Hypnotic days
hypnotic nights
our bodies have burnt
all clothes
and several lives

we are
as hungry as the world
as old
as young

our bodies
two motionless stones
in a mountain river

Ioana Ieronim, from *The Lens of a Flame

Is passion a virtue?
A passion that ingests my inside
The bareness exposed emotions
The slow graphic censorship
A depiction of Zion on earth
A deception ranting with wars

Is dedication a virtue?
A definition of a hard felt path
Preserved with heartfelt zeal
An ember that ceases and glows
Triggered touch of perseverance
Till death does you part in parts

Self restraint for one another
Dedicated to fulfil a purpose
Quests of alternative borders
Armoured in armed negations
Negotiations negative dominion
Should we control sensuality?

Bonjour Mon Cher,
As the stars rise and the moon lights, I meld you deeply. The time we spent together is so fruitful, with explorations of nature and a friendly company.  You whisk my motivation , the very nature of warmth and strength.  There has been times when my willpower to be strong has been crushed and trampled; muddled in the muddiness of the overflowing pond.

As the duck glides on the rippled calm water, I picture your essence. As it strolls on the waters, deep in thoughts yet conscious and aware of its existence; there you are in the calmness, the stillness of the wavelet. As the duck sets to rise, it flutters. I sensed your edginess and the indecisiveness you have burdened all your life. Indeed, your life has been a challenge. Breath in,feel free and submerge in the depths of the ponds. Then rise again and explore the skies above, for brief moments escape in the dense freshness. Set your being  in the briefness of ecstasy, the succinctness of forever. For your essence is ambient and radiant.

My being is filled with warmth and a reminiscence of the great days. The times when the chariots with it’s magnificent horses would flow in the saccharine grounds. The time frame when the yellowish hue of the daffodils bloomed and shone their beauty to the world. The touch cascading the shivers from one neurone to the next in sequenced loops. The ever-condensed electric magnetism. My mind explodes with the synchronicity of the beauty sacrificed by yours. My soul has woken from it’s hibernation, its departing the doorway of the cave. The cave laid with layers of secrets, mystery and mystic existence.

The nip of the earlobe tip is a pleasure I pass. A chance to trace the resonance of my whispers. More so, a declaration of my naiveness. The statue poising on the plinth of the Romany windows in declaration that she does not understand many things. It’s in the whisper her beauty, my representation. The words that she wants to transpire but as such there is never enough time. Neither is there an eternity, but snippets of memories and moments.

Let me deep inside, to see every thought, to hear every dream to touch the breath of every sound. The existence of everyday living is absent and helpless. However, to love one is to embrace all. Someday, I wonder how we exist in such a dichotomy of life. I would like to hold you and touch you. To feel your oneness coursing in my blood and mind. I try and try to see above this existence. To touch and dream of the beauty, to collapse in the core of the humanness. My drug is ingested in the craziness of realness, an authenticity of the façade that we don day in and out.

Yet as the wind we fade in and out. When our insides are hollow and empty, drenching in lonely paths. But we stand un-fainted and feint. In the chaos of uncovering the curiosity and the depths awaiting to be exploded as the volcano boils. I want you to know that I am alive in your presence, I am real, I am me. This is one of the very rare connections I have had and I respect it. Hope not to whelm with my ambiguousness or eccentricity. I have no expectations and I am not wanting to be owned or own. Tis’ you giving the hungry eyes and Tis’ me who hope you can see beyond my interior.

In retrospection and introversion, welcome to the pleasures and treasures.

Be you,
SassyJ

Arthur Burning Arrow
had a lot of talent.
He could capture the salient
parts of the story.

He painted a picture
of a red  river
and the first White settlers
crossing the plains.

He took a lot of pains
with clouds you could feel.
Dust you could sneeze.
Tall grass up to a horse's knees.

Our teacher said
That's a horrific painting!
I thought it was terrific.

Just sayin.

I swear, all I could see
were burning wagons
for a thousand miles.

poetry
a blue snake
stretches from one to the other
it breaks the shop window
it coils insiduously
around those driven
from the street into the house

it binds hands and learns to cry
the utterance at the service of power
don't throw the mantle of clouds
off my shoulders
remember
in the beginning was the word
in the last night
distorted

eventually
there remains poetry insinuated
like a blue snake
into the cup full of tears

Carmen Firan
*translated by Andrei Bantas