Let it be said,
I moved like a rainbow across your spear.
Let it be known,
The leaves fell peculiarly that day.
Let it be felt,
Your voice reasoned with your movement.
Let it be born,
Lucidness comes once in a semester.
Let it be heard,
I ecco in your mouth.
Let us stay,
Whilst the petals of dawn wake us.
Let it be said,
I have run with the vapors of a faint sun
Trod in the footprints of a broken star
A hollow hello shatters the illusion
But I keep heating a heart, half pulsating, half off to sea
I’ve lain side by side with a constellation of dust
Fed on ripe earth and black leaves
I’ve seen a thousand mornings and nights too
The moon always eminent but losing touch is facile
I’ve thought you up a handful of dawns
Your words cast shade like the Milky Way
An eye never forgets and the hands remember
We dance under the same universe!
(Painting by artist Anna Madia, Eosine)
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
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.
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
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