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

days' crumble,
in blue-pencilled
idling.

one step one day

love's ecstasy,
a roadkill
losing itself
in the rearview,
in a zombified sway

one day one step

stuttered thrive,
now you will,
now you won't,
oh but the horizon
is a watercolour
and you hold a rainbow
on a string

one step one day

one night
all the way,
you know it,
its lava bubbling,
hollowed in black

one day one step

nothing lays ahead
and it doesn't matter,
your mumbling
was meant to be,
childish like,
learning to walk
failing the fall

one step one day

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 burial.

another,
again.

there
will be
no tomorrow.

children die.

mothers bury
the unripe fruit
of their womb.

who has
turned out
the light?

smothered.
the word(s).

a hissed
centipede,
the millepede
of lowering fear.

a smoothed
inner cracking.

this crater
of smoky numbness.

*(why can't i tell
you
my love?)

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.

northern lights, purple
pulse of sidereal fairy
- dazed heart, clinging.

poetry,
this palette
of deranged
chords,
in falsetto,
the impossibility
in my dreams,
to be gifted
to you.

clouds
like waves
in the stormy sky.

worn out,
the silence
- it sounds
rusty.

time
ticking you away

and you don't know
what it means

like that tree in a
slow motion death.

how could you tell it,
listening to the birds
in the still light?

to my dear me,
appearing still in three d

i remember you
playing catch with me
trying to out run me
childishly and laughing

i remember you
grimacing a svelter figure
composing a pose
with some lover

i notice often now your alarm
for this unidimensional you
gets plural in the downing of days
and you look for which of me is you then

but which of you is me then
is really what's troubling you
because don't you see it you're growing flat
and i surely dream not of roundness

so dear me in such a
dimension of extinction
oblige me and let me catch you
you my antumbra from my point of view

you run out of light i am a lesser pale shade of you
we know we shall fully fit into a penumbra

                                                       ­                                  your devoted shadow

sparsing shadow
blended in distance

blurred memory
bended by time

one by one,
all the lines
of her silence,
manuscripted,
brought
before him,

one by one,
all the lines
on her hand palm,
all of her lives,
bringing her
before him.

and one by one,
all of it,
dropping,
down the royal
stairs, into stone,
before him.

There is
no dark.
Nor light.

Just me.

Feeling.

Filled.
Empty.
Refilled.
Empty again.

**** it.
I am not a bottle!
Here,
watch me
splinting
a dumb heart.

There.
No dark.
Nor light.

Who cares?

A daily hunger
that doesn't show.

Who cares?

A daily trip into that gag,
banished by reproach.

Who cares?

A daily path of reach
and retreat, retreat.

Who cares?

Who'd notice
if I'd not be there?

I don't care.

I've rested my case
and refuse to declaim.

day falling
slightly
scented
moss
and dew

quietness
of a garden
bursting
yellowish brown
a redful will

a bench
on the side

its emptiness
its vacancy

i see it

splintered night,
the thorn tree
of stars,
all falling.

hours
of broken glass.

Discretely.
Seemingly distracted.
Just let it slide,
kind of in a "oops" way.
Get it over.
It will not matter.

je veux te voir,
et si ta voix
me le disait un jour,
je veux te voir,
que de déserts
je m'en ferais revenir,
au mirage de ton regard!
hélas, mon ombre
s'est éprise de moi
et toi, tu ne le sauras pas,
que moi, je te l'aurais dit,
je veux te voir.

say my name

please say my name

and this mist inside
will dawn in the alarm
of self awareness

please say my name

fill the outline of me
and this unrest
will engulf the dam

please say my name

and say it gently
as if you'd have found me
finally

say it gently
as if you'd want to kiss me
deeply

please

how easily
all can be
forgotten

tomorrows
empty of bygones

no other sorrow
than a slight
longing

the longing
of a sailing ship

waving at the shore

the distant shore

subway

crowded
half empty
empty
and again

all day long

took every direction

as if
i too
had a destination

wherever to

Once upon a time:
that was the story
never to be told

but a serotinal wind
made the falling leaves
fly and vivid colours

looked for a canvas.
Blurred and unimpressive,
the story remains unread.

shivering candles
on a yellow brick road,
silently taken,
one by one,
by a grasping darkness.

shallow life.

the weight
of pebbles
left still,
no depth into light.

