Water 's Carbon Images Of Headeace collection Of Poems divan By Mohammad Noaman Al-Hakimi Poem by Mohammad Noaman Al-Hakimi

Gulls

Gulls, diverging from the water's edge,
Apologize for the music that stirs my soul,
A cacophony of memories in the breeze.


---

Majesty of Plastic

I know the sand has drained my dew,
And withered in the sun.
Now, you seek refuge in my poetry,
The sorrow reflected in my eyes,
Trying to extract verses from my fingertips,
Wandering through the landscapes of my imagination.

I am a poet,
With the spontaneity of a river,
Scattering my heart's biscuits
To the hungry souls who fast in silence.

As long as I am a poet,
My blood will surge like waves,
And the sea shall remain my path.


I suggest something:
Imagine transparent casings,
Protecting water from the sharpness of reality.
Acquire one to cover my sentiment,
So you may touch it with your long nails
And carbonated fingertips.

Do you really care about making me available
In the markets of darkness?
What is the reason for this preoccupation?

Do not expect me to become a cloud,
Drifting away if sadness unravels its deserts.


---

Resorts of Whiteness

This accumulated stock
Celebrates my triple name, severed by a tear,
Leaving me resilient, not eroded like dust
Before the unyielding sea.

I hunger for a single crumb of thought
And thirst for a sip of observation.
I have relocated to a homeland
That clashes sharply
With all that confiscates life.


---

Hookah Ascensions

In the throats of these standing poems,
Like hookah smoke,
We twist and turn,
Not drooping under the cloud,
Nor evading the monoxide of ideas.


---

Incense Gentleness

All my modern poems await
Your herbal voice,
Shade them with your reflection,
Be shrewd to my beams
As they distill into blues!

Whiteness, celebrating the winter of my hand,
May provoke you,
For I am not Sufi.
Yet, I witnessed the burning resorts,
When imagination aged,
And language became thick with despair.


---

Forum

For the two eyes of the poem,
Our new poetess opens
Her brown forum for revelation,
Requesting visitors
Not to attempt to hack
The IRC server!


---

Apricots Saleswoman Expects

I stand here,
My maiden anxiety clinging to poetry,
Bearing calamities
With Roselle-infused morale.

War rages on,
Anxiety provides logistical support
To my bulging cerebral arteries,
And the war stretches on.

What is noblest in this conflict
Is the exemption of the mad,
From lounging in the deprived streets
Of this city.
I can no longer see Jamal
At Al-Noman Coffee,
Nor Hamoud Talha.
How did they become aware it is war,
And they must depart?

How I miss my friends—
Gossiping feels widowed without them,
And Qat sessions suffer from hysteria.

Every night, I yearn
To see my favorite channels,
City 7 and those scrolling down.
I long to hear the Windows 10 tone,
And type poetic texts
With my cell phone's keyboard.




Darkness incites tyranny,
Whenever it catches sight of us,
'In the dawn's way! '
Yet, the poem has a Rajab moment,
Refusing to sit at the dialogue table
Or to deal on credit.
"They will not pass away! "


The apricots saleswoman expects
A bomb to drop on Saber Mount tonight!
Oh, my God,
The mountain reclining on my right shoulder is doomed!


---

Gum Virility

The pen, too, cannot remain impartial
When dealing with texts
That share a pack of gum.

It is your slander
That stirs my throat.
You know that scratching at a coat
Does not work!

Try to remember,
I left my sticky scent
In every vial of your femininity,
To help you overcome
The dark longing moments.

Each joy in the belly of my hand
Carries my love messages,
With which I commend the presence of the absent.
Fold your hand gently,
So that joy does not fly away!

You will soon receive my comments on your new texts.
Read them alongside Nescafé,
To ensure the ideas are not disturbed.

You are here, attempting to transform darkness
Into bras for the forenoons.
I searched carefully within it
For phosphorescent towers
Of Jasminum Sambac,
But found nothing.

I hope your tenderness can accommodate
Some delicate words,
And that love can appreciate
The illiteracy of my heart.


