Sons under the sun – France, Saudi, same, same


the irony of course is not the women,
not the liberation, not the oppression,
nor the men policing them either,
but it’s the sand.

the connectedness of this dry and pale backdrop,
which I don’t know if the artist meant,
but I also don’t know if people realise.

Men, dry from the moisture of comprehension,
but wet behind the ears,
still oblivious to the idea,
that they don’t own other men,
especially other women.

and despite our outward appearance,
we haven’t evolved anywhere in the world,
secularist, fundamentalist,
dogmatic or pragmatic,
oh they love the words,
both pride themselves on arbitrary definitions.

what kind of wombs bore you,
i wonder if they deplore you,
would you police your mothers too,
would you still hold the same view?

if it were your mother that was dressed,
or undressed,
would you still feel the need to oppress?

I wonder,
what the world would look like if right from the start,
women were just left alone,
how much more would we as a civilisation,
have grown?

This arid backdrop is the wasteland of what we have become,
of two images of things that can’t be undone,
both burned into our retinas,
by women’s sons, under the sun.


Art by Khalid Albaih



all women have secrets.
most men are afraid to ask.

for them,
marriage is a burdensome task
do I ask, don’t I ask,
do I ask, don’t I ask,

he afraid to,
she reluctant to tell,

both wearing masks.


ask her secret
or you won’t be able to hold her down
ask her secret
before you don’t find her bound
ask her secret
if you want to keep her around
ask her secret
and forever she’ll be your crown

tell your secret
if you want to keep him close
tell your secret
and he’ll heal you like aloes
tell your secret
and he’ll raise hair on neck and curl your toes
tell your secret
if you want to hear his prose





daughter asked,
how do I tell the difference
between a boy and a man

mother replied,
by the stroke of their hand

one will touch you
the other will make you feel sacred


It may be that he is not the first to touch you
but he will always feel like the last.
Like the earth and all it contains,
presented itself in a bouquet,
and it scrapes along your spine.
Lavender, patchouli, rose, almond,
bergamot and musk,
his touch will stain your skin,
brand your soul,
and nothing after,
will ever make you whole.

Perhaps that was his secret,
a tender man, with earthen fingers,
bloodied feet,
soles that were one with the land,
his blood, it’s blood,
perhaps that is why he can make her terrain feel like it is boundless,
perhaps that is why she is happy to be owned by him.

Some people can shower you with compliments,
and it feels like poison being spat at you,
whilst others may strike you with vileness,
but your body calls for more of it,
another lashing,
another branding,
at least it is the whole of them,
striking the whole of you.

It’s perplexing why a woman will choose one man over the other,
a boy over a man,
more so,
why she chooses to be covered by dirt,
rather than swallowed by earth.


-lure, the other half

lure two

-lure, the other half

to list what lures a woman
is too daunting a task.
simplifying and stereotyping
is reserved for ignorants,
who know not a thing of her fibre.

perhaps though,
of my most distilled experience,
a woman seeks endurance.
an ability to bare with her growth,
under all conditions she travels through,
inner and outer.


offer poise in turmoil
something to hold on to in hurricanes
to be a roof when it rains way too hard for any soul to bare
poetry when none of her words are there
a whisper in a nest of care
spoon when crawling up into despair
as subtle as a stroke of her hair
so much more than what what we assume
buys all temporary glitter, glam and flair
even to be a stern glare
when off track and unaware
a vent when there is no air
women aren’t a puzzle
they just want a man
to loyally be theirs


– luring


you’ve got a fight ahead of you
if you think eyelashes
and the sway of your hips
are enough to lure a man

try temperament,
and kindness
not asking at all through your physicality
but through your being


If you did lure, he’s a boy, not a man and you’re a girl, not a woman.



IMG_1518-needy  pair


there is nothing quite as gracious
as a woman
giving you the whole of her


“And we created you as pairs”

I am utterly at a loss for words sometimes.
What did I do to deserve my wife?
A woman who is the definition,
of the other half of someone.
She gives me her whole being entirely,
emotionally, intellectually physically and spiritually.
I ponder over men and women that shared bed,
that shared bread,
who have lost civility,
abandoned humility,
and become barbarity.
Now, vexed against one another,
ready to cut each others throats.
How on earth one can get to such a degree,
to forget the subtitles, the intimacy
and live so detached
in such disharmony.
I must have done something right
to receive such devoted sincerity.

-marriage material

marriage material

don’t trust a man
who uses words
better than he uses his hands

there’s a point where words will invent
what his hands can’t earn

don’t trust a woman
who uses her body
better than she uses her heart

cosmetics cannot cover vice


experience and masks
live up to the task
pull apart
back together again
how long can it last
if the origins of your relationship
are in whimsical shadow casts


not yours


if I lured her to me with but words
she was never yours

she may have set her eyes upon you
but her souls gaze was turned to me.

women keep secrets so buried men never know
because they don’t know the woman inside of themselves
so how then will you know the woman outside yourself?

grow your masculine
bloated alpha
disproportionate gender
it will only alienate you from her essence.

and there you are, in a wasteland desert
skirmishing, scurrying, searching for water
in the mirage of you.


My ancestors are waiting

my ancecestors are waiting

I found the lightness of being in acknowledging
the heaviness of my soul.


And mine is laden with the load of my ancestors.
Broken back with their watchful eyes,
They are waiting for me to manifest my loins in their honour.

Have you seen a father poised in silence waiting for his sons eyes to recognise him, his daughters fingers to grab his?

Out of womb, flesh on flesh, I made sure my hands were the first to hold my children, but their mothers breast before mine.
That way they know, their heads they can lay on her bosom, but their hearts belong in my hands.

Men must reconnect with their hands, with the massaging of a woman’s soul, to find her womb flowering, pollinating, inviting the buzz of his wings.
And women will flower, extend their petal to you.

My ancestors are just waiting to taste my honey.


Tender strength

cocooned women
Brutal strength,
Ornamented in a cocoon of lace.
The subtle texture of her soul,
Iron clad by skin of shed.

I like my women the same way.
I don’t mind rough hands,
I don’t mind a little rage,
I don’t mind fragility,
Or vulnerability,
As long as she can take off her stilettos,
And stab a man in his eye,
If he steps out of line.
But if I step out of line,
Plant a kiss on them,
Making me as fragile
As her.

Please see the talented work of Heather James Nicole from Heather James Photography. Inspiring and perfect time captures. The above photography belongs to her, used with her permission.


Original photo:dandy