We used to have a house, ignorant of his birthday anniversary. Its wall was hanged on a black and white photo, The photo hanged by a thread made of the fur of a goat coming from pre-Islamic era, The thread hung on a nail, The nail hung on postponed rust, The rust kneaded by a drop of water, a breeze creeping at night and a fistful of arbitrary time.
From the black and white photo, here comes out my grandfather, in the shape of darkness and light; he carries his clayey head, a shovel, a jug of water, and digs into his shadow. I ask him: ‘Where have you come from, grandpa?’ He scatters a toothless smile, takes a look at temples along roads, and searches in the near horizon, beneath his tired eyelids, for a loving God.
At night, when colors go to sleep, my grandfather climbs up back to his photo, carries the wall, the nail, his sorrow, clings to the thread, and waits.
I am 58 years old, from eastern Galilee, Israel (Palestine). I studied English literature, psychology and Law at the Hebrew university (Jerusalem). In the last three years, I published three books of which is dedicated to prose poetry. You are invited to visit the Facebook page Shadows of Water, where I publish my prose poems I translate to English.
Standing in the bathroom camera in her hand she’s looking in the mirror deciding how to stand Just a little nervous with not much on at all she snaps the camera shutter then lets the bathrobe fall She puts a
It was a photograph, as old as Their marriage, of both of them. His face radiating her fulsome bliss, Now eroded, tarnished and frayed At the edges, slowly, yet surely. Trying to tear him out of mind, She turned over
They stood there smiling in black and white holding their fingers tender and tight. They knew the secrets of a past tense heart they knew of a future ’till death do us part’. They tell a story that starts with