Back-grounded

Like some motherhood farewells
The leafless trees are counting the last bell jingles of the year,
Triggered by all leaving sledges chaperoned by the jolly blue birds,
Stretching their cold, snow-white wings
Against the bleeding and burning out sketching horizon
Their immaculate silhouettes –
Like winter spirits crawling against the almost human,
most semi-nocturnal,
slowly self-rusting, emotional sunset
In this small world we’re always one Christmas away
one missing the missing, without any perennial witness,
or overrated conventional kissing under the mistletoe
alienated by the refreshing abstractions
of recently-posted vintage card greetings
trapped within the white envelopes,
like a captive sun inside the sharp borders of a frozen village,
whose earthly reflections of the soon dying sunrays
are improvising a warm, reddish carpet and re-humming one's childhood carols
making them more about hopefully tiptoeing
in the glorious, glorious darkness to bring back the left.

Fall dusk

That twilight melted like a candle. The springs’ echo died inside the wells and flocks of stars cancelled their flawless flights to watch me – waiting - from above. Over the wind-dried leaves, their unquenched flames. Above your footsteps, my silent eyesight, frozen, defeated, baptized in tears. Under the clay eyelids, my minds’ rivers overflowing the call.
The delayed response triggered the emotion.The rain had forgotten to cuddle and was just mourning vertically.Sooner than expected, the silence confirmed the distance, the darkness and the fear. Among all words, only your name somehow seemed too poisoned. And I kept it away. Inside. And I kept away even though I could barely hear your leaving and breathing. But I couldn’t have borne your indifference or your mercy any longer.
The second became an hour. Ice needles all through my veins searching for the heart. And yet, your name did not betray my suffering. I had loved you thinking we were not human and loved you even more when I found out we would die.
All of a sudden, I threw all the dream crumbs to the birds. As a reward for having tried to teach us about flying. Failure was our own blame. Some wings are too old, others are too young to fly and there are always those unable to fly together.
The pale moon reminded me there was something else I needed to feel grateful for. But I couldn’t remember what. It must have gone with our dreams because I had been nowhere else for a while. I don’t like wasting my time on useless walks. Or stepping on fallen leaves in autumn ...and laughing out loud.
I woke up with a smell of melted wax in my hair.

The Windmill of Change

The summer holiday is almost over and the Dutch experience with the WACR family has been its most amazing and unforgettable episode of all. They are great people and amazing teachers as they all taught me valuable lessons and everything they showed me there was both relevant and meaningful. Their life-style, their attitude, the fact that all people are given fair opportunities to live their lives as happily as possible regardless of individual particularities, their generosity and hospitality,their warmth and friendliness are almost out of this world.



Also, they showed me how they work as a team and how their combined energy, kindness, creativity and thoughtfulness can lead to the best solutions for their community. Even the Openluchtmuseum was an eye-opener in case I still wondered how they got where they are and I now know for sure it was through hard work, dedication and responsibility. I realize that our laziness and superficiality, indifference and carelessness work as a boomerang against us and I also know that the right answer is related to the people - their good intentions and useful actions not their frustrations, complaints or lack of initiative. These are not only words. I promise myself that I will do whatever I can do and even more because I have more options than I used to think I had. I will share my knowledge with those who would like to listen and try to persuade others to adopt this way because, without the right people, the country can only be wrong.



With their help I found enough inspiration and collected a lot of suggestions for our board and hopefully the other team members and other community members would choose to join our cause and make a difference which could set us on the right track at least socially and humanitarily. It’s high time we started learning how to fish instead of waiting for the fish which could feed us only for a day. Our post-communist society may be young but we have to grow up if we want a better life than when we were programmed to live like robots and forbidden to have opinions and initiative.



Being there also helped me to understand that we have a lot of possibilities and that willingness and availability have to be the first steps. Volunteering is the miracle I needed to see in order to believe and planting its seeds on our soil may bring us not only personal satisfaction but also visible achievements which can improve all our lives. Solidarity might be harder to implement in a society divided by individualism but we have to try harder and harder if we want to succeed.


What is truly extraordinary is that I felt that their homes were mine and their friendship is the best kind of nobility which obliges me to become a better person and a better citizen who will not disappoint them. I am aware that they invested their hopes in me and I won’t let them down. I know that making them proud of us is the best kind of gratification for all their efforts.

Thank you, my amazing friends, for living the Dutch dream!!!

Incognito

Disguised
Like a song without unicorns,
Flying with a contingent wind,
Chained and crucified
Forced to crawl only on incandescent soils
Without any ascension prospects
Only derisory, explanatory itinerary stops
Each cursed with a pair of left wings
Blessed
Neither to bear the same name
nor breathe the same waves
ever again
Lost
Compromising one’s doubts
With dying rays by the side of a fast lane
Gambling the latest tears
Turning off all hearing and sight
Quitting the present to make room for the past:
No one to hold tight for a while,
No mirror to check your background,
No familiar fragrance to recognize,
Only desert powder and a sorrowful mask.