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.

i step down
(again)
from the mercy of hope

i enter the deepness
of invisibility

                               this
                     wintry
             frozen
landscape

here
        i stand
        blinded
all by myself

conjuring time and
its sourly blurring
of awareness
into a slight regret of
a what

and

as i drift afar       into the mist

i cry and it is okay
because
there
d        is
a
  o      no
r

Gritty paths,
escorting
whispering creeks;

stirred orchards,
laying a blossom
in aniseed breath;

a house in ruins.
Home.
Hardly.

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

spinning
spinning
round and round
the walls of a well
my centre
a round light
a crescent
a last quarter
a crescent
a round perfection
unreachable centre
spinning
spinning

not to drown

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?

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.

As the night unfolds
its quietness,
and distance
is silenced,
and movement
is carpeted
into echoing
rumbles,

a sight unveils
all once blinded
by day light,
by the hazardous
ransom of rush,

and it appears
before me
what lays
within
a trap of sand,
breaking down
the bones of will,
grinding morrow
into the narrowness
of a held back
gesture,

it appears
before me,
naked
like a stillbirth,

my solitude.

half way there
- half a wing,
a colour by half.

sat for a while,
halved the moon,
half of an orange,

yummy!

what ever half there
- way, wing and colour -
met me halfway,
in total eclipse.

beauty.
the dark oneness.

Worldly life picks out
each one of us:
the main character
upon a stage for delusion.

Cheers and spotlights,
special effects solace;
frights, fights, sighs,
all but blind spots.

Main characters
of make-believe...!
Wordy life feed on us:
now you are, now you are not.

fighting
impenetrability:

whys,
whatfors.

working hard
in a garden's recovery.

weeding.

endlessly.

no use.

Friday night
And I am at Hello Poetry.

What else?

[to the thousands of men, women and children fleeing their war-torn countries.]*

Adrift,
this huddle of fear
in the starless night.

Adrift,
this frieze-like
of carved anguish
surging in heavy
striped hearts.

Flimsy shores
draw an old world,
of other lords,
greedy of their pastures.

Plundered, ravaged,
preyed upon,
adrift
- who will see
our human face?

my whole life
i lived here:

this shallow wind,
folding,
unfolding
wavy dunes,

an elusive
bloom
of sandy
swirls.

nights'dark
always drowns
in the silver
of glowing moons.

the warmth of days?

i do keep
saving it,

in bottles,

lost to
no longer
known address,

with its fireflies inside.

all but mirages

every bridge
every reach

just as hopeless

All the déjà-vus

Cut copy paste repeat

Packing time every time
in a time of endings

Always passing by,
bypassing

Senseless

Useless

My will is thirsty
and no fountain
is to be reached

Will you see me off, darling?

For me, pretend
a minding fairwell,

pack me a smile

for me to take
in my journey

Death,
into whom
did I turn
in the turning
of time?

Where lays the child
the woman
and all the lovers
once longed for her?

Am I this
elderly woman?

Laying
in this coffin,
sweaty in the cold
(colder than fear:
who glued my lips?),
glimpsing
my still hands
through a slit
of my blue eyes.

What's the use
of the world,
now my voice is gone?

I can no longer
bring this world to life,
to lively truths and lies.

I will deliver it all to fire
as I throw my body into the flames.

And I forget.
And I am forgotten.

[6/6/14]

Early light in gold,
fresh hay in the dew gloss:
teardrop aquarelle,
outlining our hands' depart
as, still, i watch your sleep, quiet.

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

Wanderer,
on howling hope
love charms are weaved.

Stay for a while
in my porch,
hum a melody
and dance with me.

The night will linger,
all words hollowed,
all roads erased.

Yet, wanderer,
for just a while,
if you will,
enchant hope,
unchain this burst.

they come
filthy
cursing

a swarm
in a hailing grasp

fear stains
cripples
rapes

we learn
the dormancy
of the ripped

here, silence echoes
the vibratos
of distant forests,
its longing.

sandbox.
for castles
to be washed away.
the heart needs
to be fed.
magic wand.
now you see it,
now you don't.
play with it,
jongleur,
the moon sand.