The setting sun blaze
Ignites the cream stucco
Plaster wall of the house -
Despite the cracks
And crumbling.
Who would take fire
From a home under siege.
The painter understands the colors
To interpret what the sky wants to say
Stepping side to side in his work.
Where the West star sings
And the high tide heaves
In heavy gray.
He works thick impasto strokes
With blended oil
So the sun will shine
On my back again.
The painter shuffles
Side to side
And the sunset brings long
Shadows to my door.

a Proustian quest for original wonder gets illuminated among pine, olive, palm trees
the eye needs delicacy and moderation to grasp the breeze of thoughts
is it the soul or an architect of joy who blends the harmonies in a pointilist smile on my face
an atmospheric fluidity in my hands between land, sea and light

When happy she's like
        Sugar
When angry beware!of the
         Slipper
She loves us like no other
Oh that's a mother
    That's my mother
No words to describe her struggle
Without her home is nothing
With her home is garden
       Oh she is my mother

The world looks better
when it’s not looking back.
a photo doesn’t ask you
to pay rent
or get sober.

it just sits there
pretty
quiet--
crooked
honest in a way life never is

Thy eyes
they lie.
the camera doesn’t.
it just
clicks.

It Just captures !

The sinking sun is now undone,
                       the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
                       for midnight lies ahead.

Beyond the heap, the honchos sleep
                       with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
                       at least, that's what they've said.

Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
                       in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
                       while spinning silken thread.

But as it stands, in conquered lands
                       a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
                       on stones they call a bed.

With aching eyes they fantasize
                       and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
                       now dining with the dead.

A warm wind touched my face.
I walked out into the open space,
I saw a blurry, fading horizon.
Somewhere, you are,
I am here, after a sleepless night,
Writing another reflection,
Tired like an empty battery.

I do not like the masks that shout.
The fight over who is right.
I do not want an analysis.
I touch the bark of the tree,
I hug the birch with my arms.
I see its white pages,
Written with irregular lines,
Torn, fluttering in the wind,
Which I cannot read.

Her eyes look straight into me,
They understand –
How well they understand me.
The rustle of leaves lessens the tension.
Autumn will come soon,
The summer wind whispers to me:
This country, this language,
These people, these doubts.

This is not blind luck,
This is your blessing,
Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart,
Falling hair, joy when relief comes,
Crying into a pillow –
So as not to disturb another’s dreaming
About the so-called reality.

Bare feet touch the ground.
I tread carefully on the edge of worlds,
To be both here and there
With my integrity.
I am everything and nothing.
I am gestures, epilepsy,
The belief that I see human thoughts,
Inconsistent with what they say.

Blue, sun, and somewhere you.
How good that you stayed.
When everyone was saying:
She is different,
She talks to ghosts.
You stayed, showing me
Your true face.

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Pppppp Poetry.

You're on your own again,
Take a walk on that endless green glen.

It snows heavy over our missing puzzle pool.
I need some fresh air for my burning young heart, for it to cool.

That blindfolded searching, turns into a flu
What would it take to hop on that time machine, making it all undo,
To feel the stillness when the erasure happens to that stuck tattoo?

It hurts my chest when i realize one more lie, the more i find
Cannot even drink five bottles of Baileys to drink you out my mind
The last lesson branch i must hold on tightly is our bond and that it was glorified...