Untamed Summers

For the horizon-level visionary
This has to be the finest, most bohemian fall of all.
At the end of a sun-retardant decade,
A season souvenir divulging the noon transactions,
the fragility of a sand castle,
the abundance of a first home,
the impunity of going down the same road;
From evening riots to morning rituals
You - so fortunate to have earned loner status
Me - too old to become an impulse follower
Or an ignored negotiator of platitude.
With every floral presence
I recall
Reminiscences of our deaf date,
The arguments behind same old smiles
Of same old lipstick and matching cheek blush;
With every by-gone second
Away from scarlet strawberry kisses and long-lasting hugs
I crave for the prolonged sophistication of waiting
As if performing an individual art
whisper by whisper, draft after draft,
I am kneeling halfway between temptation and responsibility
Falling prey to renewed resolutions
Self-absorbed and irreversibly docile
Anticipating
The ultimate recognition and liberating serenity.

Ode to a Tomorrow-Challenged Sunrise

A lethargy parodist in a duel of total neglect
I wander away from a mosaic of abusing rage
To a frozen labyrinth of untimely solitudes
and altruistic ruins
at the earliest permissible thought
Pacifying the childhood growth
and the omission of an invisible cage
With a prospective self-defense mime I use
to carry along like a fatherly talisman.
Putting a dormant hex on some spring noons
does not unlock the wintry months’ irruptions
followed by so many suburban rains
That evening muds seem such laudible efforts.
They say
an immune response and pious composure
are never enough
for the blameless decline of bearable goodbyes,
an ordinary morning landscape
depicted with cosmic cries and the echoing roar
of an implosion
Invoking platitude, redemption,
and the renewed promise of a fresh start.

Convenience

History doesn’t rhyme with irony anymore
Rises and falls have come to terms with my chores
Feeling just like a bride
With something old to remind me of something new
And something borrowed to match my something blue
There’s an idylic innocence inside my self
At the core of so many worn-out trials and tides
Fears which refuse to be inked inside bread - and – butter letters
Narcissistic fears, free of charge,
felt on and off like an unreliable network of hope
imitation is so popular these days
limitation - so natural
all abusive conservationists can be sent away-
All we need is an equal number of mothers and fathers.

Lost raison d’être

Let’s break up with all the subjective truths!
Keeping us hostage to this relativity,
Slaves to our own plurality,
A convict's unconvincing countdown
An ultimatum for the uncommitted crimes
A sudden outburst of melancholy...
Missing only one jigsaw
Makes every picture incomplete
Less decorative
Pitifully overprotective
Like the entrance to a final speech.
We embrace some “good-bye” to hide our tears
Hold them too close to have our faces seen
What a relief we will all have to depart some day!
Sharing so much unhappiness
Couldn’t possibly ease the pain
"He settled for her;she’s an earthly compromise"
Isn’t that the real old-story?
The one we learnt to read after
The nursery rhymes were left behind?
What do you do midway through the wrong journey:
reveal your imperfections to strangers this time?
Some facts are too obvious to be spelled out
They’d make reality redundant,
The transition more impersonal
And hope is no remedy,
No reason to get up in the morning and smile.

He loves you.

He loves you enough when he says he is sorry for something he or someone else did and hurt you. when he anticipates your needs. when he respects your wishes. when he looks after your dreams and takes care of your fears and insecurities. when he forgives your mistakes and also forgets them. when he accepts your family and adopts your friends. when he understands what you mean when you don’t say anything. when he manages to surprise you. still. when he tells you you are beautiful, you have always been beautiful and you will always be like that. when he reminds you about your own birthday. when he remembers to call and say “I love you” . when he smiles even when he is sad to protect you from worrying. when he praises your food even when it’s hardly edible. when he holds you. when he asks about your childhood memories. when he holds you again. when he hates to see you crying. when he compliments your choice of clothes. when he is proud of you and admits it. when he notices a new haircut or change of look. when he knows your favourite song and your favourite colour and your favourite place. when he makes small sacrifices for you without any expectations. when he insists on sharing the last piece of chocolate with you. when he misses you even if you are in the next room. when he shares his most insignificant thoughts with you. when he tells you that he is happy.

No matter what they tell you...

Listening to people’s advice can be really confusing because some say you should be sensitive and kind while others say you had better be strong, some say you should follow your heart and others say that reason is more important than feelings, some say you should have no expectations, others say you should have the greatest expectations in life…
After so many years of living – 33 - but they feel like eternity to me…I realize that the happiest moments were the ones which felt “right”, the ones in which I was mostly myself. Now I know that always thinking about the consequences or doing your best in order to avoid having regrets is not the most important thing. What matters is to be yourself, live your life your own way and allow yourself to grow, to learn, even to fall once in a while.

Sorry as a Modus Vivendi

Childhood diaries contain pages of exciting adventures and happy memories. Later on, as teenagers we divide our experience into weeks or months and, when we are adults, everything reduces to good or bad periods of time. I call mine “stages” and the best part about the bad ones is that they eventually come to an end. Actually, it’s a good thing the good ones are temporary as well because with no suffering or disappointment, there is no genuine appreciation of happiness.

A stage in my life is like a reality show episode in which a certain character gets into the spotlight to have their lives scrutinized and criticized and scorned. Even though I fully deny the “right” to judge others, I seem to have become my “favourite” subject to judge lately.

