i tried. i did.
ran out of words.
drained.
so...

Squeaking, the kitchen door swings, unwillingly, in its rusty bends, a nodding, a blinking of astonishment. Where did that girl go in such a sturdy stepping out? She was just sitting there, as the early sun beams poured the yellow of a dusty swirl into the fishbowl. That fishbowl! An empty globe, a void, where she choreographed reddish tailed dreams that wouldn't turn to gold. There, there she goes, in the winding road, her shaggy curls hasting in the summer blue; in her arms, with her scarf looped around it, the glassy fishbowl pulses, waving its bright red scratched tail.

once i married my father
he was such an handsome man

can't you feel
the scent of flowers

anointed in extremis
cryogenically preserved
drowned stillness

i grow flowers
can't you feel the rosemary

once i loved a boy
what was his name

oh the yarn
all knotted

Approaching
the bridge deck.

In the back of my neck,
that feeling:
to be bursting out
of a howling whirling womb

and to come to life
for the first time.

A sudden silence
cloaks klaxons and brakes.
In the metallic height
wire-dancers
hang together
- ghosts
weaving a iron web.

I forget them.
The water below
rocks
a craddlesong

and the riverbank
again is the wild freshness
of green and blue,
frontier undisclosed.

The tunnel lies ahead
to bury my sight

and it sips me
back into the
immured swirl,
colourful masquerade
of lit agony.

A bench, somewhere.
Autumnal sun falling.

Tripping.
Oh, the mumbling!

Restlessly, to envision.
Tirelessly, to believe.
Beyond, above.

Will dress myself up,
ballerina kind.

Can't dance,
so I am told.

But I can act
upon the music,
like in Bremerhaven.

There are horizons
to draw.

words
by millions,
collected them,
a life time,
constellations
pinned,
hanged,
winged,
butterfly like.

pick
one by one,
their weight,
their taste.

empty,
every one.
heavy
like round pebbles
on dried creeks.

summoned the night
upon, laid my wings.

rainbows
gave me up.

sparsing shadow
blended in distance

blurred memory
bended by time

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

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

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.

a condition for disjunction
an empty land on a delusional scape
a void in a vertigo vortex

eulogy on past future tense

search
for utopia

a time
a place
to be

unconditionnaly

deleting
deluting
dispeling
a scattered voice

to thrive
groping
along the blind  alley
leading
nowhere

Not healthy,
I was told,
to need you,
to want you,
this badly
- so badly
I even brought
myself along.

Not healthy,
I was told,
and me and myself
were again unworthy
- and you kept being
unaware of
me being a firefly,
burning a glow
I borrowed from you.

Not healthy,
you told me,
and I resigned
to step down
into my grizzled
hollowed shape.

Alone,
in the self imposed distance,
I lose my voice
and watch
myself vanishing.

*(Why is there still a road
to walk down?)

[for Joe Cole's challenge, Imagination/ever changing clouds]*

How can we endure reality,
that lukewarm dullness,
if we can fly our hearts
in nimbus of paroxysm?

How can reality endure us,
with our wispy layers
of heaped, uneasy, pain,
our eyes in sighs of blue?

How can reality cloud the real,
the true perfection of rain
and the hail to a rainbow,
that we - uncaped heroes - see?

[for Pradip]

Poet, you wish for a sunshine poem...
Rainbows, you know, are the ones you bring.
All hearted, in loneliness, you walk your path
Disclosing unexpected beauty, words painting
Infinite music in aquarelle lights,
Picturing, for us, love for worldly mankind.

Consider, thus, Poet, that your
Humming song, of sweet tones,
Across the skies draws the
Tangible alliance of
Tolerance
Oh, and understanding,
Poet!
Awaken in our hearts,
Driven by good will,
Hence on empathy,
Yauld is our looking
Ahead and around, with
You.

gloom and misery
end happily, rebirth-day
for being human

How to paint the wind?

A distant cry,
the wave of a willow?

The vortex of void,
silencing pain?

The bliss of a breeze,
the fairy touch of hope?

The scent of destruction?
An adventurous flavour?

Ah...!

The swallows are dying
in the redness of leaves.

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.

A story of... Oh my!

Shall it start with I
and run across time?

Will it tell about sighs
and losses of sight?