---

Temporarily Suspected

While they wanted poetry to be a call cabin,
Al-Baraduni had gotten it suspected.


---

Medication

A homeland swells
In my arteries,
Demanding the mother of my blood
To step aside for the brain,
As it belongs to the breed
Of 'BCD, '

Sowing calcified rancor
Before my heart's reinforcements,
Leaving all my spiritual beacons
Paralyzed as a result!


---

Dust of Pigtail

Distressed by the weight of my cribs,
These pillows pressed upon their flowers,
I cast down an entity
Unrobed from its gardens.

It is like a cave,
Primping with noise.
No longer is the moon of prophecies 'Hakimi, '
Nor is the horizon of pigtails.
The sands of the heavy-hearted
Were his curiosity,
And his texts, the voices of the confused.

No more room for fat songs
In the throats of my tufts,
And the wind cannot add
Any more catastrophes
From its offspring.


---

Envisaging Beloved

To a woman
Descending from the oddest tree,
I extend the palm of my heart
To the door of the Greatest.

I ventured into
Her spiritual forums,
To read what Al-Muzaffar did not say
To the castle,
And what the basil archives
In the cheeks of the girl of the forenoon.


---

Timeworn Sunshine

I console my chord
With a timeworn melody
And a gum poem.

I should sing,
For the corridors are hungry for light.
Everything in my blood
Is a placebo curiosity,
Offered as a delusion to my beloved,
So she may respond!


---

Grating Censer

Trace your clipped machinations in my text;
Poetry has been kind
To their wild layouts,
Which somehow made them tame.

I believe the poem descends
From the musk of the bride;
It possesses potency in her insights
Into existence,
Encoding what shocks the sun
With the whiteness of visions.

The poem is a secret,
No more enjoyable than a text,
Scorching the grips of a mind
Whose dullness is imminent.
And no more pompous
Than becoming a shadow
Of a poetic text!


---

Enjoy my smile that you cherish,
Rest assured,
The grass will not dim its light
As meteoritic lampposts do
In my blood.

Only share with me
The expanse of my night lenses,
So together we may read
What ignites our fingertips
Before every adversity.


---

Been Added into Exile

My letters have transformed into gorgeousness,
Now trying to wear
A whisper's mantle,
To weave a homeland
From its sun brides,
Much like the decorum of the beloved.

But the flax of your mystic soul
Is more fragrant than the paradise
Of the poem.
I wager the sun of my feelings for a year
On a language that can draw forth your tears,
And that my capacities might befit
The new color of whiteness.

However, I saw in the pupils of my sails
A circular contraction
While reading your gleam!



Sir,
Let me share what remains
Of my combustion flowers—
Your brown love poems.

The water recedes
Over headwaters,
And mud is a half-circle.

Give my set loose from the sandy pediments
A helping hand, if you may.

Read on the overheated nostalgia,
The chances of glory,
And dip my characters
In fiction.
Read on my touchiness,
The gospels of mountains.
Read on my touchiness,
The gospels of mountains.

---

Frost

Sunlight weaves through the garden,
Occulting itself within my heart,
Delivering verses that dance,
Leading me to songs of clay.

A new melancholy light emerges,
Devoid of any sorrow,
On a tapestry of revelation,
In a moment of clarity,
Becomes an echo of muted whispers.

It beckons me to gather my heart's essence,
Craving the hue of my glow,
Dewed by twilight's silence.
I pray for the spirit of yearning clouds,
For the tender whispers of camaraderie,
And a longing that spans
The mountains' endless patience.

It reflects:
The long desert's demon is I—
How deeply I've spelled earthly nostalgia!
How it smolders,
How it weeps!

I continue to pray
For the helplessness of streamlet's song,
Unaware of how to ascend its grief.

This is the essence of my heart:
Frosted and wrapped in rattles,
Tears weaving melodies
On winter's cheeks.
Coldness rends her Sabian strings,
Forgoing revelations,
The day after the spirit of grandeur faltered
In the despondency of lilies.


