Thursday, October 6, 2016


Words make sentences that mean
nothing at all.
Not lately, anyway.

It was the way they cuddled and ripped the waves with their fingertips.
Almost invisible
they were.  
The mere fantasy of closeness without boundaries,
they were the chance,
the will,
the magic,
the flow,
the greatness of truth.

As if every breath was another eye in the chain. . .
a breath for life,
a breath for love,
a breath for pain,
a breath for hope
and a sigh for all
who step up,
who run in the sand,
who hunt ,
who fight to love again,
who stay
even if the world fell apart.

But words mean nothing at all
the same way tonight is another hole on the
canvas of her existence.
The music plays,
the stars ablaze,
the night is a quiet place for
the lonely dancer.
Her bones move with the rhythm,
and I, too,
dance to stay awake.
I understand how
every dream comes to an end
for another to start.

Let’s just dance.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

A Draft of Everything

At first, at last, or at least
express me for me!

The artist’s pen is
unloading the last of the ink –
now is the time
to say anything.

I’m in love.
I have always been as
I don’t know you, but
I wish all of you covered me, like snowflakes
so perfectly designed.

How much I love
holding you without words,
and when the morning rises
in glorious simplicity
I look at the same Sun,
yet every sunrise is different.

The routine of the days in my eyes,
failed attempts to co-operate,
and raise the glass to another year.
Solitude grabbed a tight hold of me,
a constant stare through a window,
waiting for the view to be
at least interesting, or uplifting,
like the talks we have with my daughter
about emptiness and nothingness,
or about feet.
We agreed that love is
stored in the feet of
the child, the friend and the lover.
We lie in bed.
The rain writes on the roof
in a pitter-patter Morse code.
Dreams draw dragons, and landscapes.
All the love, the food,
our fears,
the impossible that we need,

Asleep again, then awake,
I’m not waiting.
I’ve simply stayed.

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Daisies or Dandelions

A piece of the earth-as we are-
daisies and dandelions
in the spring.

The earth under our feet –
a feeling that holds it all together
beneath the skin,
the making of it, took time.
Time, as it stopped in a moment of joy;
time as it ended abruptly;
time as it passed like fragrance

(Was it daisies? Or dandelions?...)

Time as it came, like
a lover without a message.
Time, as it healed;
Time, as it forgot the need for keys,
time as it revealed other realms;
Time as it slipped and ran wild
like ants from their disturbed nest.

We can rest with
time here.
Why mark it?
why define it -
like daisies, like dandelions,
we bloom and fade,
we bloom,
we fade.


Saturday, August 23, 2014

Three Dimensions

‘Read some of these music magazines’,-he said with eyes that never looked straight into hers-almost as if saying to keep herself busy. Then he turned around and all she could see was his back and the blue towel wrapped around his skinny waist, heading to the bathroom. The stack of yellow-framed magazines lay next to her body on the floor.
She only looked at the cover, and left the stack unopened. She longed for his presence instead of reading about music. The feeling she fell in love with.  She wanted to be around that feeling forever- like seasons are around, changing as the hair turns grey and the eyes wrinkle.

She wasn’t ever ready to give herself fully;  she wanted to blend, rather than belong. The days went past the streets of harlequin strangers she nominated as a possibility.


‘Read some of these music magazines’, he said with eyes that looked straight into hers-almost as if saying that she needed to catch up with the latest news to be more interesting. Then he turned around and all she could see was his dark birthmarks and the blue towel around his waist, heading to the bathroom.
She only looked at the cover, and tossed the stack on the side. She didn’t care about the stupid magazines on the stupid floor and she felt as if all for seasons shut down and she wished the shower was just as frozen as his heart.

She was ready to give herself fully: she wanted to belong. All of a sudden she found herself longing for the days when she danced with harlequin strangers wherever she went.


‘Read some of these music magazines, he said with eyes almost apologetic- as if saying he’d rather stay laying next to her. Then he gently tucked her hair from one side to another, turned around and all she could see was the blue towel around his waist and his strong back heading to the bathroom.
She curiously laid her hand on the magazines and looked into the first one on the top of the stack. She felt the same way about the magazines, the movement of his shadow behind the shower-curtains, the seasons changing, every new wrinkle and every grey hair that grew along with this love.

She was herself.


To be in a world of another ,

to be in the world, in this world,

or is it another

where words get lost and words emerge

and we live it word by word I tell you.
Give me the world!

I tell you, and you give it, and I get it,

others just forget it

and it’s nothing.   
This world we live in…

this world is without it.


A blind eagle soars
on wings tearing blood from each
cloud so it rains.