Nonsense Rhyme

I've lived in tune with my nature,

I've nurtured the virtue of fervor,

The tireless rehearsal of a circle.

My torture is to preserve the purpose

And nourish the cherished murmur. 

Self- Exiled

If I could reincarnate one day

I would be a starfish;

A central disc with only five arms,

on an ocean bed, alone,  

a  real-life anchor of stability

implausible to take away

impossible to send back

to a prior existence above the surface

of a hospitable and soothing sea blaze.

If I could build myself from scratch

I would be a lighthouse.
Fighting against the nocturnal persistence

oppressing the waves,

there will be no more panic or desire to evade

and have their blind enthusiasm crashed
into the same sharp shores,

their young despair- banished then split

immortalizing a sadistic torture,
an almost Sisyphean-like defeat.

In any case, 

I would wait for you halfway

between these ancient species and towers,

In an inviting natural habitat

Over the top of my cruelest hours,

A long  way from any fatal abduction,
Perfectly sheltered against a savage retreat.

I would be waiting to meet you there,

Whatever you were meant to be.

Solar Refrain

A heavy  hold on the  four seasons,
The summer solstice happens twice a year!

Considering the ups and downs

of these solitary, radiant whereabouts,

And  all  the cosmic encounters 

with twinkling stars, 

the lonesome planets 

and  their natural satellites,

What if the sun could write you poetry?

I bet it would not leave the drawer

For fear it might distress your dazzling eyes.

Duplicity

You can never see wolves

walking around in sheep’s clothing,

It's just an expression, nothing real per se,

but a crocodile’s weeping will lure a prey-

so ingenuous and naïve - that being devoured

is just nature’s way of correcting the weak

without any emotion to drain.

That is why I keep saying

the City of Troy was not conquered

through infiltration or deceit;

The Trojan Horse teaches nothing

about the Greeks, but does embody

quite everything  there is to know

about a gift.

An Ars Poetica

Looking back 

gives one the right 

to remorse,

but to move on 

you need more than metaphors.

Both friendship and hope 

are reasons for smiling,

A life of togetherness 

will wipe out the crying.

Ironically Enough...

We all leave something behind

Before we answer the final summons;

Shakespeare invented the word “lonely”

Which has been quoted and unquoted

By- literally -everyone ever since
his "Coriolanus".

Later on, Nobel invented dynamite

Which, to atone for the fatal wrong,

Inspired  a  posthumous peace prize
to reward the best fighters against wars.

We all leave something  behind

That’s the unwritten promise to just up and die.

Blind Justice

My plan was to wait a few years
With my eyes closed

until memories converted themselves

into fine anecdotes;

Then let the swarm of emotional turmoils

and half-accidental snapshots

be seduced  by  impulsive oblivion;

Sooner than later they will all be absorbed

and hopefully able to smile 
backwards

in front of a Venetian mirror.

Living through more winters than summers

should be a fact, not a dividing ordeal,

or an agonizing act of greed 
to fall prey to 
or to obsessively re-play at night.

In the loud, bright wilderness,

a planted seed finds its fertile rest, 
Nonetheless, it grows its own firm roots

underground, in the dark silence.

Light never gives us the right

to receive any real answers,
So tell me, 
what are the odds to even the horizons?

Devolution

To confess to the sand hidden inside the hills

you ought to tame the grape vineyard;
Though neither night lightning, 
nor roaring thunders will help 
unless you bless their dormant roots

with small overdoses 
of silence.

"Abracadabra!"- a handful of darkness 

is secretly passed down

from one falling star to another,

wishing you, too, would become 

two tangent celestial bodies,

in the eyes of the stargazing clusters,

bitten by a contagious, sorcery bug, 
able to dry-clean all the tearstained, 

too-sentimental portraits of our youth,

brutally separated then fast-expelled
to unknown galaxies
covered in ancient grimes graves.
Spotlessly cleaned of any regret,

we are all heading towards a bridge,
one river-crossed continent
at a time,

Heart-aching with every last breath

Too eager to live a noble life,

We will die an estranged death.

Crystal-Clear Warnings

... 

don’t you

turn your back

to the old willow trees

weeping down in courtesy

along the lone river banks

at sunset and 
don’t dare to look

over those young shoulders

whenever you need to recount

your insecure steps,

their free falling

or revisit the green high lands

you've been taking for granted so long.

We all learn that snowdrops in spring

whisper more about weddings than

pyramids

or towers

ever will .

Old-School Creed

She believed

in returning to innocence,

in walking together hand-in-hand,

in expecting the unexpected

and the smooth run of musical notes.

She believed,

Come rain or shine,

poets could use the same words

and painters - the same colors-

On the same cloud nine.

She believed

in sharing everything,

in solemnly taking moon-descending vows,

in the pen being mightier than the sword,

in carrying  the sins of the past

and borrowing the virtues of tomorrow

inside a border-free world.

She believed love had no meaning

Until your soulmate was born.

Closure

In all my born days,

the same instinctive, almost compelling urge

tucks in the childhood dreams of  love

in a pine bed.

Joining up a mystery cult

has never made my life list

Instead, growning up, 

the persistence of my resolutions,

has subdued  their obstinate constancy

to the heart-pounding  thrills

set to inflame the final hours
of a formal wake.

Some canyons inspire second-guessing,

Zip-lining is thought  too  extreme

with gravity on our side,

some of us cannot have a long stay,

either scanning or skimming  through life,

we change  the colours which portray  our becoming

beginning to end.
Deductions may be speechless or not,

But headlines of  big  breaks
and  unlucky strikes,

are no breaking  news, they only prove

the cronyism of fate. Still  barefooted,

There’s hardly any warming  for your trail,

with no affordable aid to deny it,

My voice is the only echo coming back.