This set of mountains
moves west, and wester still
until they move north and south
following the six directions.
Their crags speak to the sky
of the events below,
all in the rocky languages
poorly understood by those bound to two feet.
Caressing the earth in moccasins,
he, or was it she
looks about in the craggy heights
for a handhold
in the pegmatite faces of canyons
the reds and blacks in the most deeps,
those purples of sheerness
keeping the less adventurous at bay.
Coming down to the valley
below the gorges of distance barely seen
she, or was it he, knows
that off in the yonder reaches
there might just be a place in that bigness,
to drive their thoughts to.
An abandoned two story ranch house
sits the still, its invisible solitude
quiet now of children’s voices.
The hand split shingles on the roof
still keep the weather out
both the harsh winter snows and warm summer rains
don’t touch the singularity of a dry interior
as if waiting for the family to return
from where they disappeared to, so long ago.
That ranch house perched on the mountain side
has the cook house and porch attached
where a descendant has placed new tin
over it. Then left it again.
And there, under that
is the place where the questions
may have gotten answered,
and maybe not,
perhaps just having raised those inquiries
into the meanings of the lives lived
under the eaves.

Addiction

I’m an addict
And I know it!

I revere two of the three Cs:
Coffee, candy, and cigarettes.

I love my coffee alone with my contemplation
Of life, likes, posts, news, like a great commotion,

Flitting from one to the next trying to see
What’s best before I rest to be free.

Posts galore and replies of mine
Make my day, as the taste of Coffee

Feels like a sinful pleasure.
With my dark drink, I bite into chocolate,

And drift into a coma at heaven’s gate.
I savor the sweetness along the strength

Of body of the coffee and it’s bitterness.

Life with the morning rituals
Cake, candy, chocolate, coffee and sweets

Is like life without a hero like Ferrero,
Or Cadbury, Mars, KitKat, and Aero!

Raising the bar in a day filled
With noise, poised to litter the mind

With fear, worry, and being drear!
So my habitual start is set in stone:

Coffee, contemplation, quiet that have
A lead to social media, news, where I refuse

To succumb to its dadarkness
That needs to twist your morning addictions

Into a depressive, foggy darkness.
Let your coffee’s wisdom fill
Your empty cup with hope that will

Reject solidifying into despair,
But reaches in your depths to repair.
©️ Malak kalmoni chehab ©️

Prowriting Grade: Goals 68% Improvements 67%
It doesn’t like poems apparently,
and that is likely a good poem in itself, once written….

WHO WINS

Taking a photograph
of an empty picture frame
arranging the ponderosa pine boards
a wooded surround meant to be exactly right
around the nothing inside of it
fretting over the far off, distant speck
that could be a house or ranch
might be too much
subject matter in the photo,
everything had to be
Just Sooo…
or the addict would seek refuge
in the addiction
and the fight between the not-addicted
vs the addicted personalities
now stand eye to eye
nose to nose
the fighting almost starting
with the addicted’s steely little eyes
in a slanted head staring
into the focused non-addicted eyes
looking straight back
that is fraught
with an orange, determined compassion.

There, a cute woman
looking at me
short upturned nose
she was a part of something bigger
than herself.
She filled me, breached my stone redoubt
wanting a respite
even tho she pulled me towards her
with a silken rope
bit away from
but towards-to
hailing from me and returning
to me. We were both naked
making the intense attractions o much stronger
and dancing some primeval waltz
that energy exchange
alluring in close contact moist
nakedness bouncing, wiggling
wild hair not covering much
this intense attraction between us
to bond us,
“I am An Addiction” she says in a soft sexy, alto voice
finger slowly motioning to come hither
“I call to you to follow,
participate.”

Sometimes the addict wins
always the non-addicted is aware
of the hungry yearnings, the orgasmic attractions
each incidence is an empty frame tho
surrounding distance composed
wether, or not,
into a fretful awareness
of a grey, cloudy decision
on that perpetual blackboard,
was that another derision?
Or, just another carefully chalked mark
one two three four crossed slash-mark makes five
on the Self’s scoreboard information.
None of it a literal depiction
and nor is it a literary description
this being, the Self’s realization.

FEAR
Fear: fast heart beats feasting feverishly
Every time fear ramps serotonin quickly,
Amply avid in avoiding pain, fastidious in
Remaining alive to tell the tale of FEAR.
FEAR

BREATHE …
Barely breathing, the brain astoundingly
Reveals its respiratory ease, by reviewing
Every fear, entering the data, waiting
Another moment for analysis, wading,
Through the morass of a lack of logic,
Hearing only haloed heartbeats, heaving.
Eternally aware of time flowing: BREATHE.
BREATHE ..