What bothers me is that I used to have no regrets. Now I feel so sorry for making some of my decisions and even though I know that the past cannot be changed and choices cannot be taken back, I just don’t know how to come to terms with myself. I’ve heard that we are supposed to forgive ourselves and in theory second chances seem like the right thing to do…but when it comes to my own life I don’t find what it takes to provide enough understanding or clemency.

Normally, I would say that empathy is my strongest, most defining feature. I simply recognize and share people’s feelings and - too often- I make poor judgments based on this “ability”. I often care about the others’ feelings so much, I would rather see myself hurt than them.

To be perfectly honest, my irrational concern for the welfare and happiness of others has often been the source of my behavior which was so detrimental to me. Now here I am, almost unable to go forward because of my heavy load which seems to get only heavier in time. However, I cannot say that I didn’t learn anything from my mistakes. And, it is also true that they have made me a stronger, even a better, more understanding person. Now I find no difficulty in choosing right over wrong. I just wish I hadn’t had to get my wisdom at the price of so much remorse.

Alter Echo

Turn down your senses
Reality is giving me a rain check
Since sunrise winds are stealing away your objectivity,
its agonizing prospects,
its census of boredom conundrums
nightmares are becoming more and more worthless
Like an unworn scarlet and ivory wedding dress
at the crossroads of so many pavements
and pedestrian zones known by both;
Tragedies are meant for no happy end-
So where is the insurmountable map?
I could be the global warming
pursuing the cool glaciers
or merely their straightforward reasons
their incentives and their bonuses
Sent to silently transit the seasons
till death comes along,
Panicked and discarded
umpteen times-
my life is a sandglass
Filling in the gaps between your footsteps.

Resume

A perennial witness
to seemingly surreal crimes,
my native skill is commercialization of infamy
against a blueprinted future - a shortcutter
against all evidence of a cynical past-
a wannabe arsonist,
an obsessed sleepwalker dreaming only
about blissfully erasing the loud and obvious
for good, for better,
about estompating the pitiful weakness notes
a faith-healing prophet and stupidity donor
preaching pretend euphoria
to the vain and lonely.
reconstructing the reverse chronology prose
only to understand why
there are no scars at birth. How come
maturity comes always with a price?
so unaffordable and overwhelming -
like an inflation of remorse.

Undeserved Deserts

Curses come home to root,
To exorcise
taboos and all the exotic blasphemies,
Candle blazes on distant trails -
Living behind a sandy landscape
With no souvenirs - just another escapee guess
bearing some vandalized tundra
in an old chest
adorned
with sacrilegious graffiti,
Like an oasis puzzle of rainfall dominoes!
Unrecognizable minds
still reside
inside timeless pride coffins
Whose shelters are the dried,
half down,
alienated seeds of fall,
Past deeds - more accurate self odes
than dilemmas in a kaleidoscope paradise
Polished and spoiled
with both sympathy and revival verve,
Against the alternative,
organic canvas,
Right in front of the beholder’s eyes.

Diluted Dilusions

You fret and fume about almost nothing
these days
You keep my eyesight short
I- for a change - empty the hours
From the prejudice bowls
And egregious blunder grandeur;
Regrets are only indicative
Consecutive
Like pay back times
On the brink of an out-of-order grave
broken and dug again
from scratch
A self-propelled wing
Deviated by the presence of a finish line
Makes up proverbs about deer footprints,
mistletoe and honeycombs
There's no more room for letting down.

Void Exposure

Miracles are fate playing mind games on us
Brain parasites feeding on memories
are mistaken prisoners
Taken on a departure lounge;
My past - just a nearby shop window
with no dutyfree hopes
I used to cry only on frozen shoulders
Now I am used to
everyone
knowing how I must feel
how long it will take to be completely healed
It’s like I am having a transparent chest
And didn’t know it.
First times are always betrayed by the seconds,
the thirds don’t even matter in time-
We make daily confessions to the deafening omens,
Those we have sinned against
instigated by pride;
We can embrace those who are already loved
and fail to predict their last hugs!
Surrounded by mirrored walls,
guarded by indifference shields,
chaperoned by tears,
Is it because love is never enough
to synchronize
the pace of a heart?
Or because we are born already blind
and there are no soul mates out there to cure our sight?
I assume we just reinvent ourselves too many times
to the point where we become chameleons
Unrecognizable
Too much brevity, too little bravery
An autobiography of celebrations and commemorations
Like an affection slavery chain
Chewing and swallowing our own words,
their ashes’ ashes - my inner squashed outside
Still missing the recurrent fever
of spring bloom,
the absurdity of my paradoxes,
the breathing rhythmics of a crowded room;
We start a new life every morning.

Magnetism

the sun isolated in outer space
rotates around us
star waves
staging the solar targets’ delight
illuminate its humble rays
with a flow of repelled attraction
Housing the revolutionary roots
of west-seeking poles
above the rainbow illusion
the only possessor of radiance
disregarded, uncharged, almost awake,
through the inner fission of its own rotation
secured by idealistic precision
escorted by faith
floating down like a broken confusion
gives in to the scent.

