I don't vacation
in Babylon anymore.
The ticket prices soared
and the trip
almost killed me.
Years of
debauchery weren't
good for the soul.

The only gold I
want now is the
autumn leaves and
the buttery summer corn,
and the shimmer on the
lake at sunset.

I'm getting older and
my heart is stronger.
It beats like a
childs, seeing
green for the first
time.

~
she's thunderstorms.
she's asphodel meadows.

I fall outside of her
into the suburbs of askew,
where she hides behind
happy occident, where she
lives with the afterlife of a man,
but is in love with a scientist.

a jaded thing, she likes
to drop anvils on her
husband's head and blame
her fragile scaffolding,
she wears the wreckage
on her face, it's far easier
than admit her own fallacies.

before the children came along
she was able to pour some
of her own frustrations
into these knotty tussles.

now the midwives have left.
now misadventures in her
own backyard commence.

no hiding place down
the front of her,
the remaining secrets
come from underneath.

but if you trust her
and go along, she knows exactly
where to lay her hands.
~

the wind is a song
that bends those velvet petals
for the lips of bees

People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.

Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.

The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.

The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.

The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.

Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.

Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.

Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo

Poems,
like unsend letters
Putting it out there.
Sending them to the universe.
Like traveling stars from afar.
Hoping they reach their destination.
For the one to read and understand.




Shell✨🐚

There is something beautiful here
The grass getting burnt
The scent in the atmosphere
The pink sunset in the front

The post sign vertical still
Cutting in the sky
That old house up in the hill
To where I point the eye

That big tree that is wide
And forms a round circle
The castle lit in the mountain

There is nothing aside
The time is slow and a turtle
Is crossing nearby a fountain.

Under the mango tree where the shade is dark and deep
she waits with years on her skin.

The face though weary with the burden of time
has not yielded to the fate
of having once loved and lost.

She believes the winds from the barren field
will one day carry the rustle of footsteps
raising a song from within earth
that the moment is arrived
for the dead river to rise in tides
and flood her cheeks with the sapplings of
all the unplanted kisses.

When the nights come
the fireflies would sing
love is such a beautiful thing
basking in the glow of her heart.

Imagine walking into a forest full of pine and other trees
They are all colors and sizes

As you stop amongst the trees, all you can hear is the deep silence
and the sound of your boots as you walk along on the dirt path

A slight cool breeze rustles through the trees moving the limbs
as the branches sway back and forth to the rhythm of the breeze

It is pleasant and calming
There is a scent of freshness in the air
It is invigorating

The sky is clear, and there is a glimmer of the sun gently hitting the path ahead
As you look up through the trees, the sun seems to shimmer

You keep walking
At the end of the path, is a small log cabin with
a fire burning in the fireplace, waiting quietly for its owner to return
You can smell something baking in the oven

It’s a perfect summer day

Mom took my brother and
I to the cemetery when
we were kids.
Her mother and grandma
were there underneath the
grass and dirt.
The spring breeze felt
good on my face.
We put carnations and
lilacs on all the graves.
She told us stories about
our dead relatives.
The tombstones, with the
dates seemed ancient and
final.

After flowering all the
graves, we went to
the pond and fed
the ducks and swans.
There was a fire in
their eyes.
They were always
hungry.
They gobbled the bread
and swam in circles.

When we became
teenagers, Mom took
us to the cemetery, and
taught us how to drive.
She said it was
safer there.
We couldn't ****
anyone.

Many years later
I took my little sons to
cemetery.
I showed them all
the graves and told
the old family stories.
"That's your grandma,"  I said,
pointing to the tombstone.
"She brought me here,
when I was your age."

My oldest son, Zach, who was
seven at the time said,
"When I get old,
I'm going to bring my kids
here to visit the family.
Will you come with us, Daddy?"
"Sure", I said.
Let's feed the swans.