pantagruelian wait
for the roundness to
burst in pink flesh

a first kiss for air depriving
a first taste of cherry flesh
a first burble of soft bones

Unsuitable,
they declared,
and then
banished her.

Exiled to silence,
inhabitating
the moisture
of bluish mists,
she unknitted
her thoughts
and let them go.

We all saw it,
that holograph,
ribbons
colourfully bending
in thin air.

The plateau.
A stripped upland,
growing glaring facades
and somber alleys.

And the plain.
Unfolded canevas,
ripples in shades of green,
bursting in red and brown soil.
There, and there,
shattered puddles of sky,
anchoring clouds to the ground.
And, further, so far,
a mirage of an ocean.

A plateau.
For staging a fantasy on the run
to realms of possible.

Death.
No clothes' tearing,
no hair pulling,
no howling mourners.

Modern days' life and death.
A tramway ride.
You jump out,
willingly,
pushed,
surprised,
whatever
- you just jump out.

A few will stare,
for a moment,
to see you vanishing,
back then.

The ride continues.
All empty spaces
are bridged.
Emptiness is not
politically correct.

In a angry windy day,
an ordinary tree grizzled away:

- Unlucky me,
grounded to this soil
of such poverty, all it gave me
is this unattractive
dim green!

- You fed on me,
tree,
- rumbled the grounded
humus -
*but it was up to you
to lively up your green
if a green foliage
should be yours.

old town center

cobbled streets

my presence echoing

in the temple

walking the aisle

stepping on faded graves
of knights and earls

left candles burning

for the ghosts in my history

In days of long ago,
there was this willow,
a very cranky and cracked
willow, standing alone by a river.

It happened one day
that a merry bird,
tired of its journey,
asked that cranky willow
permission to alight.

Time passed by.
The bird enjoyed to have its heart
rocked by the willow
and favored it with its singing;
the willow... well, that willow
went on smoothing its cracking,
being in love with the bird.

And in the afternoon warmth
it felt so idyllic - a willow and a bird! -
that the river itself would
shiver in a glimmering gold.

But the story isn't over.
Could it end in a happy way?

All birds must fly
and so one day this bird did,
never to come back, for the bird
was meant to find a cheer rosery.

And the willow?, you ask. Well,
the willow summoned a sunset,
leaned over the water
and waited for a flood.

the unwise sigh in my eyes dyes the skies*

in your eyes
i dive

my prize
all the skies

in silky ties
i fly i rise

i improvise
unwise

and revise
that high

who cries
in the height
of that sigh?

not my i's

your eyes, aye,
without my dyes

the unwise sigh in my eyes dyes the skies

Today
a kid died.

No
noticeable
issues
what so ever.

Maybe
a silenced
unbearable
ache

laying
hidden
behind a most
beautiful smile.

None of us
could have
foretell it.

The kid
took his life.

À nouveau
je marche
les yeux baissés
je me cache

À nouveau
je demeure
immobile
au bord du fleuve

Cette fois
je suis sûre
de ce que je refuse

Cette fois
je connais
le goût
de l'horizon

Et à nouveau
je le refuse.

Oh, blessed wisdom
that led the sages' path,
for it was theirs the bliss
of reaching the living idea,
on flesh and bone human like.

Oh, how seldom
men are granted
such a prize!

So I wonder
whose hand led my path,
of wisdom so unlike,
so sinfully unbeliever
of what could be,

for I have seen
the love I dreamed of
and secretively drank
from the mead that was
not mine to take.

So I wonder
whose hand led my path
and keeps me here,
gazing from a distance,
imposing me to run away
if he said he loved me...

entered alone
the empty room

a tree
in a vibrant autumnal
gold
flooding the window

a morning mist
foreclosing the valley

and there
suspended
that golden
radiant tree

a baroque shrine
lit for love psalms

Mother,
you carried me
into life

and now

you carry me

dead

for all your eternity.

Mother,
I love life
and I bless your heart
for I knew the bliss
of your unconditional love.

Mother,
you cry
and you bleed

and I

can not help you.

Mother,
I know
the day I died
you tried

oh so desperately

to breathe life
into my lungs

and that moment
you attached yourself
to the anchor of my death.

Mother.

I know you miss me.
I know it is not fair.
I know you love me.

Please,
mother,
live,
carry me forever
out
into the sun
of your loving
my brothers

as you love me.

And, mother,
do know
that your love
would have grown me
into the man
you dreamed of.