Awe

I welcome the lack of symmetry,
The clockwork imprecision of my expectations
The legitimate fears -
Of all the youth dreamers
who never get older,
who pay no attention to legends,
falling curtains and rising meteors;
We should turn the next pages of this critical fusion,
Replicate both our milestones,
Congratulate the daring intruders,
Ignore the desired effects of a queue;
When forced, just evacuate this colossal citadel
and hide inside temples
like a spinal-carved pseudonym
Explore the exceptions
and improvise heartfelt epiphanies.

Amputated Whereabouts

At the other end of my sorrow
I stand - impoverished with chronic distrust
Staring at a single long-distance flight
With history behind my back
Like a poisoned circle, a cursed wheel
Empathy eavesdropping as it always does
While virtually bathing in my own private thoughts.
Continents are public islands.
All my mental suppositions fermenting
framed in defensive, metal hypotheses-
trapped-
by bizarre, impersonal priorities
like some cavities owned by their own heaviness.
Desperation hieroglyphics are the easiest
to translate into native dialects...
Urban feelings cannot be looked up
on yellow pages;
Some trees are destined to grow old as obsolete paper,
Some are destined to regret.
When pilgrims winged away from their soap-bubbles
They only missed the courage to wait,
To admit their disinherited failures,
Sounding like playground echoes
or an almost-repented childhood mistake.
You cannot lose what is not yours-they say
Heart readers rely only on irrelevant depths
With a few expressive masks we reinvent carnivals,
Break through the last tarnished thistles
For some downfall grace to cover our chest,
Shiny swings have long replaced rusted cradles,
And encircled their mobility like a levitation wreath
Both experience and intuition have betrayed me
Giving me reasons to forget my youth
and run away from second-chances like an escaped convict.
Being myself feels like gambling,
My sharp decay so brutal, so misused,
Being around you – such a constant wondering
Founded upon occult, hermetic diaries
I am a carrier pigeon dying before reaching
its visible destination,
on a flawless, yet too remote shore.

Relative Recipe

Take a few self-made germs of self-doubt
And throw them into the four laid back corners
of a virtually empty yard while still humming
the same tune with the silent photographs
Hanging above the second-hand sofas,
Wandering off the beaten track of tenses past,
Picturing a new knock on the door,
So fertile, that would feel like
One-in-a-lifetime-journey
out of the too experimental, contradiction laboratory
where seeds are born at the right time.
Each new revelation becomes
One-of-a-kind withdrawal of sun warmth and light
from entire generations of faked nobilities
and their pitiful self-pride.
To me, you are less than my predefined existence,
In a rye field with no catchers and no rain!
A mere hostile climate, with no repeatable weather forecasts
as part of an unexplainable, recorded tragedy,
a borrowed life lesson, lacking character and identity.
Without my permanent phobia-
I am becoming more and more sensitive
To the seasonal crops and rethought samples of abstract art
Like a mirror - allergic to tears
and all the pretend signals at the bottom of old, running streams
underground
Now - a long enough way from the top of my lungs -
I’m drowning myself in nostalgia,
Lost and found in my own frozen loyalty maze,
halfway this rented, almost exclusive lifespan,
and its intricate system of lifeless caves.

It’s all about till death will do us apart.

Sympathetic Disparities

You don’t define me any more than I defy you;
My intuition, like a fare-welling host,
Is clear enough to mirror your grey illusions,
In the center of your black days’ and white nights’ loss
Undergoing deceitful deformations
While pretending that ruins are only for ghosts.
What a pity we can’t stay equal in time!
It’s a shame nobody denies their selfish reveries
anymore
Without second thoughts
Without questioning the inequities
And simply embrace the faith of their siblings
With echoes of cosmic approvals and catastrophic theories.
Two thousand years have passed and still
Some die childless,
Others - simply trade their own lives for a sin
Thinking God could run out of forgiveness.
You might say nobody wants to live in a dream
I know where nobody wants to go,
The truth is the angle of the sun always changes
And similar tragedies become our parents,
Long before we lose our own,
Common history can replace blood relations
Cutting away all umbilical cords
Bending our spines and leaving permanent scars on our souls.
The magnitude of disasters cannot be mitigated
By paying indirect ransoms without any remorse
A shortage of divine penalty
Will put me back on a wrong trajectory
Like a survivor’s reasons, blaming no rivalry.
Having no time for regrets is a nuisance
Since human sacrifice is more persistent than tears,
More convincing than guilt,
Like a déjà vu journey,
Rolling down from your heart for the recently-buried deceased.

Catachretic Request

If I expressed all my feelings
You’d need more than a Noah’s ark
to save yourself from the flood;
If I wanted to pursue all my dreams
You’d need more than Daedalus’s pair of wings
to fly away into the skies. So, just stay.
I promise you no supernatural.
No mythology . No fable. No folklore.
Just an hour
to forget everything
about allegories and abstract metaphors.
I’ve always known we could have this
Without flying a single wing,
Without any figures of speech.

Circus Revolt

For your entertainment only
I’d train the infertile rustle to be your clown,
Tame my anxieties and juggle with my name -
Make it sound like a daredevil or a ringmaster bell
I’d incandescently crawl into the contingent
Giving my anabaptized ascension away
I’d take a journey of countless steps
on a tightrope,
Breathe fire,
Seize the unseized,
Challenge my immature falling
through the silvery passages of a trapeze
in a single day.
For your entertainment
I’d withdraw my doomed fruitless trials,
My dismantled burial stones,
and all the tokens of my sacred homeland
Once these curtained big top entrances
Have become a transparent zone.

