This poem for everything

This poem for
This poem for everything
we have never had
This is to the cars we never rode;
for the dresses we never wore;
for the rich and for the poor
This is to the sentences and words
that our throats chocked in,
but never told

This is to the fathers we've never had
To the good-hearted mothers
whose hands are full of peppers and onions smells
This is to the sisters I wished I've never had
and to the one who I wouldn't exist
without having
This is to the religions I was born with
To the beliefs I convinced myself in believing
This is to my innocent past and my corrupted present
This is to my patient future
To the universe, earth and nature

This is to boys we liked
but never talked to
To the girls we wished we can be
but failed every time we tried to

This is to the food we ate
not out of hunger
but to extinguish
our depression that wanders
around like a careless tourist

This is to the restaurants we never walked in
To the countries we never visited
and to the streets we never got sick from
This is to the shops we never bought from,
because their prices and brands are bigger than us;
bigger than our budget;
bigger than who we are and who we can be

This is to the dreamers and losers
This is to the nails we grew;
and the watches we wore,
so we can "fit in"
This is to your people
and my people
and we-people
We-society
we die to satisfy

This is to our sleepless nights
and to our sleepy nights
This is to our dreams and cries;
our truths and lies
our Hi's and goodbyes
This is to the No's and Yeses
To the rejection and acceptance

This is to every organ
of our bodies,
trying to live
trying to be
Let it be

Haleema Al-aide

war and peace

Everything around smothers
every last bit of the so-called "me"
My internal peace isn't found in the surrounding objects
Somehow, people make it hard for me to simply be;
like the old women in public buses,
sitting next to me;
trying to take up their spots and mine;
proving their being;
showing their accumulated fat
and their tired bodies from pregnancy and long consumed nights
Like the hard men
Standing at the roadsides
Hoping to find love in the passing women's figures
Thinking that they are "the right match"
Expecting too much

My wars are colorless
Entailing people, skeletons, my body organs and some nameless fantasies
I give these wars colors
I fire them up
And I grow helpless
As I watch my rationality sink behind my sanity
I give them colors
Like the monthly red war between my legs
Sapping my energy
Contributing to my beauty and maturity
Like my shadowy depressed nights,
stilled by fears and unopened bills
And as I wait for love and passion and quiet nights
Wars happen
Silently, severely
Settling in me
Finding a lasting home

I seek an escape
but they are stronger
fed by my fears and insecurities

My depression now embodies a long-darkened figure
I've always feared
I used to fight it
but fear conquers all
Thereby, the heavy gates of my heart
swung ajar
allowing wars to break out
as I plod my way across the dusky bed
Failing to remember that I am a fighter
trying to unleash all of my frustrations and unspoken misery in an open, dateless and continuous war

Written By: Haleema Alaide

Forget

Forget traditions for tonight
Forget your self-centeredness 
and your ordinary morning routine
Let's do something different
with no opposition from your part
Let us draw oceans and sink in them
and then try to save each other with the little boats we have
Let's imagine that we have a big ship
with one sailor; you leading
and me watching waves go up and down
Your work keeps me occupied
So why don't you count the number of dying men trying to sail around your ship?
And I will try to stop you from killing locals on foreign shores.

Let's be birds

"Let's be birds"
Could it be the long miles that execute
our dreams while they're so alive?
Then, why don't we efface the distance between 'your' country and 'my' country
and pretend that it's unwanted visitor

Why don't we exist everywhere and not somewhere specific?
Let's pretend that we're flying birds;
escaping wars and homes
just to be free
I've never heard of a Muslim bird
or a Christian bird
or an Italian bird
or a straight bird
or a racit bird
or a white bird
They're birds
So, why don't we be birds?

Why do we teach children about "others"?
'Other' religions
'Other' countries
'Other' traditions
'Other' people
Until they learn that different is wars
Different is bully
Different is inferior
Different is a threat
Different is enemy
Different is disgusting
Different is epidemic
Different is different
And then they grow up
believing that they're different

Let all the hate inside of you be drained away
Fill yourself with love
dripping through your veins
Be a disobedient bird
Fly and disappear in skies
Go away until you're no longer seen
Then come back
with a smell of countries and nations
and other birds
Maybe then you can be different
in a good way!

NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST

"NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST."
With no plans or hesitation, I packed my bags and headed to Barcelona. This decision stemmed from my desire to be free, believing that, “Not all who wander are lost”.
I got into the metro. My map suggested many places to visit. However, my eyes landed in only one place: Las Ramblas – Barcelona's famous walking street. I watched the old women in the metro sitting next to me, trying to take up their spots and mine, asserting their being - baring their accumulated fat and tired bodies from child birth and all-consuming nights.
The metro raced in the old streets, swallowing cafes, restaurants and alleys populated by tourists and locals. I wanted to see them all. However, my mind kept reminding me of my recently planned destination: Las Ramblas. The views from the window were very clear and captivating, but he distracted my attention. He occupied no seat, standing still. His eyes were gold-flecked and heavy-lidded. Somehow, I managed to see Park Guell in them. He had shiny, neatly-combed hair. Simply clad in skinny jeans and a sleeveless shirt, Carlos reminded me of all my stupid crushes on dark-skinned people. He pouted his lips as to look sexy. We looked at each other. I busied myself, half-reading the silly brochure for Basque Norte's restaurant. I was nervous: hands firmly clutching the brochure, lips trembling and eyes preoccupied with the weary bridges of the passengers walking upon them. Carlos was very proud; he held his dignity and wore it like the polished armor of a king’s prized knight. The metro interrupted our wordless conversation informing us of the current stop "Las Ramblas". He got down, offered help with my two small bags.
"Gracias", I thanked him. We began to chat. My Spanish was basic and his English was helpful. The sun was hiding between Barcelona's exhausted buildings and tremendous houses. We plodded our way across a muddy road and stopped at the Kiosk La Gazalla where hundreds of people danced and soaked up the night. He looked at me and muttered something in Spanish that I couldn’t understand. Somehow, my knowledge of body language helped me decipher his meaning: “let’s dance". He moved his body in a way I couldn’t. Although my black blouse and white skirt seemed too large on my short, thin frame, I danced like I never had before. In the midst of my unspoken feeling, I stood at the edge of this forsaken bar and allowed myself to feel free. I was young and the night didn’t bother me. I then knew that NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST.