I imagine I am flying
with angels.
The moon laughs at me.
I waved my hands
and put the moon
in its place
with my rosy cheeks
and my halo gifted by angels.
Floating in the sky
after several margaritas
I imagine overlooking
vast fields
where men and women toil
to put food on the table.
I come down to earth
and prepare for work.
No more floating
and no more margaritas tomorrow.
LONELY CLOUD
The lonely cloud at twilight
does not change form. It
disappears. With my eyes
I cannot see it and it is okay.
The lamp of a moon shines
its light at the lonely cloud
late in the evening and still
the solitary cloud does not
change in form. I go to sleep
and in the morning the cloud
is gone. My eyes search for
it. The cloud disappeared.
It was taken by the wind.
The sky could not harbor it.
My eyes wept in the shining sun.
I was not mourning for the cloud.
Before you, I was nothing but a sinner who wanted to be a bird’s feather to rest my journey by the gate of heaven
With you, I am a different man who will be a dove to fly out of the universe all the way inside the world of paradise
What Will Remain
What will remain of me today or the next coming year, will it be worth a bird’s feather
The only grief in my bloodroot is the sad song of nightingales like a wedding with a mother in a picture frame
In this life I could live foolishly and lost in problems with a place in darkness to weep till I die
The tattooist of previous wars asked me about my homeland I told him that I was sold to the land of happiness
With a friend who broke my trust, a woman who died before loving me, And parents who denied my existence
What will remain of me, not an expensive pen, but an unreadable diary of the depths of my soul
The Silent Lake
Sitting in the front of the silent lake, with a wind blowing the tree branches, to hear the voiceless conversation ‘tween the leaves and the flying birds
the lake is shining like my tears in the night reflecting the light of the hanging stars with the moon watching my grieves covering my woman from the heat of my nerves
The wine I drink on my own will never wipe my yearnings from the scent of yours, the smile of yours, and the silky body of yours sliding above my flesh in the times where I was reaching over your lips
Life is wonderful because of you, standing in a white dress, with unbuttoned buttons unzipped zipper in the back, waiting on the sunset to unwrap you for a beautiful memory with no end, but a little sleep next to your long hair
Tears of The Sad Stars
The other day; I wore my Victorian suit and I poured myself a cup of English tea. As I take my first sip, I saw a giant Viking ship, sinking quickly. In seconds everything was calm as if nothing happened but a flying
dragon was eating the cold moon. Meanwhile the cookie monster was eating the cookies of the kids who died in the Viking ship my cup was not filled with tea instead it was filled with tears of the sad stars
–
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad on May 8th. From Iraq, he came to Canada at the age of 10, the same age when he wrote his very first poem back in the year 2000. He also has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world. And he currently studies Political Science at Concordia University in Montreal. He recently has published two chapbooks “The Bleeding Heart Poet” and “Love On The War’s Frontline” through Alien Buddha Press. They are available for sale on Amazon. Many of his new and old poems are also available on his official page Bleeding Heart Poet on Facebook.
“Unrequited love is a poignant state of heartbreak, with no remedy. But it is a heartbreak mirrored in the very intimate and necessary art of being able to see, to appreciate and to come to love our selves. A blessing then, for unrequited love.” -David Whyte
I dreamt I was a cosmic canopy
for your night terrors
soak up the sweat
with warm towels
lay the boards down just right
so that nothing unwanted gets in
haul the tarpaulin over the wood
in winter, keep the home fires burning
and a small square of light
outside your bedroom door
I wouldn’t need to know what you’re thinking
every minute of every hour
the wind through the poplars
would be enough
and you down the hall
writing your memoir
tearing paper and starting from scratch
dreamt I was deep-water coral
you were light cast into dark
unwavering, beautiful,
inside and out
I’d live at the bottom of any mountain you’re on
you’d never even have to come down for me
I’d send my prayers up to you
one by one
tied to the foot of a crow
