•August 24, 2014 • 2 Comments
I’m not a poet.
I’m can hardly call myself a writer, but I do so because I write things.
Things in the present, the past, things of essence, of matter, things from an atomic perspective, things aquatic. Things if not important to anyone else, then at least to me. Little things are most precious as they never tend to grow too big, too old, too bitter or too serious. They evoke a natural rhythm that never breaks, that is timeless, endless. Darkness and light intermingle and are of the essence to the process, allowing all gods to be human and encourages drinking the smell of the sea. All return to a self before birth, before corruption, before judgment. In here every line is sacred. And so here we are, star-dusted and excited, hoping to create a space in which play is free.
Photo by Pablo Saborío Vargas
•August 10, 2014 • Leave a Comment
The concrete walls melt as the branches reach in.
We taste the air while around the purple fire.
Under the full ephemeral circle of light we are all children and with pockets heavy with imagination we cultivate a determined mind, surely we won’t return.
But the bricks are strong, full of gold and pleasure and pressure.
The lake is full with plastic swans and I know you like the embrace of plastic arms, but we are fading.
I can’t see the moon for the clouds. I can’t see. But her laughter is there alright.
•March 16, 2014 • 1 Comment
Concise. The dove roars. At first not sure if it was an owl. I know now. The sky is blue. Filled with birds. They shriek. Something about a blue sky. Our hearts beat faster in warm winds. Here in the north. I think of waves. Dolphins. I must have been a sailor. A seashell. Sometime before. And the vapors of clouds. Mysteriously they seem solid. But we go right through. Always an inspiration. A reminder. That things are not what they seem.
(Beautiful) Painting by Tanja Baltzer, SKY01
•September 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment
In the moment between the dim of daylight and darkness, the cosmos stands quiet and patient -
As a nun awaiting the voice of god.
The instant is brief
But the satisfaction rendered
Linger upon the mortal as velvety thoughts of the afterlife.
Photo by Pablo Saborio: http://nihilisticpoetry.com/category/photography/#jp-carousel-6945
•September 22, 2013 • 2 Comments
Clean the city’s skin
Its buildings like necks of swans
Stretch out to reach the end of hungry souls.
Apples hang lazily in trees
Above the tracks -
We always want to go
To the inside of dreams and curl up
Like waves in the wombs of mothers.
Photo by Pablo Saborio: http://nihilisticpoetry.com/category/photography/
•September 16, 2013 • 2 Comments
You can’t refuse your own time
because everything is a succession of the past
and they who lived did as they thought best or baddest.
Now, conscience is a flower not planted in all
but we love even the crooked,
and all hearts has pulsating veins.
The eyes of babies hold nothing malicious.
of glorious angels.
Photo by Pablo Saborio: http://nihilisticpoetry.com/category/photography/#jp-carousel-6825