Could it draw upon the tide
of a thirst that will not die?

Let it borrow instead your eyes,
let it not be told starting with I

for, into this story, adrift of present day,
strayed from the hearted I,

left to the sparse foam of time,
only dids and didn'ts will pour, no whys.

my shadow
unfolded,
captive
of a blind night.

dazed,
straying,
time feeds on days,
unanchored.

They say
rêverie
made
the human heart.

I say
we first unfolded
our heart
gazing at trees.

Hypnotically
we watch the dancing leaves,
waving green,
flamboyant canvas,
single brown hanging on.

Delusionally,
we learn the longing,
we portrait our storms,
we are taught transitoryness.

Is this not
why, as a child,
we handed leaves
- the most special ones -
to eternity,
in between the pages
of our favourite books?

A spring like afternoon.
So,
I walked my thoughts
in the sun

and picked
here and there
a glance
of other-selves

(the ripest ones
decaying in fallen
houses, the left overs
of bygones and forget-me-nots).

Filled myself
in reddish and bluish,
a euphoric sight flying.
Then, my doorstep.

Gritty paths,
escorting
whispering creeks;

stirred orchards,
laying a blossom
in aniseed breath;

a house in ruins.
Home.
Hardly.

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!

I ran out of words.
No... not words.
I ran out of feelings.
Although...
I ran out of purpose.
Okay, let it go.
I ran out on purpose.
Nope.
This is not it.
It rains. In me.*
There.

