dust and spider webs
trail my wanderings
towards an irresistible urge
I am - is there beauty
inside a prison?

you tell me.

does hope
sneak in
through any door
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 flaura 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.



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
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