THINK …
Through and push through thinking
Halves my reasoning, homing only on survival
Instead of clarity of thought,
Never receiving the memo of
Knowing that ‘fight or flight’ is all in a knot. THINK.
THINK …

ACT …
Actively, arduously permitting action that
Covers slippery seconds of being frozen, while
Time reveals your success, failure, and your missing fervor.
ACT …

©️Malak kalmoni chehab ©️

THIS NOTE NOT A PART OF THE SUBMISSION… this fresh piece, written last week, was a part of a very special moment – a personal epiphany really at age 70– that “It takes courage to be Happy.” Since been written, this piece has been read in two open mics, and well received.
=========================================================================

WINTER SUNDAY

I am defying winter
the cold and snow abound
by bare feet in sandals

even tho there is blue sky
visible thru the trees now
the branches are bare of happy green leaves.

A definition for being stuck,
in a certain defiance, a something
where the observation of a particular reality
is denied, where in that moment
seeing ain’t necessarily believing,
in wondering about the Webb Space Telescope
possibly having revealed an alternate view of the universe
(?really?) maybe it is only supposition
based on quantum physics?

Cold toes brings me back to
white, snowy realism
while questioning the faith I have in my brain,

why did that happen?
When loving another brings the pain
of separation, that great divide.

Twin reservoirs harbor cold water,
thick ice on top too, this winter Sunday
the cold wind blows my grey hair,
shivering, even tho I don’t want to.
What I can’t see diminishes my vision.
I do see the large, lone grey boulder, locked
in lakeside ice. Moose stand ‘way over there
my ears are in perfect order
hearing them call, EER-UGH, from the opposite shore.

—The American moose has a universal call between both sexes, the EER-UGH utterance varies with more emphasis on the ERR “syllable” in the does, and more emphasis on the UGH syllable in the bucks. When this poem is read on public, I am using the buck “pronunciation.”

My children have met someone
That might become their
Partner, a life partner,
Whose aim is to keep both, never alone,

To start a family of their own.
Dealing with advice, first disagreement,
First time meeting anxiety lent
Some insight into meetings flown

Off their trajectory into a NO
While others have progressed
For months, weeks, days, dressed
In meeting spaces trying to leave NO

Leaf, question unanswered before
Coming face to face, as they brace
For acceptance, liking, passion, in a pace
That drives me insane for the core

Is to build a family within ours.
How do I proceed, as the mother?
How do I let go without a bother?
How do I progress when theirs

Is a meeting of minds and hearts?
How do I accept not spoiling
Them whenever I want, coiling
My fear into a bow that never rests

For you never know if their
Choice will truly be happy or queer.

©️ Malak kalmoni chehab ©️

LAUREN- THE PHOTO OF THE BRICK GOES WITH THIS POEM. WHEN YOU READ IT, YOU’LL SEE WHY…

GOING TO BERLIN IN 1970 -for Hank

They were traveling by train
the whole family, for Thanksgiving
at seventeen it felt like being thirty
courage for the i-am-strong-enough
to face the i-don’t-know-what
speaking German wishing-to-know-words

even so he was in his own thoughts-
Where does genuine live?
Is it In amongst the realizations of the self?

Traveling with another Colonel’s family,
with another son of seventeen
both in railroad overnight sleeper berths
the Colonels had to be in uniform
crossing Enemy Territory as it was
the Enemy’s armed soldiers at railway stops in the dark
warned us not to exit the cars
if the train stopped, must have passports at the ready
should they be demanded by the communists.

It would take all night to get to Berlin due to the many stops
having left the freedoms of West Germany
fluttering on flagpoles at the border.

It was the first time, really, that he was aware,
like no kidding, that the suppression of men could be such
a real thing.

That realization never walked away again
the sight of man’s inhumanity to man
that persisted for the rest of his years

this epiphany became a finely tuned crap-detector
like gauging spoken truths for authenticity
or assessment of mood, or rank, at a glance.

Sometimes both revealing, and understanding, were pushed
into override, with wisps of smoke coming out
he had to get out, away from the despicable source

what of the half-truths
or the lying in the unnecessary competitions
in foolish men’s lives.
Sleep was a casualty of that night.
Excitement of so many AK-47s,
the danger slung on The Enemy’s shoulders
during the travel to West Berlin
so divided (one of the few walled cities left in the world)
the Berlin Wall was a living, breathing beast
the beast was hungry to eat those that loved freedom
the east had walled all around the west city with
guard towers sporting machine-guns overlooking barbed wire.