Bankrupt Witchcraft

By wasting my nocturnal responses,
By reconciling your migrant doubts,
With nothing to exorcise in the 21st century,
Wherever we wake, we simply elate
at arbitrary subtleties
between smile codes and blurred binoculars,
we set off on affinal sunrise expeditions,
delaying dramas of selfless trekking
enchanting their tears
with fragmented spells of exposed moonlight sorcery.
By caroming the farewells into odd egocentric effusions
We simply perform
an infertile embellishment for ceremonial occasions,
outdating stereotypes and unprofitable lyricism
for the long forgiven or soon forgotten
spiritual muses and inspirational greed.
By confusing the earthly ritual prejudices
we are just assuming cold silver rings
will finally protect our vital organs
from hypnotizing gold reveries .

Induced Oblivion

Hell is not as bad if you know nothing about heaven
if you don’t kneel on the burnt leaves to worship the red lightning
and fail to scrutinize their sinful bliss.
Only the infant ignorance is genuine; we are just oscillating
between conservation and perpetuation
Like a silent thunder between the zenith and the abyss:
“Why does grass never grow on easels?”
“Why don’t all the birds fly and all the flowers bloom?”
“How do we hurt each other without deadly weapons
or undistinguished words or humdrum solitudes?”
Don’t light the candles! Don’t you see?
Their flames will only banish the last angels!
Instead, freeze your impulses in medieval winter tears,
postpone all your attempted irreverence and cancel the departed
wait with the vulnerable in this hibernating noon
of artificial expectations bred in captivity.
A downfall - nothing but a bitter self-compromise,
A renunciation - only a half-deafening inner cry
There is no outrage, no broken record of a slow decay
Only denied stages of native rituals,
a few hard-hitting whispers and some laconic echoes
Tantalized by the cruel tick-tock of biological time;
We are all destined for extinction
like snowflakes,like seasons, like morning dew
In the twinkle of nothingness, on the brink of the indigo skies,
Looming and queuing, pinpointing our deadlines,
For the next generations to overcome,
Trailing the debris of a lost paradise
With sadness the size of the pyramids housing the pharaohs’ funerals.

Cowardice

One by one,
evanescent water-lilies
turn off their light and die
refusing to turn themselves in
to the endangered prayers of motherhood
and long forgotten nursery rhymes.
With me as a witness
it’s only a matter of time
until gravity
takes them down
to swallow their holly petal powder
heated for free
by the breath of the dying meteors
metamorphosed overnight
into unexpected, braveless withdrawals
and old-fashioned lullabies.
Anonymous passengers only
are allowed to reject my apologies
and step on the hollow ice.

Photosynthesis

restless tear rivers, drained of despair ,
running dry of emptiness
overflow the less privileged, careless lanes
out of my side, out of my heart
to my mind an arrow is much crueler than a bullet
like a strike of doubt which would go nowhere
like a seed of death impossible to outland
damaging everything in a merciless impact game
we sleep in the same bed with our errors
recycle old wax candles to make new ones
hoping that darkness disappears at night
when its invisibility becomes the perfect camouflage
so underestimated, so overrated, yet so devoid of pride
invading our privacy like evil spirits, like wild heathens
unaware of any human feelings and rights
mournings blend with our fears and sorrows
becoming their own flesh and blood
we get blind in the presence of too much light
I only wish they had imprisoned us for lying
right then and there - in this way
we’d share our hopes with our contemporary
instead of burying them away.

Confessions to a Valent Eye

Everything ‘s sacred
unless you close your eyes
The clouds are guardian angels in disguise
the falling stars – my unbreakable vows to you
cascading over a flawless past like a Jurnip interlude.
Awakeness makes promises - unlike rules – easy to keep,
pampered and cuddled in this honesty excess
whose warranty assures unique reliability
provided the way “I love you” is not a cliché;
Thanks to your Guinness -Book -worth fidelity
there are no side effects, no expiration date
and no returning options on this delivery ;
like a translator
mastering a catalyst stream of cathartic metaphors
hidden behind their undeniably therapeutic scent
I am not a traitor if I let my own senses intervene
demanding them to stay unquoted on each continent.
I reserved the right to imperfection,
the prerogative to disappoint you
long ago
when the Hegelian seeds of contradiction
were planted by the ocean’s shore.
While synchronizing the time in both our world zones ,
I am converting some insufficient minerals and unpolished secrets
into Valentine precious stones.

Palmistry

A pair of hands drawing the shape of your face
with silence and self-gratification
in the darkness
swearing there is no disgrace but an act of courage
in the thousand miles of lifeline condensed in a prayer
of juxtaposed itineraries
still learning to merge and wrap up this moment
in a surrendering yet hallow embrace
like a web of tenderness.
Lost inside chronology I cross the network of omens and grief
to surround the elusive territories of biblical relief
Where I can turn the other palm
instead of the overexposed cheek;
we are all God’s prodigal offspring:
our fingerprinted wishes stretching skyward
our judgmental stones hidden and ready to be cast
right or wrong, left or almost returned
both past and future are safe
as long as you don’t mix geometry and love
Remember to always tame the butterflies before a blind date
Keep them caged and chained for their own sake
From now on each field and hill and mountain will fit
if you unclench your fist and put your instincts to sleep
A holding hand must replace the caressing one
each path we climb, each cross we carry,
each tribute we look in the eye and dare
It’s all an atlas of anatomy ,
a spare affection legacy on auction sale
two complete strangers sharing a moment on a memory lane
Soon we’ll be cutting out each other’s faces in old scrapbooks
Relieved by the temporary intruder evictions
Hoping with all the foreseeable hostility
One can only nest inside
We shall not have to play within the same play
Again and again for the sake
of a solitary prophetic vibe.

