what is the matter,
he asks,

unable to see,
maybe unwilling,

that there is
no matter
to nothing.

built a dam
****** the flow
to rock me
in a nebula
of aphasia

damask and silk
amniotic velvet
all five senses
spelling your smile
the touch of your voice

It was a hollow
- like a starvation
unawarely eerie -

and then...

To be handed
words,
their mellow core,
a mouthfeel like a heartcoating:

a moisture in the desert sand,
this withering height of a not-for-me-love.

take me

to dance

barefoot,
on the sand

dionysian,
the fire

take
me

[10 w]

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

spoiled brat,
your complaint's
but bragging!

look around,
take a deep look,

and start over,
empty hands!
maybe then
you'll grow a heart.

Words:
whispering sybils
of concealed worlds.
In betweens and beyonds,
somewheres and nowheres,
truths for making believe.

Words.

Carmine nostalgia of the unexperienced.
Utopia upon a time.
Windmill wings to grow a heart,
flavours and scents of new seen worlds,
tangible places pulsating in snow globes,
cosmogony of what is not.

Words:
scribbling, engraving a forever world.

in dancing shoes
and sparkling laces,
the puppet leans

in a shed string net
- comets' tails blown
like a last match
in the night of snow.

the puppeteer never was.
she tugged the chords
and watched him drift.

she leans, but to rise
a melancholic moon
in strings of orange gold.

The abyss is my realm,
there, furthest,
where all light lives
to taint black my being.

There, in deep dark,
a tantric hiss
scales my harmony,
my core longs.

Here, amongst you,
my locks, my wings,
all veiled, eons
concealing my search.

And he finds me.
He faces me.
I gift him my blood
and shield his sail.

His sword is sheathed,
he looks into the faraway.
In his eyes, I wait for
his voice to tell my core.

frozen flow in
walls of liquid ice

my hands
whose hands

time in tip toes
round and round

musical box
turned over

the tin soldier
sails his boat

steadfastly
for a danseuse

mirrors shed
who i see

take a full hand of words
in a worldly language
and sprinkle the lines
with as much of something
as you can; carefully,
not to split out.

if you reach a slight resemblance
to whatever you meant,
be happy and contented:
that's what you're allowed,
sometimes, but never more
than the transparency of an esquisse,
half-way to incompleteness.

still, you did your best
- and your best-outlined-somehow-you
will stand there, in the open,
a threshold no one really sees,
not even when you think they do.
*(the one in the mirror went silent.)

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.

blank ink

hiccup

split
        slip
flee

no flight

nor fight

i wake up

a wings' flicking,
a gentleness
of waves
crashing far,
like the wind
beyond the window

i wake up

all stolen away,
every shade,
every string,
every crimp,
flattened
- fiat lux untold

i wake up

it looks the same
fear, too, is the same
what is this lacking?
what am i missing?
a moss echoes
in a violence of tides

i wake up

night fell,

clouds
crowding
a tumultuous sky.

in the darkening far,
houses alight into homes.

near, top of the hill,
bells await
enrobed
in the lit silence
of the tower,
lighthouse
in a darkening dark.

time
will pass by,
hurrying,
carried by the
echoed ringing
into a dissipated horizon.

far, far,
the stroke,
the echo,

reverberations
cradling
some melody
on loneliness.

Vacant.
An empty house.
Seldom glimpsed.
Unsuitable.
Ineligible for love.

mountains lay ahead
like dark seas, starless skies

the thickness of a blind fear

death's inviting hand,
its fullness of nothing

the gravel awaits the steps

no yellow brick road, no one
who'd join, for a bit, the journey

can an absence grow a heart?

had a cup of tea
it was icy cold

mended a heart
it was out of date

looked up
there was nothing

took a peek within
it was wide shut

put it all to rest
went for a dock in blue

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.

knots.

made of
knowing not
why not.

all i did not,
all i do not.

out of not
unknotting
what was not
knotted,
no, it was not.

so linear.
just
let it be
and move on.

or not.

a green screen,
the imaged voice
in my head.

all is
but
what it is.

and when
spring comes,
wounded trees
bear a blossom
in their own blood.

[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.

