With luck, it just might snow for us.
----
The clouds thicken and curdle
Forgotten tormentors hang fertile
Wind's warmth lost to age's circle
Time blotted as mere mortal
It just might be cold enough for snow.
Reality flickers in a powdered blanket
Blank icicles crash as memory's bandit
Roadblocks, souls far gone, a mind's gambit
Gazing at hearts long soured by grief's old banquet
It just might be cold enough for snow.
Nightfall, the captive's companion blessed
Compressed, condensed, oppressed
Rue flashes, fades home to rest
Hardened sorrow shovelled into arrest
It was cold enough for snow.
----
January, 2026
Tides.
The tide, a prisoner of shores
Mourns its old names as it recoils
Afterlife glimmers as it toils
Held by divine folk
Its exiled companion awoke
To the tides that bind us.
Dried lands scarred by a mother's yearn
Dreaming of her child's return
Borrowed generations cease to sojourn
To the tides that bind us.
Leave, there is nothing only dust
Return, build empires from sand's crust
Leave, at a beloved's gust
Return, abandoned slabs rust
Leave, foreign alarms ring in distrust
Return, jaded dreams of lost pearls crushed
To the tides that bind us.
Shards buried deep in aged flesh
Ripples in cries of Gilgamesh
Consolations no longer fresh
To the tides that bind us.
The tides remember, even when all is forgotten
After souls gone sudden
Stories begotten
The ties that bind us.
Aftershock.
Dec 2025 / Jan 2026
Bahrain / Qatar / NY.
Across the Thanksgiving dinners and first-time introductions, one question repeatedly was asked, "what are you thankful for?"
I pause for a minute.
Here's one thing I'm thankful for this year, strangers. The strangers who, in the ordinary instant, remind us that we are not alone. As memories are shared, small truths exchanged, and maybe even warmed by coffee.
In those brief minutes, we choose who we let into our worlds, and for that I'm ever grateful.
These tiny moments can spark new hope, carry kindness, and maybe even find the light in ourselves that once flickered away.
I am ever thankful for the strangers, past and present.
November, 2025.
A season of faith's perfection. 🍁
Golden threads weave through blackened lemons,
Bitter sweetness brought by unlikely companions,
Laughter brews in burnt grounds,
A candle pulses, many miles away.
An excerpt from a poem I've been working on.
October / November, 2025.
Over the years folks have been asking about getting prints of some of my photographs. I finally have an answer to that question.
You can now order prints of some of my work through the link in bio! The site ships worldwide.
I'll update it every once in a while with new photographs. If there's a specific photo that you can't find, DM me and I'll sort it out.
Now back to regularly scheduled programming.
Early fall memories, drops from my camera roll.
"Sometimes when you dance, joy slips in. Even when you think it's not possible. Don't erase anything. But makes space." - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Notes on Grief.
September & early October, New York.
Turned 32, wrote a poem to my younger self.
الحمد لله
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You will learn what it means to live. You will leave the directions to your bed behind. You have called 20 places, 4 countries, and countless rooms - home. You will assemble the roots of an anchor, uncatched. You have packed up your claims. You will compress thoughts by force. You have put Sisyphus to shame. You will sift through crumbling of photographs You have held on to frames from memory. You will be cajoled by promises of grandeur. You have been pitted against those of your own skin. You will stand behind the shade of the date tree, You have stared through sun and dust standing still. You will hear songs of fire You have lost the shape of song. You will be asked with love to stay, You have wondered what future dreams. You will miss celebrations of joy a plenty, You have to remember new names, forgotten. You will contort to promises unkept You have hollowed your pulp. You will be asked about your return, You have felt your heart yearns as it burns for home. You will start over, You have lived.
Qatar / Bahrain / New York - July, 2025.
Eid Al Adha - 1446 H
Between moving and Eid - the past month has been a continuous exercise in intentionality - from letting go, creating space for new memories, and forming new traditions to carry forward.
"But choose with care. You are what you love. No?" - DFW
April, 2025.
Creating new memories to harbour in my own library.
"But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library." - Haruki Murakami
Ramadan & Eid - 1446
A month of reflection, continuing to start anew.
And pancakes 🥞 (because the word pancakes itself can be an entire sentence).
March, 2025
