In any lanuage, it is the same. Aicha, Ayesha, Aisha

Keep your treasures
I'm worth more than all that
A cage is a cage, even if it's made of gold
I want the same rights as you
And respect for each day
I don't want anything but love
Jean Jaques Goldman 

synchronicity 

(sin chronic ity)
a tricky old spirit,

timeless magician,
steers ships of possibility to port where they tradewhich otherwise would pass in the night without note.not cousin of coincidence nor spouse of luck,
she works alone, yet with all.
she dances past you,  flows, circles, and waits.she steps in swiftly with a playful grin, enters riding on the tails of a gap
in your moments of certainty.and just like any good guest
she never shows up empty handed, and most certainly, 
never comes without invitation.

جنبا إلى جنب

walk with me
through gallant jungles and saucy safaris.
the world`s modest beaches
wrap their naked arms around us.
we can eat Kilimanjaro for breakfast,
chew it well,
drink Po as the freshest juice, if you want.

I`ll drag you through rooms empty of time.
you`ll guide me through storms of silence.
we`ll give our eyes as gifts to each other each day,
draw circles of laughter, like fire around our path.
I`ll clothe you in the words your senses whisper to me.

never leave our one room all inclusive.
endless in capacity, the world seeks invitation to come inside.
never get off the bus alone,
as the back seat for one is an abstinent ride,
and the walk is too long and dry on your own.
never look to your side and not see the reason
you never have to ask why.

you have found your side by side,
your جنبا إلى جنب,
give praise.
copyright. TU. 2009

Feeling Squeezed?

When we want to butcher an animal such as a lamb, I have heard we often put it in some kind of aparatus that squeezes it from all angles possible. I see it like a box, slowly and gently closing in on them from all sides. There is somehing about squeezing, or applying pressure, that calms an animal and gives it a sense of comfort, if it is done at the right speed, and the right pressure applied. This, to us, seems the most humane way to prepare it for what's to come, I suppose. The animal begins to feel supported, and that if they push out, from any direction, something firm and solid will hold them in their place, make them secure. And all along, this increased sense of comfort, albeit confinement, brings them the savoury prepleasure of the unknown darkness approaching. As the pressure is applied, the animal gives up control and begins to rely on the heaviness of the pressure to keep it in its place. Then, without knowledge or warning, it is quite easy for us to take the life and soul out of the animal, as it almost offers it up anyways. Not to mention, by the time the animal were to know what is happening, it is far to late to try to wiggle, or even scratch or crawl their way out. By then, the fight is already over.

The machine is so misleading, and this girl says, if you see it, or feel it, run for your life

for your life

Humilty

History is a Broken Record at the Jane Bond Cafe

Jane Bond Cafe,Uptown Waterloo, February-mid, 2008
At the bar I sit, thoughts the only company I desire. Then in she steps, ripping through my small canvas of time, 
halting my nakin paged poem.
In tote, she has some tall nameless important guy.
 I look up, rest the pen on a coaster.Lips do their best to fake
a minor toss of delight their way.She sees what I am doing,
wants to showcase familial talent. I chuckle inside.
His eyes pop out, I see where this is going.
I toss the napkin, he reads a little,
his brow begins to buckle.

She'll shrug her shoulders at this point.
Be too cooland betray me.
I wait for it. It always backfired in the past. But it continues.She tried hard to be proud, to a point. I hear her voice.
'if she were thinner
she would bereally pretty'
And the lemmings around her would all agree.
I humbly appear, as always. She has no clue what I know.'if she had any depth she would be
really ugly.'
Nameless nods a few times, 'its uh, really great.'She doesn't know what it means either, I am sure. So she might as well call it shit.
'she's done better ones than this'
For a moment, I enjoy
quiet, secret, personal humour, among the best kinds.

With a grab of the pen I get up, say my goodbyes,
and carry on into the street. I leave the bar, with pen, napkin and smirk.A scribble scratched off the edge of a page.
This poem's for you, Sellout Sista 

Writing My Own Definition in the Dictionary

My Five Lives

If I could be five things at once, this is what I would be (in no particular order):

1. a dancer
2. a writer
3. a mother of many children and wife of one amazing man
4. a dance therapist/ cafe owner
5. a photographer