She plucked a wide-open rose

that collapsed

before she could catch its scent.

Death was the effect

by the hand that fed it.

© Susan Yammouni


Scrap Paper Poetry

For years now, I’ve done what I like to call ‘Scrap Paper Poetry’.
Everyone has bits of scrap paper lying around, I even use the back of receipts from purchases I’ve made, and just write anything that can completely fill that area. I have a shoe box filled with these words that just fall out of my head. They’re great to sift through when you’re feeling blocked.
Give it a go


Observations of a Poet

I am not a poet

I am a person

to whom poetry happens

This fundamental

creative act with language

evokes emotional and sensual

responses to the senses

A power that defines

new meaning to a word

then encourages that word

to become apparent

Flaunting the soul

that few attempt to grasp

and most allow to slip through



in their inoculated

world of

shallow undertakings

of self-centred

bygones that

follow into their future

without thinking

how or why

For surely it is

a sad thing in this world

that people live

in an unpoetic manner

For a poem

is not just isolated

to words on paper

a poem

is a way

of identifying the world

and of oneself

© Suzi Yammouni

Sonnet #1 An Ode to my First Love

Destined for exile atop dusty shelves

aroma of pages, old and new

Into Authors mind one deeply delves

permits any reader to silently pass through

Six and twenty letters laid out

words toyed with ’til resonating awe

similarities of prosaists throughout

write of love affairs in perfection and flaw

Perfect like you and marred like me

forever be, but read once, maybe twice

As I sit and read under a still living tree

I imagine knowledge must come at some price

One must care for books, it is without lie

for every book made, a tree must then die

© Suzi Yammouni


Had my life not been wrapped up in string,
I would cross many miles to be with you.
Only I am not the true owner of my life
A power above all that is seen has enslaved me
Quietly my lips move to the beat of a prayer
With bound hands I pray for solitude
And for the acceptance of all that I have
As one will never know how I truly feel
For that feeling effects only my soul
Who on this earth can truly have what I want?
Apart from those unaware of already having it.

© Suzi Yammouni