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.

slimy moldy time

in the slum,
the slumber seclusion

dusts at dusk

blind,
blind and bound

the dark pound
misledly paints

water lilies
stained pains

a palette,
diluted

like the house
upon a dune,
dawning in the arms
of a salty sea windy,
a hoarsy rust
foreclosing the ways
inside, a home of
a hoarder, yet
a would-be-minimalist,
kind of a patine,
riddling scratches
of drifters.

The shortest straw?! The sharpest sword!

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

buried my feet
in the river bed
deep in a freezing time
incapable to choose to flow or drown

got rid from the sand
looked for wings
tried a life-lift in the aurora
the heart heavy on a love consistency

neither sandy or fancy
could ground me or root me
all fails its gravity pull
extraneously i stare the flutter of my feet

je t'ai jamais dit
maman
et on était
plutôt amères
on était peut-être
jalouses
ta vie dérobée
ma vie saisie
par la peur
de quoi
je n'en sais rien
je t'ai jamais dit
maman
il nous a fallu
un mot
un geste
et moi
je suis restée là
dans ce geste inachevé
où j'ai vidé ce que
je t'ai jamais dit

Yep,
that's me,
all right.

Carving
my heart:
Do remember.
Do not trust.
Do not hand it.
Erase it.
Let it go.
Never mind.

Then -
whenever it gets to be -
it's like
after a bad night sleep:
everything just got
under a darkner
shade of grey.

Yep.
Pain killer.
Like in
life choker.

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.

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.

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

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.

She accepted
the crayon
and drew
a transparency
to step across
the mirror.

Living on
horizons
long forgotten,
she sprang from fire,
her love affair,
a tale of fairy.

The baobabs grew,
feeding on her,
shredded the glass.
A darker night
devoured the moon,
diluted her crayon.

Then came the day after.
She rose
and drew a crayon.
She accepted lucidity
feeding on transparency.
She took a step.

Are you the man I dreamt about?
I do not know
because you are the man
I chose to love
the way you were.

Yes, my life once had a glow,
I shined in the light of a purpose.
I expected us to be unexpected
and to smile at each other
in the discovery of that change
taking place in an invisible way.

You hold my love, you say,
but you don't hold me as then
in fear of losing me,
making sure I was for real.

We kept moving through time
side by side, insulated alone,
both choosing silencing ourselves,
avoiding convulsions,
suicidally.

Love is a hopeless fool.
Can you not see it in my eyes?
There is an eternal longing,
yes, for feeling to be loved.
This does not feel to be loved.
Unloved, lying next to you,
I am cold. You are cold.
One can not disguise
loneliness.

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!

wind and fear,
wind and fear!

la sècheresse.
comme au désert.

thirsty.
thirsty!

drawn in distance,
a blurred spot.

yet i am
the wilderness itself,

a rush of light
across the dunes,

a whirl of singing sand.
and you know nothing.

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 river flows
and giggles.

Sails wide unfurl,
the man in the bow
allows the horizon
to be born in his eyes.

In the man's hands
there is a land,
a shore,
for him to name.

The river flows  
and giggles.

A willow in a sand bank
is no geography,
only a choreography
in the amphitheater.

The river giggles
and flees, in its flow.

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...!

a willow
however
stands

shallow waters

pebble stones
scattered

all the words

a cadency
of rusty hinges
hanged doors

sour, the dam

aligning words
and kindled fireflies
as digging for a heart

i lit a cigarette
in the cold night

in the window glass
a light burns to
the pace of a lighthouse

i think of you and
drift in a flickering sky

The house is now silent,
as if always it was this calm -
all asleep, all tidily done -
and in a thoughtful gesture
she reaches for the quilt,
grabbling for the needle minder.

In her mind, a coloured trickle
of threads draws upon the
inlaid tree branch - oh, the blossom
would happen before us,
would we look it trough her eyes
- as she picks a flaming orange
for the feather stich
and an ocean blue one
for a stich of satin feeling

and - there!, it starts showing,
the bird she nested for so long,
that bird bursting into songs
- now and forever catching your eye
here, molded by her hands.

It is so late, now.
Slowly, the unfinished quilt
is folded, threads and needle kept away.
The bird in esquisse flutters in her heart,
watching her stepping down
into the dark frown of the bedroom.

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

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!

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.

words words words.

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

silence thus glides.

a shore for stranding.