To My First and Last Love


Our first day together,

wasn’t a normal date like lovers’.

I was happy to be with you,

and to be yours.

I knew nothing.

I saw nothing,

but I felt the beats of your heart,

against mine,

when you hugged me.


I didn’t hear anything,

but I heard you praying to God,

that I never become intractable,

and to be someone who will always love you.


You were always there for me.

I was selfish, and moody but in love with you.

I some days hurt you,

and you healed me.

I sometimes ruined your days,

and you fixed mine.


Days and nights go by pretty too fast,

and I didn’t forget your voice or how you look.

Holding your photo while in bed at present,

I just wish the day comes soon, and it will come,

so I can be on my knees beside your knees,

kissing your blessing hands,

just like how you rocked my cradle at night for years and years,

while singing and praying for me.

My mother, Endlessly, unhesitantly and immortally I say it, and will always do,

I love you today and everyday.


Mohammed Arafat











Gaza On Verge of Explosion Session


She Awaits the Dawn



It is a rainy night,

with the dark clouds covering the moon.

The stars fall,

so do the rest of the unknown lights in the sky.

Rings of the distant churches’ bells heard.

Owls, bats, black vultures sound,

so do the hungry wolves around the lightless downtown.


A barefoot little girl,

with unironed clothes for weeks,

beside a bakery, sits.

Her long hair untied and wetted from rain.

She awaits for the dawn,

flipping through her simple wishes like a book,

under the lightening and the thunders.

But it needs hours and hours to arrive.


Families leave the theatre in front of her,

happy and smiling.

They just finished watching a humanitarian film.

Their cars’ lights reflect in her eyes full of tears,

which are not dried yet until the dawn appears.


Stores closed all around her.

Passersby look at her and deny.

Kids looking through the car windows,

ask their parents about her.

They, too, deny so their kids do not have nightmares while asleep.


The girl just awaits the dawn,

having few dreams, hopes and some pain.

She awaits the dawn,

hopefully, her dead parents appear, again!


Mohammed Arafat



I Woke Up In a Tent


First publish at Hello Poetry

When I was a crawling child,

I was kicked out from my house,

made of mud and straw,

with my family,

during a war my country had.

I can’t remember it.

We had a lot!


I was a child,

but I watched it all.

I saw armed soldiers with heavy helmets,

carrying guns with woody handles.

I saw armored Personnel vehicles,

carrying more soldiers.

and boxes of weapons.

There were artilleries,

stationed miles away,

bombing my neighborhood,



I saw blindfolded and handcuffed men from my town,

standing against a wall.

A young soldier with a hateful smile and deep piercing eyes faced them,

with his pistol.

Their blood splashed on the wall after few seconds.

My father and big brother were there too.


After few days,

I woke up in a tent,

donated by the good people.

Nothing was heard,

but the murmurs of the refugees,

gathered around a truck of bread and soup.


I was alone;

all alone,

at night,

considering the rest of my family lost.


I had none,

but the big white moon above me.

I stayed up talking to it.

and praying to God above it.


Mohammed Arafat









We Rise Again


Listening to Swan Lake of Tchaikovsky,

I tried to relax.

I was petting my calico cat,

with which I share my room.


Storming the Music,

news from the radio,

about the people of Gaza,

messed with my exhausted mind.

Dark holes swallowed my heart,

which beat so fast.


Rockets hither and thither.

Bombs awakening the sleep.

Kids crying and screaming.

Sleepless nights.

Women weeping.

Hospitals ready to receive injuries and dead.

Houses destroyed and collapsed.

Trees uprooted.

That was what the radio reported.


I did not look at photos or videos,

since I know they are the same.

I did nothing,

but raised my hands,

closed my eyes,

and opened my hearts full of holes.


I talked to myself and it believed what I said;

We fall,

but we rise again.

We fail,

but we succeed again.

We get attacked,

but we ask for peace.

We die,

but we live again and again.


Mohammed Arafat



In A Geography Class


Also Published at We Are Not Numbers


I was in a geography class,

in a country, my parents immigrated to years ago,

after a war waged,

in my city I never knew about.


My classmates came from the Far East,

and Africa.

Some came from Europe and America.

They were brown, black and white.

They were Muslims, Christians and Jews.

A few were documented,

while the rest weren’t.


My bald teacher was so good.

He was asked to leave his homeland,

after he opposed the government with his writings.

I thought he was so happy after coming here safely by boat,

but I later assumed he was so sad.

He got everything but not a life in his homeland.


We opened the book on a lesson,

called ‘the crises of the world’.

The teacher asked,

where are the crises?

I raised my hands and pointed at the map on the wall,

they are in the East and the West,

in the North and the South.

The crises are everywhere…


-Mohammed Arafat-