Skeptical Notes

Death is not a discovery but an invention
A rejected apology and life…
Life is less than a gallery of self-made portraits.
To justify forgiveness …
people divide time into years, months and weeks
To deny their belief in space
people build boundaries between mine and yours
worship property and baptize stillborn words
To incriminate faith people write diaries
always about their other selves
never about who they pretend to be.
You can’t be missed unless you are completely gone
It’s a sad fact that oxygen is taken for granted
But its worth is no secret and no regret
they say we are either choosers or beggars
we can share a sunrise but not a sunset
burst into laughter or tears
monitor a sarcastic firework disaster
have our own names chosen and our own graves built
underground
with dreams grown inside oysters
trapped inside the circle of guilt
According to fairytales
written by old children who won’t play
Today is a much younger tomorrow than yesterday.

Absent Indifference

turning a blind eye and a deaf ear
to the half - treated sympthoms of the new year
another paradox mirror
x-rayed by compulsive retrospection:
invisible, reminiscent yet self-absorbed.
Some say a bitten apple ‘ s hardly a clue
neither ladylike, nor safe to keep
though so well-hidden
from thorn birds and tactile myths
Some may think
that memory games and geography and countdowns
can add some beauty to my sleep
to quench one’s thirst you need more than a drip
rain comes and goes but there are rainbows in store
all labelled and approved
since you left no one’s been misunderstood
or steady as a rock while rolling like a stone
to explain the sand on the floor,
the pearl oysters, the willow roots and the fjords
One might need a map of my early childhood .

Impressions

We are not alone
In the shade of the leafless
Chestnut silhouettes and blue birds
listening to the wavening voice
of parting winters and springs;
We should become our future not our past
Farewells are carved
not tattooed
on a stamped piece of dream,
too much light can make some men go blind
too much supernatural can make you lose your mind
a wave is enough to crush the flame
but saying “good bye” is not taught in the first grade;
Candles don't just paint shadows
through the darkness of night
they mostly guide the departed to puzzle out their pride;
We are not alone - only lonely and blind
Until
our quest is no longer a triumph
but a truce, a self-sabotage.
Why looking for answers you already know?
Why looking for answers?
All the paths have already been chosen and marked
It’s time to go when it’s time to go.
You can only close the eyes that are open
Leave’em after the pact has been broken.

Abalienation

betrayed by unexpected fallings
the explanation container
transformed itself
almost overnight
into a vertically floating pile
of creative light.
Meanwhile
Unavailable, allied timpans,
disappointed of living « la vie en rouge »
are taking refuge again and again
from the intricate music notes
of a last soothing song,
from all broken, artificial thoughts
planted in my brain.
Barefoot and empty handed
you are welcoming me
like some postponed S.O.S.
Delayed by the natural conspiracy
Of deliberate gravity.

Nocturnal Senses

What I can smell is the candlelight shadows
flickering inside
a frame of unsleeping memoirs
squashed
into tiny whispers anchored on native banks
right before the wide floods of dawn.
What I can see is moon shadowed graveyards
where springs smell like autumn
housing the dying for free
fallen into freedom
lying there heartcuffed, half - frozen
while omitting the truth of slavery.
What I can touch is the eternal rehearshal
the decisive inspiration of an echo scene
pursuing the blooddrop trail
covered
with the soft vowels of blame
burning the landscape
cursing the flames and leaving the living
intoxicated with darkness and shame.
What I could miss is having no time to breathe
begging for any forgiven dusk
searching for the last tide
like an insane hide-and-seeker
only with dead fingers and nails
devoured by the salty sands of a rocky haven.

Clandestine longing

''Confessions are forbidden today.''
That’s what you told me yesterday
as well.
''What can I hope ?'' – you could be asked
tomorrow
If only …
If I didn’t know
a night of craving is between
and trading dreams for recollections
is a sin
in your eyes …caught inside
these motionless hours and spaces
haunted by empty shadows
repenting both sunshine and moonlight
lacking solemn pledges the shape of a heart.
As we speak I am searching
through the dustbin of life
for some thrown-away celebrations
To adopt and adapt.

Wedding Pulse

Put your shoulder down.
Nocturnal mythologies are waiting,
Closed eyes are ignored by the instant.
The summer inside -
is like a green marriage.
I am the yellow bride
You are the blue groom
There is no need for a carriage.

Everything is green
From shoulder to chin.