---

Do Not Open Windows

We do not need candles, O my darling,
For darkness is a wellspring of power.

Our existence is blessed,
By our Lord, the Dark.
Just close your eyes carefully now,
And behold what the metaphysics of surprise
Conceals.

War has devoured
The shoulders of my daily verses,
Smashed the universe's psyche.
Who now trims the pride of whiteness?
Who demonstrates the provocative dance of interpretation?

Do not open windows
While ideas hover,
I fear the pressure of sudden light
Might shatter
Your gaze.

What I possess from your love, O Arwa,
Is your pomegranate scent—
The true essence of delight.


---

Disappointment of Avocado

Many times I've said:
Do not burst,
Avoid the trap of the wind's hyenas.
O Lucy,
Death besieges me, dear,
Sequestering the light of my brightest days
With stubbornness and abandonment.

Whom do you seek to please?
Do you see how sorrowful the paths are?
Do you feel the heartbreak of each morning
That doesn't lead us to 'Fresh Spring'?
Do you know how the avocado
Bears disappointment?
How the rooms of 'Kazafil' linger in gloom,
And dimness reigns in 'Panorama'?

I expect now
The days' defiance stuns your heart,
The bitter nostalgia sheds your tears.
You know you are wrong;
You misinterpreted my sentiment,
And thus you shot astray.

We shall endure, twining our pillars of love
From the roots of our fears.
You know, since you surpassed mirrors,
I no longer hold my beloved Lucy
On my eye's platforms.
I do not rush;
The wounds have calcified
In the heart's center,
And healing is a weary endeavor.

Yet your knowledge that my heart
Will forget your missteps
Is always your sting!

My heart is the sole home for yours,
I dwell entirely within your realm.
Hey Lucy,
I am all that sometimes kneels
In awe of your glory,
And all who defend
Your sky.

You have shattered my moons,
But in a mystical moment of
Forgiveness and purity,
I was generous!

Your voice still sings in my blood,
Harmonizing with your love
As your hand brushes my chest,
Then your radiant smile whispers,
"Hey Dad! "

You sigh for a kiss
On my right knee,
As the essence of your overwhelming love
Surges forth, right?

The dawn of longing still
Combs through my heart's creased desires.
O my twin sentiment,
How you mirror your lover
In every way
Except
For your glinting glass!

My heart remains like morning,
Bathed in harmonious radiance,
Throbbing with purity.
What do you have of affection,
And serenity?
What do you have of
L
O
Y
A
L
T
Y?


---

Whittling Passions Down

I hunch over my notebook paper,
Doodling,
Praying for grace in my language of love.
Fix all my common mistakes,
Fashion my accent,
Prune my compositions,
Unlock my creativity,
Engage all my senses.

I am desperate for more of your tenderness.
It is unfair to let my longings go unattended,
For love is a solitary affection.

Let us uphold the only rule
German writer Goethe knew:
You must be kind.
Try to reward my sentiments gracefully,
Always be inspiring,
And keep me grounded.

Never lash out at whatever,
Never provoke fights.
You know the dilation of my Basilar Artery
Is whittling me down.

I will remain obsessed with your creative pursuits.
I savor every turn of phrase
In your love words.

I believe our toil will never cease
To bring joy.
I am plain lucky to be with you;
There is always magic
In being surrounded by your passions.


---

To Hero Cartoons

Soon it will be 40 novels,
The waiting desert has cruelly nurtured a deeper thirst.
I wish to use your fervor to read the clouds' desires,
To tempt their ample forms.
Boredom has grown a savage giant
In the rain-kissed greenery.

Your passion is quite cold,
And no considerate shawl
To cover my withering struggle.
No friend to turn my grief
Into a song of destiny.
Those thin cries are my poems' pleas
To hero cartoons,
Within my Megadolicho imagination,
Rebelling against the wind.

Yet the heart has become a bound flame
To darkness' embrace,
Proven merely a bleeding upon the sands,
Culminating in deeper sorrow
And love's futility.