We were free to think and speak
our minds carrying on the traditions
that was why our Fathers wore the uniforms.

Yet there was Checkpoint Charlie
a passageway out of grey oppression
crossing over into sparkling clean air
the point of cruel suppression, of beyond unfair dictatorship
made by the hundreds of small white crosses
placed to honor where the dead had been murdered

those that had sought out of the chill, shot dead
sometimes having dug under the wire
perhaps hidden in the trunk of a car under blankets.

Those sights stayed with him far into his future years
the detector tuned to not just seeing lies
but to detect the oranges of tyrannical narcissism

he felt as if he had breached the walls of Mordor there
in the east walkers dressed in darks and greys
city streets there unkept, paint on walls peeling

a stark contrast to the bustle of the west side
where there were freedoms even to wear bright yellow
should one want to, and to think unencumbered

he sought the exploration of the Self
ever since, gathering strength
asking The Critical Questions, the hard Q’s
finding his answers where they may be
in a song, poem, or readings of the great works
perhaps in some direct act of a caring sort
observing when life reached that occasional pinnacle
where truth junctured with an intensity

combined with spontaneous, deliberate acts of kindness
produced those moments of humanness
that people remember and talk about for years later.

He remembered Berlin all his life.
His walking up to the communist wall of Checkpoint Charlie
seeing the machine gun in the guard tower
ranging his steps, following his direction
(his Mother standing there wanting to scream)
as he gently removed a loose brick
from the wall just by The Enemy’s gate
even the western Military Policeman directing traffic
watched him step back away towards safety.

Taking that red brick
an act out of a youthful sense of invincibility
became a brick in his own wall
the brick was in his study even now
holding a honored place on a shelf
near the volumes of philosophy
becoming a power cell in the course of his life
a light shining into the darkness
showing what it means to be a real human in the world.

So I’m a veteran now..
Help me open this
C & P exam notification.
Look at that,
a winner has been selected
for my mental health’s raffle.
Combat activity report card reads as follows:
2 deployments for me
&
93% on the subject of
American history.

I felt the ghosts
of our heroes
let their tears fall
over my shoulder,
because the heaviest pen in
the planet struggled to check the box that was applicable to me.

I’ve been feeling decently
until recently,
when I was notified,
that everything
that I try to hide
in the tombs of my psyche,
will be –
resurrected,
dissected,
&
placed under
a microscope.
Picture my ptsd..
As a protozoa in a petri dish,
just small enough that I will never
feel whole (fill hole)
unless I open up,
I will never heal my soul…

Or maybe a telescope,

for everytime I’ve
spaced
out.

There’s a dissonance
in the distance that
slightly resembles the terror that
holds my happiness hostage.
“Incoming,”
Incoming,
Incoming!

any alarm
& this action movie
shapeshifts
into the horror genre,

Michael Bay
transforms into
Stephen King.

“It” is
“The Pet Semetery”
Where
“Cujo”
Is buried,
alarms also make me feel like
Jon Coffee walking
“The Green Mile.”

The Doha Accord was signed on
29 Feb, 2020.

Despite this alleged “armistice,”
the mirage in the dark was the target of many armaments..

12 bombs…I think?

like scalping your enemy,
i’ve tried to sever
that memory from my head,
but try as I might,
it hangs on by a thread,
how could I ever forget
the bomb that knocked me out of my bed?

& the subsequent phone call
to my parents..
telling them how
f*cking scared I was.

Oh, the heartbreak harbored in their eyes,
for only a handful of times,
have they seen their son cry,
but anytime I heard
Incoming, incoming, incoming..
It was at least possible
I might die.

I genuflect to inspect
These 17 coins I have earned,
Jaded-
I helped pack the grave dirt of far to many urns.
The petri begins denting from the inside.

Still Sealed by the gravity
That re-wrote history:
the fat man who crashed
bockscar in
Nagasaki.

Or
the little boy birthed
from enola gay
in Hiroshima.

“Do alarms really bother you?”
“Yes, it’s my heart beat playing hide and seek,”
“Is it getting any better?”
“Not really,
Every time I try & get some sleep
I hear the floorboards creak,”
“Isn’t it just another noise?”

“No.

It’s every thought I’ve ever had against my life,
The Grim Reaper’s sychte felt so cold upon my cheek…”

Im thankful for all of the help
that I have seeked,
for the last 4.5 years
I have my good days &
bad days,
& I’m hopeful that
one day,
it will be
Just Another Noise.
But until then,
I hope you see everyone is different after they’ve deployed.

