The Tale of the Wooden Spoon, by Edgard M. Seikaly

A soon to be published collection of verse born from the embers of war and the whispers of peace; 

rooted in the ache of longing, the grace of family,

the fire of passion, the solitude of the soul,

the fracture and the healing of the human heart,

the silent witness of observation,

and the eternal shelter of a mother's love.

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This book is not a collection of poems in the ordinary sense, but a gathering of reflections carved from the soul, a quiet reckoning with the world as it is, and a humble reaching toward what it might yet become.

It is titled The Tale of the Wooden Spoon not for ornament, but for truth. The wooden spoon is the hand-me-down of generations, the stirring stick of countless soups and stories, the silent witness of love and punishment, of hunger and healing. It is the simplest of tools, yet it holds the weight of memory, of nourishment, of discipline, and of care. And in this simple symbol, you will find the spirit that threads these pages together.

These verses speak of war and the longing for peace; of children lost and found; of parents remembered in grief and in grace; of laughter shared across borders; of dysfunction survived and joy unexpectedly born from it. They speak of exile and belonging, of memory and reckoning, of nations examined not as myths, but as lived and contested human spaces. They speak of the complexity of duty, the cost of silence, and the irrepressible flame of faith, family, service, and conscience. They are offerings, not pronouncements, confessions more than declarations.

Here you will meet a mother whose love, firm and unwavering, was carved into moments of discipline, even as war raged beyond the kitchen walls; a father whose silence still speaks; a woman who is a land; a mission that eclipses comfort; and a child whose smile is worth the sacrifice of a lifetime. You will wander from kitchens to front lines, from museums to open roads, from Baghdad to Beirut, from Nigeria to Geneva, from Gaza to Papua New Guinea, and across a restless America still learning how to listen to itself. And you will find that all hearts, when broken, crack open in the same shape.

These poems are stitched together not by chronology, but by memory's own rhythm, unruly, circular, and always returning to what matters most. They are meant to be read slowly, held gently, and returned to when needed.

If you find yourself in these lines, know that you are not alone. If you do not, then may they serve as windows into someone else's truth.

And may the tale of the wooden spoon remind us all: that the most ordinary things, when held with love, can carry the most extraordinary meaning.

And though these words were shaped in solitude, they were not shaped alone. Like all stories, they were refined through reflection, dialogue, and the patient use of the tools of the time, guided always by human memory, conscience, and intent.