ she is a loner ~ lonesome brings her the brightest chirps ~ yet he vows to mend her quirks ~ bring  joy to her smirks ~ feed her drought with his unwavering faith in her city’s stingy skirts.  

May K.