Memories of Alhambra

No colonnades. No scented gardens.
No houris in harems
awaiting the Caliph’s pleasures.

Manicured lawns, one following
the other, down the street,
almost endlessly.

The skateboards, the bikes,
the Sunday barbecues as meat is grilled
and beers are downed .

In winter the rain washes away
the oil and grit, giving a
pretense to seasons.

At night the sky is pricked
with solitary stars, lone beacons
in the town’s light pollution.

The shopping malls swallow you,
gaping scars on the landscape,
black tarmac burning your feet.

Many wish to flee,
to the colonnades, the gardens,
the places which are different.

And yet it is home, for a time—
perhaps forever; its mark
guiding you for your life.

Photographs

My parents were not great
takers of pictures.
Oh, there were some snaps,
and photo albums were in demand.

But compared to my peers
my documentation
was scant, a picture here
and there, wispy, ghostly.

I don’t blame them. I myself
don’t inscribe memories to
pixels, document the passing
of years with imagery.

Mere words are my instruments,
building up a data set
which leaves the images
to the imagination.

You can’t trust either,
words or images,
inventions of pen or lens.
All art can lie.

Still. I would have liked
more proof that once I was
young, the promise of life
before me, the seal unbroken.