Dissemination

dust and spider webs

trail my wanderings

half-way

towards an irresistible urge

I am - is there beauty

inside a prison?

you tell me.

does hope

sneak in

through any door

or,

when love does pile up,

we become useless

and get evicted

from our souls?

Rhetorical Question

If, one day, I could grow wings,

what would I rather be?

A nightingale or a skylark, 
able to sing like heaven,

or a bold eagle preying on others,

armed with powerful vision
and deadly sharp talons?

Would I be a colourful peacock,
catching all eyes,
a patient vulture scavenging in the wild,
a peregrine falcon rapidly changing direction, 

a raven of the nevermore,

a white dove reminding one 
of peace and devotion,

or a stork bringing babies into the world?

Would I be an ostrich
with my head in the sand

or a flightless kiwi, a symbol of pride?

A female penguin

in the freezing cold, fighting for life,

or a cuckoo laying its eggs in a stranger's nest

to hatch unknown in daylight?

Would I be a migratory swallow  

wintering away or a wise, nocturnal owl 

with a heart-shaped face? 

Vanitas Vanitatum

still life takes so much

an old homo homini

preying upon us

He will cry "carpe diem"

waving back at the dead dust.

Romanian Dreamer

Thousands of miles

of blue sky
take me home

back to a land of golden grain fields

and the red of blood

shed for democracy and freedom
in 1989.

A titanic rainbow remains in charge 

so I take a break

behind its painted shield

to contemplate the Carpathians,

our “rocky mountains” by name,

then move away from a familiar relief

of teary homesickness,

hide-and-seek landscapes

and childhood grief

to finally watch 
the Danube River

protecting the southern border
around the clock,
like a divine guard,

and its life-giving tributaries,

the fauna and flora paradise 
of its unique Delta,

the  magnificent Black Sea

and its picturesque coast.

Brancusi's Gate of the Kiss, 

his Table of Silence in Targu Jiu

remind me of  Trajan’s Column.

When Rome invaded the proud Dacians

a cradle of Latinity 
was born to last;

Two thousand years from then,

I welcome YOU, my dearest friend,

with salt and bread, on my doorstep,

a braided woman,

with a wreath of wild flowers

on my head and a violin ballad
in the background.

Here, life means harmony

with the natural rhythms
and the ups-and-downs of one's heart,

through the four seasons,

but going away from the living 
is hardly the solemn end.

In Sapanta, the merry cemetery

of comic epitaphs and naïve paintings

proclaims a national philosophy

of smiling even

in the face of adversity or death.

Perjury

The revering blind

hold on to a recurring fantasy

of having their tangible bonds

melted down,

in the crimson gold foliage

then eke out what little awe is left

in its late fragrance.

A final fall,

in twos,
from a greater height

than the relentless respite

of a half-truth

lost to the nocturnal abyss

of a bruised mind,

broken and shattered  

into the moonlight-
an unquiet riot

ravaging  the still heaviness

pouring down
in plain sight...with no need
for footnotes

I’m holding  my own breath

to restore the balance of  faith

while under the same oath.

After and before thoughts

become bolder than the pretend vows

and repaired wrong-doings

we have learned to savor

together 

with the packed lying 

of hope.

Moon-Shaped Love

Sun or

moon wise,

praying her tears,

or smiling her bliss out

She’d be down on her knees,

curled fingers clenched in a fist

Ready to bathe her mind’s drafts

Into the loneliest dew-soaked  dusk

then let the ardours of her own heart

soar high to whisper and ripple about

how he’d learned to paint her poetry  

and carve marble, but failed  to find

a single song  in the world’s patter

to sing along with his own blood.

Then he sent summer words

and walked  in his garden

to sign  a new  promise

with a rose  thorn  

so sharp and

warm yet

scarlet.