I love you.

sparsing shadow
blended in distance

blurred memory
bended by time

[for Ellie's book poem challenge]*

In last,
the brat
pointed
to the slate,
to the grid
chalked there.

"And then
he found a way out
of the maze!",
he said,

and as he spoke
he erased a line
in that last square.

He smiled,
toothless,
to his best friend:

now
both of them
had it wrong
but that cage
of loneliness
was open wide
- at last!

Charcoal trees
crowned in
greenish grey,
diluted in mist;

glitten dew, spilt
by sword shaped ferns,
bruising in yellow
the bushy scented moss;

likens' frozen tracery,
gothic earthly waves,
bursting gloomy barks
into shades of red and sand;

in a friable sunbeam,
a swirl of a honey bee.

Salty,
like a misty drizzle
by the sea;
sour caramel,
a dark harsh yellow;
a silky roundness
of reddish sweet

- tickling lust.

An other day.

Walking.

Making the all planet spin.
To get there.
That moment.

And the one moment
I can not reach.

Walking.

Drowned in craving.
Forbidden wishes.
Time
washing away
the chance to be.

Hold me.
Hold me,
in the filled silence
of love.

To kiss you,
shivering,
liquefying.

Pain.

To sleep.
To reborn
as a child.
Lover man!
Would you choose
me?

The mercy
of love.

Walking.

To die
before sunset.

1.* *Ship wrecking

A heart, oh my, thrown out to die,
To watch it sink in tide high...!
To pleas of such ink
can I, no, not cling:
for cleared of hearts can again die?

2. Flaming love

A ring of fire, poets say, high
burning flames. Yeah, all the sigh,
the blinded tears shred,
a teddy's hug can ted;
a waft of shy: then (classy!), fire is high!

3. Darkest night

A slashing light, sadness is, not a night!
A dark hour's a time to rise might
of will: hushed ghosts, all
a dreamy mind make crawl!
A rest can not find sadness in raw light!

Okay, you try it,
to bring a superlative
upon a regular you

and

using a minimal
amount of
foreign words!

Let me show you
how hard it gets,
with a light exercise!

Here we go:

stitch
in red
a ribbon
hearted like

paint
an island
around it

get inside the draw

play with the pebbles

built a castle
and pretend
you're a troubadour

no one will know

Once upon a time,
there was a turtle
who grew a carapace
for a hundred years
of slowing pace.

In its prudence,
that most mistaken
as enlightenment,
the tortoise often
admonished a bumblebee
hummingbird:

"- All that buzzing
and vivid colours,
do you believe
the honey of life
is for you to sip?"

And the hen,
circling by,
assented,
beaking its hunger
in the dirt.

One day
the tribe elder
crossed their path.
He roasted the chicken,
plumed a hat
with the humming colours
and threw in the fire
the turtle shell
to read futures to be
in its crackles.

Then came an era
of starvation
and men rummaged
the dirt and in misery
many claimed for
holding back the pain.
Painted in vivid red,
the children learned to sing.

In the cold winter greyness, by the whipping leaning willow,
I gently throw my heart in the stream and watch it sink.

Through the waving naked branches, the stuttering wind goes
plunging lullabies in the dormant numbness of the river.

Aside the howling wandering world, the selfmade outcast departs
choosing dissoluteness in the watercoloured light of love.

The river flows hiding its depth, its surface keeps trace of nothing.
In the thick mistiness of life, to impossibly love breathlessly.

the day you thought
it out
i can imagine
it not

but today
no doubt
with words
i play

and on friendship
i am taught
and to this heart of mine
i try to grip

thankful i say
are we for this world
a home in the whirl
of silent frozen cold

mwanamke

mwanamke

birth my dreams
turn my shadow
into firing flash
anoint me in gold

mwanamke
say my name
warm my wings
in the shell
of your hands

emakumea

emakumea

patient grinder
time carer
you grow silence
in the lit wood
in the cradling lull

emakumea
i forget
unaware
i walk ahead
emakumea
you accept to linger

emegtei

emegtei

i am no more
the scout the hunter
i dream of my gold
you throw into the fire
what's left
from your feathers

nārī

nārī

mirror for me
the story of then
be my water flow

nārī
this tide
in your eyes
nārī*
is it
the intangible you

back
for a while
to my home town

a sunny place
cradled by a longing
for an ocean

labyrinthic streets
secretively whispering
memories of bygones

streets are crowded

I walk along
anonymously
ghostly

nowhere to go
nothing to do
wandering

and in the crowd

what a singularity

unknown
unrevealed
restrained
castrated

such a similarity

Like a solemn
blossom,
he makes his appearance,
this hindrance,

in my rooftop,
with a flip-flop,
in cherubic
outfit,
oh so tiny
and limy!