J'aime les ponts.
Ils m'obsèdent.
De tout âge, toutes formes.
Des eaux troublées
à en sécher les rivières,
la dérive de la mémoire
en l'hypnose de la pendule,
les branches des saules.
Et ce n'est même pas
la traversée du départ.
C'est plutôt l'arrivée.
L'idée d'arriver quelque part,
comme si c'était chez nous,
finalement.
La ville qui se réveille
comme le dessin pointillé
d'un ciel nocturne
dans une odeur de port,
à l'aube,
le navire emballé par la mer
qui se distancie.
Le contour du pont.
Suspension d'un mirage.
Comment ne pas en rêver,
des ponts?


~~~

I love bridges.
I am obsessed by them.
From all ages, all shapes.
Waters, so troubled
that rivers dried out,
the drifting of memory
in the hypnosis of a pendulum,
the willow branches.
And it is not about
the crossing to depart.
It is about arrival.
The idea of arriving somewhere,
like if it could be home,
finally.
The town, awakening,
esquisse in pointillage
of a nocturnal sky,
the scents of the harbour,
at dawn,
the ship, cradled by the sea,
lost in distance.
The outline of a bridge.
Suspended mirage.
How not to build upon?

fighting
impenetrability:

whys,
whatfors.

working hard
in a garden's recovery.

weeding.

endlessly.

no use.

[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...!

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 far
           far
           far west
amidst loone
             ******
             lonesome forests
lived princely
a hero,
an absolute zero
in love affair
             fairy

one day, a plaid
               a pledge
he hung he hung he sang

to slug chug unplug
his heart
to blund it
blend it
tender it
in nature feast

and there he went
into the wild
and there he found
piled a mild a maiden
of golden locks

oh such a luck
for suckers
      seekers
who lived in loone
                       ******
                       honey moons

he laughs at me,

old, edentulous, wrinkled.

excruciating, the smile,
excrescent.

ecs, ecs, ecs
- the laugh,
cacophonous,
cacographical.

the ruff of an eddy,
abysses of exasperation,

the laughter of time,
voraciously lustful.

To write,
to write it down?

All words
were taken,
in lines of
unrepeatable,
irreproachable
wholeness.

Then,
that sudden whirl.
Words popping,
flooding it all.

To accept:
expression is a drawing
and the self an esquisse
to built upon.
Flaws are expected.
Because it all
comes down to a need.
And that is okay.

(for a.)*

mapped wishes
handed over,
blown into the wind

a path of gold
in dawning roads

sanguine brilliance,
pearled frailty

fallen

flattened
crackling

a tracery
of bones or hands

reaching out
for the ******
of a beginning

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

ocean...

its sound.
the word's.

a suspension
as if you'd
hear your name out loud
somewhere in nowhere,

a rumbled whisper
as if you'd
stumble and fall,

the seashell out of reach,
there, on the edge.

ocean...

In wich realm would such heaviness stop?

I chose painkillers to forget it all
- and it did not calm the heart ache.

I came down the stairs, left it all behind
- and did not find me lighter.

I merged with the landscape
- and stillness and cosmogonic beauty
did not lift the weight.

I reached out, shared my bread and my water,
I deleted me and brought back together I and you

- and there, amongst mankind, learning how
to become a giver, my heart found no chains.

or it breaks you,
life,
so they say,
this or that,
not both.

life?

it makes you
breakable,
grindeable,
unmaked
in maked up,
washable,
faded faces.

it makes you
unbreakable
broken-born ones,
blended
into crepuscules,
bent rainbows
to the absence of light.

take me

to dance

barefoot,
on the sand

dionysian,
the fire

take
me

gentle rain,
flavouring the night
with earthly spring scents,

soak this land,
make it pregnant

- a marsh
or a pond,

white nenufars,
damselflies,
fireflies,

shimmering glows
for blinding the doom...!

placid mirror
in the colding sun
reverberating yellow
in strokes of orange

a rusty dark floats
with a bluish touch
of an absence

the oarsman
is not there

the night cloak
roars nearby

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!

skipping a heart beat
seemingly you,
there, in the crowd

the lightness
of a possiblity
to live,
to hold on

watching kids,
their eyes
tying of shoe laces.
reading the first word ever.
trusting a friendly hand.

dreaming,
of home,
everybody’s there
coloured motion,
disclosing bygones
in now lands

not to cry
when realising
the ephemeral
unreality of hoping

06.05.2016

the girl is sitting
in the door step
in the back of the house

pans in the kitchen
melting caramel scent
smothered voices
in the old radio

kids are playing
bikes and dolls

a hammer
an electric buzz
men repairing
or building

the girl is still

don't move
don't talk
don't dare

she accepted the fear

she doesn't know
no one is
holding her back

as i grow my waist line
and tiredness yawns
over all the to-do's
and the days going by
add infinites of idontgiveashit

one thing i know for sure

this lover i did not kiss
this embrace i could not reach
this charm in that unbreakable mirror

will be the only story
i'll believe to have lived

and in the stupor of the decadents
i will be smiling
i
me
as he would have seen me
if it could have been

Once upon a time,
letters would come,
wrapped in blue,
air mailed,  handwritten:
behave, be brave,
dad loves you
- he was away, in the war.

Behave, she did,
in white uniform.
A first great gift
to remember forever,
a book, short kid stories,
one on the moon, oh so envied
up above, can I reach you?

Words and pages
filling days
brought to life
a love to live, in making believe.
Aramis, not d'Artagnan,
Lancelot, not Arthur,
and a thief master of illusion
and a rebel with a scar
- hearted heroes,
in solitude and grief,
living in love, for one, for all.

Misbehave, she did,
a collage she made,
my kingdom is so not
in this world,
oh such a lonely,
not even silver
nor jolly jumper
were to be found
to walk with her
down the road.

Bravely she tried to thrive,
standing,
a willow by the river,
wind, bring me a bird song
or I'll surely die.

The heart shivers,
is this the chant
she was waiting for?
Words give her back
to the child she was,
on toe tips,
reaching for a moon.

Let her live
in delusion, why not?,
find me in this dungeon,
oh golden hearted,
please be real,
make me believe.

And the child does,
and she can not.
Or can she?
So sorry, daddy,
please understand.

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.

be
beat it
beache it
that itch
catch ******
fetchingly
high jinks
a kite to tie
a sky to sway
off and away
off and away

words words words.

in what language
could we ever say
all that we mean,
ever be seen?

silence thus glides.

a shore for stranding.

[explicit; or whatever]*

I found her there,
in between the red maple trees,
her hand gently disturbing
the water and the frogs
in the darkness of the pound.

I saw her there,
a sun beam in her hair,
the chill awakening her *******,
her hands concealing her ******,
her eyes watering me, arose.

I left her there,
upon a bed of red leaves,
her thighs embracing her warmness,
her breath softly paced down,
her taste in my tongue, watered still.

vacuum.

a stop motion,
on senselessness
of expression.

suspension of self.
cryogenic life,
no cord to the inner core.

i miss a dream.
the one you are.