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Zywa Sep 2019
Flower bouquets: life

at home, smelling delicious –


and we smell as well.
Back home from the Health Care Centre of Our Lady

Collection "Life line"
Zywa Feb 22
Life is a pity,

do something, then you will find –


your motivation.
“He is your friend, let him dream” (1971, Jack Kerouac)

Collection "Actively Passive"
Zywa Oct 2019
It's no longer
what it used to be, often
you are not there, not with me
darling, that's not good
because you love me

Your tendrils grow close to me
bars around my freedom, darling
that's not good for me
not good for you

You like to discover the world
by my hand, proudly
show the princess you lead
by your steady hand, as far
as you dare to go

to change and to embrace
more than you already know
but more often, you are not there
not with me, not by my side
and darling, that's not good

Don't sit there crying
like you want to die
I have delicate wings
that you hurt and bruise
darling, that's not good
“Oh! Darling” (1969, Paul McCartney)

Celtic symbolism: Gort (the Ivy), that attaches itself strongly and can strangle a tree; the Ivy should be guided by Guinevere (the faery bride) and the Butterfly (the symbol of the belief in fairies)

Collection “Lilith's Powers" #91
Zywa Feb 11
How do you count from zero to one?
Does the new year start with
the bursting of the buds?
my life with birth?

or already in winter
when
mother's belly and buds
are thickening? in summer

with the very first molecule?
or is there no beginning, only
hunger
and a devouring mouth

digesting the tail of the old
into an eternal serpent –
the symbolic zero
that does not symbolize anything

that really exists
or it should be me
and you, we human beings
who can no longer do without it?
Ouroboros

Collection "Lilith's Powers" #0
Zywa Jan 3
My first steps outside,

a wide footway, in my head –


festoons everywhere!
Rehabilitation

For Maria Godschalk #102

Collection "Once more"
Zywa Nov 2020
My first loves, a game:
the cool boys in the breaks
for which school was good

and in the weekends with lies
confirmed by my dear brother
evenings of fun in disco and club –

the true, my real, life
Get a berry, we're not leaving
not going to bed. The bike will wait

we stay, chatting and laughing, free
we are, because mum doesn't know
and is not worried
For Judith Woestenberg #3

Collection "The Big Secret"
Zywa Jun 2019
I am sitting on the full power
of 210 horses, running
across Rooster beach
I exist, I live
ouring fast

my soul devours the surf
and the dune, the landscape
of my freedom, my dream
and reality fall together
on the border of the sea and friends

where I embrace my Norton
strong, autonomous, and free
I create image by image
life from my desires
I create love in myself
For Maria Godschalk #52

B EAU FORT is the name of the sculpture park on the Belgian coast

Collection “The migration”
Zywa Nov 2020
After waking up

being quite yourself again –


as new as the day!
Collection "Once more"
Zywa Sep 2020
Pyjama days of being ill
with closed curtains
thinking of being free
with closed curtains
enjoying each other

Being ill is an ardent desire
for sparkling energy
sunlit rooms
never sleep again
sing, laugh, feed

one another tirelessly
and suffer at the most
from the desire
to be immortal
with friends
Collection “Mosaic virus”
Sammi Yamashiro Aug 2020
Why is all the world light, and I am small underneath?
Just a black bottom under this apple tree?
Why am I in the limelight, the foreground?
The light pours no citrus drink, but a cyanide fruit pit pound!

The over-saturated curtains tail my frail feet.
Much busier than a yellow-black bee, bumping till its stinger gets caught in a fabric hemming
and it dies with no one noticing.
The girl who reads, the tree that sifts its rotten leaves;
they care less, less for a discoloration that unfortunately eats at me.

Even when the elders waltz the foxtrot dance so that even my dwarf legs can follow suit,
I will never be quite slow, or fast enough? for all of you.
I disintegrate daily into almost nothing.
I stare, but no one stares at me.

Oh, haven’t I written a piece about shadows and light?
What’s with me! I use the same machine work!
Metaphors, imageries, diction, diction mutating to a deeper fiction. Unoriginal it is!
The masses cling onto clichès with their pointed teeth;
why can’t I, I lodge into that all-inclusion?
Why do I repeat my own themes? Have I never learned critical thinking?
I depend on repetition: same old, same old (did I mention the old ‘same’?)
thing to grasp any new concept!

Maladaptive daydreamer
who cannot conjure up any ink
of fresh difference! What purpose do I hold
in this awful, spineless world?
I am too awfully, awfully simple and dumb
to succeed in any other playing field!
Reality, what foreign entity is she?
Maybe a solemn quiet would do it for me.
(So maybe I’ll have an extended vacation,
and revisit my only talent some other day.)

What do the (sappy) honey-loving poets write on?
The (sawdust) stardust in eye pupils, and
igniting our hearts alight (till it guzzles that red stream and we become only such, and the carpet gets a free dye job).
Apparently, everything pure and worthy is atomized into
(carbolic soap I allow carbonation of its soda acid in my eyes) diamonds.

On the subject of atomic level substances,
let's rehearse the Compton effect:
Heat me up to a hundred keV
like cheap microwave dinner, so that I propel—
whoosh!— tink against metallic beings
till I decrease, and I am powerless.
Each new orbit of opportunity I seize,
I result with less, and the opportunity snatches from me.
Glistening shoe shiner whose price tag appeals to the average Joe,
then I swipe: scuffing up my rounded toe.

She tattooed those other girls’ arrow on herself because:
“I’m pulled back to soar farther,”
yet this stretching has lasted for… months?
Compare this not to a crossbow, but to that of a
medieval rack, that gruesome torture device!
My tissue is tearing asunder, but this is polar from breaking bread!
I ache, I ache, I ache! Isn’t yoga supposed to tranquilize you to a grounded state, not death?

Why is the world so light when I am so heavy?
Why must I “lust for a life” that lusts not for me?
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