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.






Worldless




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.



HOPE




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




Saturday, August 2, 2014

A Plea to Love





Forgive me for the rush.
Forgive my unchanging soul,
and words - crippled by fear.
Forgive me Love.
Forgive me for the letters
I haven’t sent
Forgive me in my loneliness,

holding onto the gift of solitude.






Saturday, July 26, 2014

A Little Buzz For The Lovelitlone





For how long can we hold a breath –
For how long can we stand ourselves being inapt, being scarce
in the arms of fate, without faith, how could we find solace
in a motionful lifeflow drifting on the sound of heart ache?

Peripheral
to shut my ears and hear my voice.
To listen, to expand
into a vision – a silent chest
beating near my breasts
tracing love with a lasting breath.
Peripheral.
I speak with my eyes –
to be intact like a skinny white cat who found food on a rainy night.
OH… the barking dogs command only the flesh in their
likeness of fear.
Let them bark.
From the first milkshake to the last honey,
from delayed waters to the avalanche that buries
the curious mind outbursts the MYSTICAL.
The downfall to cover the skin, drop to drop,
like blood and tears, washing years of curses clean.

Salvation salivation? Fine… 
Popcorn Princess!

The apocalypse comes undemanded.
Shabby little image of yourself… Burn!
Flames from the wick –
dreams from the mare of the bones!
Burn burn burn yourself!

Love comes from love.

Understanding from a hundred ghosts - a hundred years a mile…
Self-preservation –reach for the salt of the Dead Sea.
Seldom freedom of an archetype;
the love seeker-seer, the lone, the lover
casts her shadow like the ring of Saturn.
Hadiva la vida havida live a diva.

Fast running forests, trains, tunnels, sunlight, moonlight,
Love-lit night-stands, hoppity-hop , it’s the last stop.
The train and the tracks are gone.
Segregate.
Heart. Rhythm. Hunger. Rhythm. Rain. Rhythm.
Silence.
A wind in wish-washed windows of
the eyes –
No curtains. No religion, no camouflage,
no fear, no flag.

Bow only to love.









Sunday, July 20, 2014

Delirium



What can I yell into a void
that scares the bees away
and makes pollen turn into dust?
What can I write into fiery ashes with my bare fingers?
Let’s throw on another log and sit around-
I don’t want to play with fire…
Let’s throw on another log, and
wait for the summer.

Am I moving? Or my shoulders detach flowing
with a tune heard through my bones,
and just for a minute, in this clueless world
I’m not alone with my joy, with my pain.
Paint it!
I paint it in words; I paint it in colors,
but better I paint it in blood or gold
because it’s real.

Like a child,
I lay down on the porch to sleep in the sun
-          as if a silent tribute to John Lennon­ -
the skies are blue.

Maybe, a psychedelic storm is what's ahead. 
Live, as if you were to die tomorrow -
they said.
Maybe death is a silent breath. 
Maybe some of us are already dead. 
Maybe it's really all just a dream-like they said. 
It’s a quiet night and I thought I'd write about nothing,
and carve that nothing deep into the void.
Carve it! 

Another New Year arrives at lunar-lunatic times
all neatly calendar-defined.
We count the days 
and count down 
and count on new beginnings
yet life remains a constant flow of rivers,
the constant change of days and nights, 
another wrinkle, another bite
of a piece of existence.






Tuesday, July 15, 2014