First day!
What to expect?
Exited, nervous, undefinable?
Confused, turned around,
Don’t know where to go,
Or how to study?

Well you’re not alone,
My first time at university
I was eighteen, unsure
Of what career to persue,
And what to study for me to succeed.

A new chapter in lives
New expectations, responsibilities,
That weigh heavily, as duties
To self and society’s demands
On your ability to make moneys,

Live alone,
Pay rent,
Have a relationship,
That’s heaven sent,
Have 1.75 children and pant
As you pay bills that pile, always spent.

Firsts are always flustering, lone,
As none other than expectations, gone, gone
Down the tubes as reality is a forgone
Hindrance to cheer that has none
Of the tools for survival except a will made of bone.

©️ Malak kalmoni chehab ©️

My innocent smile of childhood
Is what I miss most from long gone
Days where naivety, fun fumbles, were good
For a laugh with family, friends, undone

By the simplicity of the life of a child
As you went about cheerfully hopping
From one daydream to another, a hidden bard, flipping,
Hiding in plain sight, forgiven for being a child.

Never let your smile drift into the sky,
Let it balance your mood, don’t brood.
As you smile, cheer will surround
Your every move as you inspire joy that’ll fly,

Flinging your dreams into reality
As your positivity you embraced,
Will endow you with being graced
By happiness, a comforting embrace.

©️Malak Kalmoni Chehab ©️

The coo of a dove,
gently wakes me from my slumber,
I dreamt of laying near a babbling brook,
accompanied by a good book,
hoping the right direction is hidden somewhere in these pages.
The morning light,
lightly lifted my eye lids
asking me:
“Hey, are u ready to start the day?”
A day where the only demands needing to be met,
are that of being a good father .
That sounds like so much fun!
We can build a fort,
we can go to the park and run.
Then I remember the problems
I tried to pin inbetween
prelude and the exodus,
they started to seep out of the page.
My son’s laughter met my anxiety outside and said
“not today!”
What it did allow-
was a welcoming thought,
for me to be a kid again.
Watching him live his life with so much joy,
Made me realize that
I needed to heal my inner boy.

The current cacophony
currently singing through water,
opened the valves of my heart so my younger self and my son can play together.

“A Dream by the River.”

The Sunlight was very jealous of our smiles,
The Breeze stopped for a second
to enjoy our laughter,
The Grass welcomed the
weight of our weightlesness,
It felt our heartbeat with every step,
then we layed down and became blades of grass ourselves.
My son safely nestled next to me and we dozed off…

I DON’T HAVE PTSD
[in Southernspeak]

When I wake up in the mornin’
most any day
everything isn’t broken
lying about in ashen heaps, the smell
his buddies dead or dyin’
one smokin’ wheel of the sideways chopper still turnin’.

I can have
an already-always appreciation
of a new day. Most any mornin’
rain, or sun peering at me
there’s blue sky in between the clouds
and the coffee is good.

I don’t have to clean up empties
or wipe up dog poo cause I didn’t let it out
in time
that time of not bein’ to forget, all encompassing.

My good friend has it tho
and it never fully leaves him
the self recrimination either
whar forgiveness ain’t
nor the compassion jus’ be missin’
he fight this time an’ next for the clear blue.

My friend has seen mor’ o’ the dyin’
than I will ever
even after a career of hospital intensive care work
where my role in it were to stop tha’ dying.
His was to cause it, that ther’ black
when we look each other in tha’ eye, we know.

After the loss of my mother-in-law, my youngest daughter brought up the topic of starting to wear the hijab (a scarf that covers the hair, denoting our humbled nature towards God, and empowering our rights to protect our modesty in a world filled with immodesty). As a mother, who wanted to give my daughter a better chance at a larger pool of the ‘marriage mart’, my husband and I convinced her to wait. However, she brought up my inner need to wear the hijab myself and be a better practicing Muslim, because the hijab is a constant reminder of my connection to God. By wearing it, I’m reminded to always be grateful for what I have, not to envy what others do, work harder to achieve my desires within the dictates, rules and regulations given to Muslims through the Quoraan. I’ve also found that the acceptance I’ve received in this Western Country, Canada, was overwhelmingly positive and empowered me to stay the course of my beliefs. Now, I’m proud to say that my struggle to strengthen my belief is a daily occurrence, that I do my best not fall under its depressing weight. Struggling to unite people through the hijab is an uplifting experience, as one shares their experiences and problems, which in turn help others find solutions for their own set of issues.
My favorite comment when people meet me, is that I have a certain glow to my face that comes from the power of my faith.