The rain trickles
down the side of the house
turning the garden
into a soup
of mud and dead tomato plants
while she dances
in a yellow raincoat
and bright boots
waving at the camera
as a silvery voice promises
hot chocolate.

November first, all saints
Celebrated canonised or not.
Recognition left as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.

For sinners accomplishing
Something worthy of holiness,
Something worthy of humanity,
Its nature, the Universe.

Compassion, aidance, honesty.
Truthfulness, chastity intended
In its purest sense. November first,
Olive picking day for me.

Harvesting season's yield
After the longest drought as I feel,
The warmth of an obstinate sun
Pierce skin through bones

To my very core. The same,
Beams granting abundance
Of golden juice to the gently
Reaped pearls of black and green.

From fingertips runs
An inundating sense
Of blessing, intrinsic unity
Of substance shared.

Only anticipating taste,
Fluidity slithering on tongue,
An exquisite elixir caressing
Palate as globules fall like rain

From branches onto
Sheets meticulously laid.
An event unknowing solitude
For it demands collective efforts,

While the distant village band
Plays hymns to the dead I praise
The living and their worth,
Waiting to imagine hundred

Kilograms render seventeen
Precious litres of ******
Olive oil. Chastity unfolding
In its purest form.

Winter peeks
shyly
into early November,
d  o  t  t  i  n  g
the grass with white flakes-
but,
by midday,
she retreats from
all the
attention.

Hold on to yourself
Nothing is as it seems
You simply can´t tell
What goes on behind the scenes

Hold on to someone
Who doesn't bring you down
and alone in front of everyone
Looking like a clown

I can't say I understand
No one really does
Let´s live in a dreamland
And break all the laws

Hold on to yourself
Don´t feel pressured to transform
You can't always tell
When your whole soul is gone

2. November 2017

I saw a farmer fly a plane
Above the clouds, I saw his hand
Lift up the burden in his arm
In the air, he tossed the seeds

The swift cold breeze headed South
Dragged them downwards to the ground
Each was scattered all around
To various sections of the land

A seed fell down the good soil
It grew healthy, nice and strong
The sun looked down, it looked up
Water sprinkled; it received

A seed fell down the grasslands
It grew weak, sad and stubborn
The sun looked down, it looked down
Water sprinkled; it got none

A seed fell down the stones
It grew speedy, tall but weak
The sun looked down, it trembled
Water sprinkled; was too late

A seed fell astray by the wayside
It stayed asleep and sprouted none
The sun looked down, and water sprinkled
The fowl passed by and ate the seed.

Our hands paint intimate conversations
on the canvas of our flesh.
We speak without word or voice,  
guided by the whims of our breath.
In the ebony of this night, I am not afraid
Because my heart is bound to yours
with a ribbon of November silk.  
I consider for a moment, the way
your flesh responds to my touch.
The moonlit ebb and flow
of shadows upon your skin,
glittered with sparks of ecstasy.
Lying beside you, I close my eyes
And you turn towards the cave of my neck,
taking your rightful place in my arms.
My heart quickens in anticipation
of the intimate moment when
Our breathing becomes one and
I am unsure of where I begin
and end in this embrace and
I do not care because I am certain
at this moment I do not need to exist
Apart from you.  
The chemistry of our breath swells
with the nectar of dreaming  
and I catch a waning glimpse
of a glowing butterfly fluttering
in the aether above us.
I will never untie this November silk
to loosen the tether between us.
I do not want to be alone
in the ebony of this  night
without a word to say,
Without someone whose heart
is bound to mine.