Self-Betrayals

Still joining the amputated fragments of a metaphor
my broken vows of selfhood
display apparels of a seashore
of farewell nothingness
of unhostile reflections
of undeserved remorse
and other sensory objections.
Skyward bellowing horizons-
larger and larger-
due to their vital yet latent depths
uplift my rehabilitation
enslaved by burdens of distress
only our souls can be unblessed now
interconnected,
objectified like this…
by priviledge’s renewal liberating stillness
and other wannabes.

Perpetuum…

Autumn symphonies are still
chaotically imitating
the alert rhythm of renegated departures
Whipped from behind
by the strident echoes of freewill
underpraised but overexercised.
And after all…after …
all this confusion is history
I’ll heal you myself on the abrupt shrine
With some sharp, unsaid words
rhyming with “not meant to be”.
Wayward winter words,
For the flesh carved into the bones.
Short-lived summer ornaments,
With their defeated- overstretched tendons
Like some immobilized cords
Apparently devoid of all voice ;
Tormented by sharp, burning nails
As a matter of inner choice.
Bloody Words,
Living on flesh -
Inherited from bone to bone.
Vocal calamities for timpans
defeated by thousand of instants of loss
and only 33 letters
spread on a spring gravestone.

Duplex

On the ground -
The tears of the wind
Dissolve above the ripening tombs
Like some Babillonian gardens
Staring at an invisible sin.

In the sky-
Atrophied and overcried wings,
Try to deny
The wrongful calling of yesterday
At least three times ;
All thirsty of dreaming,
All hungry of bonding,
And crossing the line
into forbidden orchards.

The only proof for the dawn
Is in the horizon.

Conversions

Suspended sincerities
reclaim
Prospects devoid of mobility.
Feeling just like a glass iconographer
Deprived of any vision
Indulging myself in this mourning flux
inside of me
I am rubbing incence down to powder
In a smoky hourglass
Forgotten by some betrayed bride-to-be.
On the other side of endlessness
Landmarkfree sincerities…
Turned down by time,
Begging for love,
Come back for me.

Poetry vs. Calamity

There are two philosophies in my family: one which agrees with the idea that “everything happens for a reason”, that there is an explanation behind each event and situation, no matter how insignificant…and another …which believes that everything happens by accident and the laws of classical logic do not apply to the universe or to life.
I couldn’t possibly accept the fact that we are accidents. That there are no connections and no metaphors . That God is not teaching us lessons. That everything is a coincidence. That each of us is not an equally important jigsaw to complete the larger puzzle called life. That our roles are monological and not dialogical. That people do not get what they deserve. That we are mere chances lacking inspiration. That life has no meaning.

Home is always best...

No matter where we go, there is only one place where we belong.This is where our memories are, where the people we love most are, where the past and the future are ours.

Home is where we don't have to pretend anything, where we are accepted for who we are and loved unconditionally...

We are never lost at home.

Being away from home is like missing your own roots, breathing the wrong air, having your heart cut out for a while...

Heartsickness?!

I am wondering what ”heartsick” is all about hoping that, once I have puzzled out its mystery, I will also manage to cope with the phenomenon behind this word.

Heartsickness is absence, separation, expectation, distance, sorrow, frustration but also hope.We miss someone only if we anticipate the reunion. Only if we still have inside our souls the most vivid emotions and feelings fuelled by the promise of an encounter.

We miss those we (still) love.Those who are supposed to come back.Those we haven’t forgotten yet.Those we haven’t told everything we had to say.

Heartsickness exists to make us understand that our souls do not belong to us only. And , if we weren’t heartsick, we wouldn’t know when we are in love.

random thoughts put together

So, once in a while we are threatened to be evicted from our souls by too many memories taking over every single territory we once owned. Among so many kissed frogs and idealized statues brought to life, how do we recognize who we are looking for when we don’t know who we are looking for? It’s time our hearts stopped worshipping these fake gods...Oh, and...it shouldn't be too hard to be met half way if people were actually coming towards us. Always being expected to walk the extra mile is unfair.It’s time we broke this force of habit and convenience.

My guess is that if springs follow winters and the sun stops the rain...then hopefully happy memories should replace the painful ones...and set our dreams free.

If it’s meant to be…

I have always found the expression “true love” terribly redundant because I cannot imagine love other than true. Also I am not a huge fan of the “Romeo and Juliet” type of love. I don’t believe in doomed lovers, tragic fate, indispensable soap-opera-like manipulation or exquisite schemes involving stabbing oneself and/or poisoning meant to bring two people together.
People are not “fortune’s fools“ when it comes to pursuing their own hearts. My point is that if people share the same affection, they will find a way. And even if they are too weak or too stupid, their feelings will be strong and smart enough to figure out a solution.
On the contrary, when feelings are not mutual, then social status, age, family feuds or cultural differences are likely to step between. To be completely honest, I did play the role of modern Cinderella for a while. Then I realized that if the prince had suddenly changed his mind and didn’t think I was good enough for him, I probably needed to accept the truth and move on, search for my true “other half” … to use another redundancy. Finding it, made me understand that the course of true love always runs smooth and that in the presence of love, assiduous courtship, expensive presents or impressive gestures are not only blasphemous, but also unnecessary. After all, love is meant to “conquer”, not “buy” or “persuade” its followers.

“Oh The Times! Oh The Customs!”

