Three Tankas (Ancient Japanese poems)

A mourning grey sky
Hanging above the morning
Like a giant easel
Or an ageing cloud blanket
Sheltering the sleeping sun.

A hot cup of tea,
Crispy toast with bee honey
No butter today
You forgot to buy it, dear,
My figure is fine, thank you.

Teen crowds on sidewalks
Heavy legs on their way home
Cold tears on my hair
A scent of rain and Magie Noire
Stray dogs packing up for night.


Reasonable Prediction

Too good to be true,
The story went between them
Too good for her
(and her own good)
He had been and would be
So, he let go of her hand
Just like that (without warning)
He left her alone and soulless
On the darkest morning.
Someday soon,
when her clock strikes right,
She'll forget all about it
And use her new heart
to remind  herself 
about how she was found
tearless but  still young  
in the world's coldness:
her eyelids frozen,
her bare knees in the ground,
her unfortunate hands
pointing south.
When that hour comes,
(God permitting)
and if it rains in the highlands
Then and solely then,
Will she invoke her right
to cry again but remain silent.


Private Lesson

Take a step forward,
Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow
Let the music flow through -
It takes two to tango.
Ten hours ahead of you,
Joy, sorrow, joy, joy, sorrow
A magic morning to return to -
It takes two to tango.
Held in the arms of promise,
Yesterday, today, tomorrow
Feeling the heartbeat rhythms -
It takes two to tango.


Walkers in the Park

There will be tall trees
at the bottom
There will be leaves of grass
up the steep hill
There will be green words 
and silence
and no paths to follow
only us two
and the hill top,
our cold feet soles
baptized by the dew;
you promised me a walk
and here we are, joyous,
in the neck of our wounds.


Spine Tattoo

                                                                To an inspiring friendship with you, F.

Nobody knows me.
For real,
 nobody walks in my shoes,
Nobody else - but you - 
remembers my shoeless walking 
in the forest, under the black moon
with the howling, silver-eyed  baby wolves.
Nobody really knows our self-convictions, 
battles we lost on our own,
wishes we burned away, in anger,
none of our whispering, late-night praying 
dying unheard.
Nobody is able to tell for certain
the rocking cradle of our oldest wound,
the most painful conclusion to this date,
the ugliest of all truths
learned the hard way, as always,
written in blood since our early childhood.
Nobody can see our well-hidden tears
defining our past together, 
re-shaping the rest of our days;
There's no wonder
Being so blind makes them all unable
to translate our chosen seclusions 
into deserved solitudes.
From where I stand,
each of us is simply a bird
whose broken wing, in an ivory tower,
though unable to soar high for a while,
will make a better bird 
with only a little time to rest and to ponder 
and a new scar, that wouldn’t allow 
taking flying for granted
or regretting the harm.