Though we were removed from the greatest danger during the war, one would often hear rockets and explosions beyond the hills. The tanks would drive past our front gate, reminding us that though we were in the "Green Zone," war was still reality.

I cannot remember how we met Bill. As a mercenary, he went from war-zone to war-zone, fighting for whichever side would pay him the most. He showed up at our home and being a fellow Westerner in the Middle East there was always a common bond that natu...
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This poem is based upon one experience I encountered while living in Southern Lebanon. We lived across the Maronite church and slowly the villagers were returning from the north. The Palestinians massacred most of the village, apart from those who escaped into the Snowbar Mountains and fled north, either by foot or by sea. The Palestinians then propelled rockets into northern Israel and occupied the villagers homes. Later, the Israeli tanks had no choice but to blast into the villages to defe...
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When I studied in Istanbul, Turkey with my wife and daughter we would take the bus from our apartment into the centre of town where our classes were. Some of the nicest and rudest people were found on these buses. It was a memorable part of living in this bustling city of 12.5 million. Coming from England where there is such a thing as queues and waiting one's turn was more than a shock to proper manners and the way one should act in public! Everybody was out for themselves. The three of us w...
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High on a narrow path we crept.
Eyes forced left,
we dared not look below.

The ancient path was cracking.
Crumbling, pebbles fell around us.
Nobody muttered a word.

Too late to turn around,
people were behind us.
Step-by-step, look left. Be quiet.

I was calm until she started
panicking, sniffling tears.
Why did she come? I whisper silently.

Be quiet. Look left.
Without pity I bitterly reach
my hand to take hers.

This was to be fun.
For miles you can see
the desert below. Look left.

Some behind us were unaware...
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Having lived in a number of countries and traveled extensively through many years, people often have asked what my favourite place was. This, of course is impossible to answer. Each one has wonderful memories, intermingled with difficult and painful memories. Each place led me to a new depth in discovering myself. Each place has a myriad of emotion attached to them.

Shodieva Street, is in reference to my home in Uzbekistan, where I lived for a number of years. Due to illness I had to fly back...
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