Ends of the year are best times for reflection, for striking a balance of one’s achievements from the most to the least glorious ones. One reexamines and reevaluates, takes a close look at more or less recent events…and if they have enough time…they probably even scrutinize their relationship history in order to recollect, relive and analyze data from a different perspective.
In time, I have noticed that our perception regarding our own past events changes. Feelings are also altered by experience and we realize that everything/everybody is temporary. It has to be like that. Each beginning involves the necessity of an ending. Including those life chapters which may seem to lack definite closure. If we understand that, we are safe.
However, the temptation to take a dive into one’s memory and access one’s most treasured impressions is almost irresistible. Longing for happiness and love even when they are trapped inside the past is justifiable.
Being nostalgic or sentimental is human as long as we choose to continue to live the present because idealizing or obssessing about the past condemns us to bitter sadness which is the equivalent of death. The past is dead. We cannot compare the present and the past because they are impossible to compare. Living both in the past and the present is like trying to be in two different places at once.
And here comes 2011 with its beginnings, its sunrises, its smiles, its emotions and its challenges. They will all become memories. But first they have to be lived to the fullest. What you can do to prevent diseases such as nostalgia is not to leave unsaid words, undone things or unloved people.
Remember : Nothing lasts for ever.

Don’t cross it!

This one is about accepting our boundaries. And acting accordingly. Even when it comes to those thoughts and feelings which can affect only us. One cannot think or care about the entire universe. It’s unrealistic…or crazy to use a more appropriate word.
How do we know where our limits are? Well, if you don’t have good instincts, here’s a clue: if positive thoughts and feelings turn against you like a boomerang, all harmful and destructive, then you have crossed the line!
So, think twice before trespassing not only because being intrusive violates someone’s privacy but also because stepping outside one’s limits means you will have to survive without your principles, your values and your most definitory features. Any attempt to go outside your mind and heart is destined to fail. Just like rules, limits help us remain who we are, they protect us and give us order instead of anarchy.

Me – The Collector

I have a huge collection of movie quotes. Most of them are about love and life. I just find love the ultimate goal in life. Probably because I lacked the certainty of being loved as a child. Probably because I am a libra. Probably because love is the most difficult to achieve. I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that, there are thoughts I completely identified myself with at first sight…thoughts which guided my way and made me be(come) – I think - a better person. Here are my favourite ones:

”It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.”

"I am no one special, just a common man with common thoughts. I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me, and my name will soon be forgotten. But in one respect, I've succeeded as gloriously as anyone who ever lived. I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and for me, that has always been enough."

”My Dearest Allie. I couldn't sleep last night because I know that it's over between us. I'm not bitter anymore, because I know that what we had was real. And if in some distant place in the future we see each other in our new lives, I'll smile at you with joy and remember how we spent the summer beneath the trees, learning from each other and growing in love. The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds, and that's what you've given me. That's what I hope to give to you forever. I love you. I'll be seeing you. Noah.”

”My darling. I'm waiting for you. How long is the day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone, and I'm horribly cold. I really should drag myself outside but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings, not writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we've entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we've hidden in - like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. Where the real countries are. Not boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you'll come carry me out to the Palace of Winds. That's what I've wanted: to walk in such a place with you. With friends, on an earth without maps. The lamp has gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.”
”There was a moment, when I used to blame everything and everyone for all the pain and suffering and vile things that happened to me, that I saw happen to my people. Used to blame everybody. Blamed white people, blamed society, blamed God. I didn't get no answers 'cause I was asking the wrong questions. You have to ask the right questions.” ” Like what?” ”Has anything you've done made your life better?”

”So I guess this is where I tell you what I learned - my conclusion, right? Well, my conclusion is: Hate is baggage. Life's too short to be pissed off all the time. It's just not worth it. Derek says it's always good to end a paper with a quote. He says someone else has already said it best. So if you can't top it, steal from them and go out strong. So I picked a guy I thought you'd like. 'We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

Give a man a fish...

I’ve decided to leave behind all the heavy weight. Abandon it just like that. I mean: who needs that kind of luggage? From this year on…I am going to travel light. Make my trip as comfortable as possible…since I know exactly what comfortable means…to me. I now realize that I don’t have enough strength to carry other people’s problems…And taking such responsibility…has proved too much. So, I won’t be making any more promises I - intent to but - cannot possibly keep. It’s high time I started learning from my mistakes/failures.
So? What does “comfort” mean? It means having my own space which on occasions I may choose to share with significant others. I know I must sound like a selfish person…but being “too” altruistic seems to have affected my inner balance…I guess you cannot forget about yourself completely without forgetting about yourself completely. And then what? The same old search for identity, the same process of re-constructing the self from the myriad pieces the others found unnecessary .One can only carry their own burden. Any attempt of breaking this simple rule would lead to failure. We are only human. Which means that we should allow everybody to make their own choices & learn to deal with their ups and downs. It’s a natural lesson...and an opportunity of growth. People can be taught to fish but you cannot fish for them if they don’t want to. It’s artificial and superficial and temporary.
So…in 2011…my resolution is to be both a giver and a receiver. I desire to nurture and cherish only the healthy relationships which make me feel positive about myself, the future and the world. After all, I only have 365 days to be happy. I cannot afford to waste any resources. Watch out for the new, selective, detached and invulnerable …me!