A Poem for Your Tuesday

The Close For these are the things that flow from your heart, almighty mind. Crumbled walls of splintered hands broken by children riding bicycles, and you are there bound in the winding vines of your jungle. Speak, rose, of your thorns and also of your color. You have listened and so learned. You know now …

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Flashback Friday (in lieu of Throwback Thursday)

I wrote this poem after my first month in Beirut. Still in love with that place.   I didn’t expect to fall so in love with every heavy moment, every late night house party, every boy at every late night house party who I stare at with Almaza eyes thinking of the ways he reminds …

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Throwback Thursday

Another old love poem written on a cold afternoon in a coffee shop somewhere.   The third poem I write for you will be a pretty snowflake resting on your sleeve, so small you don't notice but there all the same.   The third poem will be bright and full a siren that brings life …

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Crumbling

Check out this writing/photo collaboration between me and my soul sister, Crystal Ward. I’m in love with creative hearts and deep, dark inspirations.

This is a collaboration between Elizabeth Endara (writer) and Crystal Ward (photographer).

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Across from the post office and down the street from the bus station, there’s an abandoned wine factory. It’s a crumbling building filled with trash. During the war, it was used as a sort of base for Serbian forces. The reports from those days say things like “the Serbian police opened fire from their position near the wine cellar.” The headlines present the situation as “volatile.” Only we, here in the present, know how volatile it truly was. A few steps from the wine factory is a memorial for the dozens of civilians who lived and died in this small town. Too many of them innocents, too many of them children. But the wine factory stands, itself a memorial of the past, yet it has lived to see today.

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The factory now sits alone behind overgrown bushes…

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For the boy with roses

I have a lot of feelings about the world. That is possibly the most general statement I could make. But I don't really know how else to put it. I've been trying to think of a thoughtful way to write about the refugees (mostly Syrian) pouring through Europe right now. When I moved from Lebanon …

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Throwback Thursday

Written on a park bench when I was 22. This is how I write I just scribble little nothings until I stumble upon a something (a rare occurrence). On my best days my words fall out of my fingertips like leaves from branches in autumn they mix in piles on the ground and people I …

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Pieces

I wrote this more than a year ago, but when I rediscovered it today, it was exactly what I needed to hear. People are more important than places and sometimes you realize that “the dream,” the calling, isn’t wild adventures. It’s loving fully and completely and being loved in return. It’s finding people whose hearts …

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