I will never be too grown-up to be kissed and squeezed by my mother

For she will not take “no” for an answer

“You are a grown-up now, but in my eyes you are still my little girl”

She will usher me into her kitchen to taste her homemade


Because in food she puts her love.

When I was a teen, while Tracy Chapman was crying out of the loudspeakers,

My mother would listen and say “how is she doing these days?”

And worry about the well-being of my teen-idols.

Her sensitiveness is deceptive, for she is firm as a rock,

Her strength disguised by the soft curtains of her soul.

Once I was in her womb.

Curled up in its pink, soft protectiveness.

Now years and years later,

Looking at her porcelain, antiques and family photos

Her perfume bottles, that should have been used up years ago, but are still half full,

Her patchwork blankets and TV shows,

I feel a fear and sadness.

Knowing that one day she will be gone taking her womb with her.



Dreaming again,

Frivolously. Carelessly.

Son’s dirty jeans calling from the bottom of the laundry basket.

Appliances crying from every corner

With persistent voices,

I am staring defiantly at the cobwebs in the ceiling.

They are so meticulously designed,

That it seems cruel to demolish such perfection.

Living in the moment, as some people say I should.

Living the moment.

As the red nail polish covers my toenails one by one

With patient strokes,

My thoughts get caught in my “to do’s”,

The cobwebs of my mind.

So, I take another coffee from the espresso machine,

Whose stuttering drowns the seagull outside my window.

The Cub

That agile foot peeking out of the warm covers radiates tranquility.

The heel, pink and shiny,

The toes snoozing nonchalantly,

And the delicate lines of the sole

All melt together in temporary harmony.

Your foot starts whispering, as if,

The whole universe is tucked in under your warm skin,

Everything tender and cuddly.

Your breathing, I cannot hear, but know is there

Draws imaginary circles in the air like soap bubbles,

I feel like blowing on.

Your fine, fair, frizziness

Is the only thing about you rioting.

And soon that will give in, too.

And soon, I will turn off the lamp and you, my boy

Will smile in your sleep, while kicking a football,

Making a snowman or building a Lego ship,

And tomorrow when you wake up,

You will become a cub again.


The voice of the speaker, as monotonous as ever,
Was the morose opposite of the uncanny screams
And the disowned body parts of the unprepared people.
Unprepared for the blast bursting in the bosom of a 20-year old,
Tearing open the gut of a city, in the tired evening hours.
Hatred has become the weed growing in our backyards
Where lives are cheaper than the explosives putting them out.
The pure face of a youth victim illuminates my screen.
With him hope dies and is forever buried
Under meaningless fatalism.
And religion is once again exploited
While man does evil to other man for the love of God.