This perplexing
cherubim, mixing
beams and a pigment
from a distant
perfection,
shouts 'action!',
up on my rooftop!

I climb the immense
leather
in my underware
- oh what a brilliance
of a ****
homemade!

I say 'salutations,
in this christmas' occasion!',
he moves backward,
the makeshift,
and then forward,
in his heart a lift,
engorged,
in my beauty scorched!

As his host
I had started a toast
but went speachless
finding him flightless,
for a wingless cherubim
was he...!

But it's Christmas,
so in ranges
we had some oranges
and tequila,
for pain healer.

On my rooftop
as a isthmus,
oh gods of Olympus!,
we hear a pop,
a cackle,
stars as sprinkles
of kringles!
- Oh oh, is it Santa?!
- Oh no, it's my Claus...!

grey cold like
sparsed cotton

thickness
of blank walls

preclusion
exclusion

the era before
your smile

the glaciers
are forming

country roads
highways
bridges
exhibiting a city in
kinematic frames

to pass
high speed
low speed
lit windows

a kitchen
a tv screen
a bedside lamp
curtains down
nobody's home

cottages
villages
overcrowded districts

dots and dots
each lit window
each turned off light

a story
a me
a us

they

lost
anonimously
as dots
in the distance

forgotten

in this intangible world
i wander

(wording daringly
a make believe voice
trying the allure of poetry)

and come across
depicted landscapes
heartfulled universes

in this intangible world
i wander

yet
in the ending day
i look for
this velvet red
with a deeply lasting
bouquet of life exhortation

in your poetry

as in the portuguese red wine you like

and i seat back
dreamy
wrapped in this
sense of fulfilment

smiling at a giant
kneeling to a child
with dawn syndrome

a constructeur of love
abdicating judgement and prejudgement

crying alone for anger drainage
finding plenitude in a woman with his height
escalating an iced mountain
travelling ages in the winged tree
that waves by the window
considering far in the height
the ways of the worlderly life

in this intangible world
i wander
with your poetry echoing
and wondered i understand
how a heart grows humanity
and it feels like crying
to believe
in the tangibility of love

[http://hellopoetry.com/some-person/]

dear some person,

i am but a reader unknown,
like any other
you talked to, in that
flight, when no perfect girl
sat next to you.

It was your birthday
and you were thinking
about your father,
finding out he loves you,
and in your mind
you were worrying about
your friend, living far away,
drifting in his own family life.

Remember that voyage?

i am still voyaging
coming back from your poems

you know there is this thing
going on at HP
and i figured it would be nice
to find someone here
for the first time
and so i rouletted the pages
and yeah found you
some person
and somehow i felt
related to your pen name

and then i read all your poems

yes, all of them

and i can only wish
that one day, suddenly, you will
realise you are already writing
love poems for someone new
someone worthy your heart
your sensitivity and your
serenity

some perfect girl
who will listen
to the depth
and warmth
of your voice,
your voice
bringing to life
your whole you,

some perfect girl,
with all the
imperfections
you will know how to love,

some perfect girl
to piece you together.

all the best,
chimaera

ps
=D
please find the strength to do the laundry and to get rid of the yard junk and to go out for a ride in the sun, it will be so much likely to find the girl...!

1.
stirring the coffee.
caffeine and tears.

2.
ragged by his weighty hands
ravaged

3.
daymare on countermelody
cushioned lava mumbling

4.
feverish harmonic echoes
of dying forevers

5.
a smoke. the dark.
he stumbles.

6.
sipping the coffee.
nodding: dark alley.

a cling and a clang
a scary noise
there by the swamp,
a growl or a roar,
oh my,

it's a moody blue
birthing a wintry spleen,
listen to the complaint,
*to hell with lyrical,
my silly vein drain I shall!

It was a time
of giants
with a fetiche
on rhymes.

When flowers
grew their colours
to turn dinosaurs
into birds,

a giant-she
asked a giant-he
for a rhyme to inspire
a mix of wings and sorrow.

Hard task this was,
even harder than inking
the petals palette!
Just snap out of it, said he,

the giant, *and let's make love.

