The Song of Silence by Hassan Al-Mahdi

The Song of Silence 
 Hassan Al-Mahdi

Like this way the days are passing. It's look like the ice sheet splits from the sun's fingers so that the children crib lookalike a cube of ice cream over the pavement of a modern tomb.
I was there and thousands of blue eyes springing in a swamp towards the face of the underground world. Bubbles exploded with drums and arrows even as they appear and formed as a half of 
night on a war pillow.
I saw them there, the trembling ants. The trees of the night lurking in a military march, drawing the colors of the melody of a cold rainbow.
I was so tired, so I was looking for a laugh in the lung of death. I was there in the rush hours, researching there the song of the silent in the mouth of the modern days.

Hassan Almahdi is an award-winning Iraqi poet and he is a founder member of the Tajdeed Literary Institute and a member of the International Prose Poetry Society. His name appeared in Tajdeed literary magazine and Arcs magazine for prose poetry. Hassan has a lot of poetry collections printed in Palstine and abroad and he won Tajdeed award for prose poetry.

THE MADNESS FRUIT BY HASSAN ALMAHDI

THE MADNESS FRUIT 

 HASSAN ALMAHDI

In the extraordinary place I found him talks to the invisible light comes from the incredible imagination ; waving to the sadness by the arm's laughter. He seems like the Indian dancer covers the black space by colours so as to hidden the human pains on this big math. He is swimming in the foggy, lest he may losses his pure senses on the confused desert which fulfilled with the terrified fingertips that quarrels the crying trees.

Oh , dear gosh, how much hardly to collect all his fantastic fruit which rises in his stony eyse field; the fruit that hidden by our blinders.

Haasan Almahdi is an Iraqi poet and writer. He has born in 1967 in Diala. His name has appeared in many literary Arabic magazines. He is the author of poetry collection in Arabic " The Tangent" 2016.

In the Roses path by Hassan al-Mahdi

The colorful butterflies dance with me, I am who is the aromatic tree. I open thousands sleeve over my face that comes from a distant nebula. Nebula that doesnot fit the devourers or the rodents.
Laying my hands as trunks dangle with breeze of the morning for the canarys and sparrows, meanwhile the pink color coronate the other side of the sun.
The time fannished in the black sheets and the love talismans were written by hot cloud rain draw from my eye at sympathy awhile. And in the path of roses. I look with the grace at the poor red dragonfly faltering in the throw of purpose. Oh, lost dreams in the kingdom of immortality between the bow and the arrow poison venom.
In the roses path, there are only the shadows headers in the courtyard bay, space smoke, fire attendants and a crystaly tragedies enveloping the bodies.

Hassan al-Mahdi, Iraq