So, there was this ant
who had a crush
on an elephant.

In an amazing stunt
the ant made a shunt
and grew a trunk

unaware that the elephant
in the love steam
shrank into elegant.

For ever happily
they would have lived
in halved size and size enhanced

if it wasn't for
the nosy omnivore
fond of trunk shanks.

castaway i foster my horizon
in shaded bows of silenced colours
castaway i foster my horizon

a shattered moon dilutes its glow
stills the humming river, its restless flow
in shaded bows of silenced colours

suspended willows wave a melancholy
in a lullaby for the unborn me
stills the humming river, its restless flow

dark hills and far echoes of loss and shall
faded memories in paused negative
in a lullaby for the unborn me

hirsute halt of uneasiness in being
almshouse but serving you not your wish
faded memories in paused negative

shattered humming of drifting glow
castaway i foster my horizon,
almshouse but serving you not your wish
castaway i foster my horizon

16.11.14

Life walks by
and in a useless longing
I dive into the crowdy time.

Then, unexpectedly,
a chord fills my mind,
words arise together
sieging me in opacity,

in a growing uneasiness
of a mouth full of marbles
that finally fall
with a heart rythm
as omen stones of a sybil voice.

[14.11.14]

then
he made a gesture

like a farmer with a full hand of seeds
he made a gesture
and colours spilled over the world

and words

like water coloured worlds
dripping in my window sill

flooded in

waves
of forbidden wanting
in a dispersion of me
luths and flutes
silky veils and a galaxy

i made a gesture

walls of cold glass
intangible all the colours

his sail is a wing
a hiatus in the blue
hollowing me

i tie an iron ribbon
to my heart
and watch it
drowning

silently

12.11.14

a golden dusk

this blindness

rising a sun
in the sidereal night

my vortex

spiralled path
from nothing
to nothing

a golden dusk

delusion

11.11.14

aligning words
and kindled fireflies
as digging for a heart

I take my pencil
and draw two lines,
two points of escape
into the horizon line.

I draw a road
to walk through
the white blindness
of time.

I picture myself
on the road,
two points of leakage
behind, to drain the void.

Happily I get lost,
in the round bend of the road,
and become a hobo
in a new found equator.

[10 w]

Without you,
would I fit
a rhyme
in spiraled rythm?

A heart beat, skipping beat, flat
falling wing, diving wave, oh my,
a high to ride, taking pride, coastal
to dream land, drums and hails, ****,
whose cry?, snoring beast!, ****.

i n k l i n e . o u t l i n i n g . i n s u r m o u n t a b l e . t h i r s t . s u b l i m e d . e m o t i o n . c o r r o s i v e l y . m o v i n g . i n . b l a c k . f e e d i n g . o n . w h i t e . a . b l o o d . s t r e a m . v e r s e s . t o . f i n d . y o u . v e r s o . o f . m e . w h o . a . c o n t o u r . a . i n k l i n e .

What should I do?

He doesn't have a clue.
He doesn't give a ****.

Shall I tear in pieces?,
bleed my hearted will out?

Too **** sick and tired of that.

I choose...
Las Vegas' lights kind,
a singing lesson,
a vibrant red
to dismiss greyness,
this shadow in my eyes.

I choose...
to feel it all piercing me
and yet to dance

(finally!)

              and so

I call upon
my african soul
and summon
a storm.

There.

Daddy's little girl
is dancing in the yard.
Daddy, look at me.
Dad is long dead, now.
I am dancing, she says.
She spins, clamsy,
pirouettes,
bows,
pas de deux by a single.
Daddy, look.
Skies are wide blue
and the girl is spinning,
the globe under her feet
goes round and round,
faster and faster
and then
she jumps
to the other side of the moon,
unseen darkness in blue light.
Daddy, I am sorry,
I will dance no more.

Lit me up, yes he did, in colour,
all shinny, smile up, in collar.
So he did, lit me up,
hanged up, candle tree!
Short circuit, he flashed, end of war.

I was feeding
my heart on iron
to have it sunk
in a river bed

when it turned
into a dandelion,
blown away
in a stirred tide
of wishing you.

It spread all over,
its blossom, a velvet sigh,
winded by the wings
of a humming bird.

Folly ma'm flings a blast: dress down gown
in bright red wrinkled laugh; she walks down,
hands on twist, scheduled swing
(time's a thorn, **** ticking...
to hell that!) Rock's turned on old downtown!