My mind is an ocean
An ecosystem
Populated by thoughts that swim like fish.
My pen is a submarine,
Taking me places never seen before
The sea life down here are alien and beautiful.
The birds fly overhead
Never seeing past the surface,
Swooping down to catch a fish or two,
Never imagining the colourful creatures
Who reside in the lightless depths

He sat,
sweetly serenading
the elderly lady.
Their hands
were clasp,
and she relaxed
as the pain
of living
slowly faded.

This was his gift
to take something
many were happy
to give.
With soft words
and strange energy
he channeled
his humanity.

A willing ear
open to hear
all songs
and melodies
of heart ache
and physical pain.

So, he sat
and passed
a chicken sandwich
to a strange old woman.
He listened and heard
all that she said
with and without words,
and for a moment
just a brief interlude
in the darkness
of her daily life
there was a sense
of love and kindness.

Hazel eyes
of cosmic wisdom
and compassion
he did not
see strangers in pain
and walk past them.

He sat,
with a sobbing stranger
who needed someone to listen,
gave him a ride,
let him use his cellphone,
and spent more then
a minor moment
willing to hear
what the stranger had to say
as tears moved
across a tattooed face.

Maybe it was
a fruitless endeavor
to expend energy
on people
society
had discarded,
the deeply scarred
and charred bits
of burnt out
hearts,
maybe one moments
is not enough
time to undue
a lifetime of abuse,

but he sat,
kind hearted
ears open
and willing
listen.

The flood rose rapidly.

Willie sought refuge
in the only available
space long enough
to accommodate him.

From a similar position
on the opposite side of
the living room over the
mantelpiece, was where
Mrs Eaton took the first
shelfie of her son Willie.

Some died in the Spring;
and some by the river, deep
in Winter beneath a bridge.
Some died alone by a tree
behind a repossessed house;
and some with their cats
at home, quiet as a mouse.
Some died reading bills
that come in the mail;
and some reading the part
number, reaching for a fan
belt hanging on a nail.
Some died with a flyswatter
in hand, toilet paper in a screen
door, dead flies on the floor;
and some like heat lightning,
fast as a sick baby’s breath.
Some died without a warm, caring
woman’s hand on a forehead;
and some sharing a last cigarette.
She, my old lover who loved danger,
died on the side of the road
in the arms of a stranger.

A brisa que teima em não chegar…

Insetos que pernoitam com ervas daninhas,
Formigas que teimam em sementes arrecadar,
Cigarras apaixonadas com zumbidos de encantar,
Estrelas do céu abandonadas e sempre sozinhas…
Mas queridas e amadas pelo brilho do luar.

E eu continuo sentado para a brisa receber,
Vivendo na harmonia e amando cada ser.
Contemplo tudo e vejo eterna beleza,
Nas coisas pequenas existe grandeza.
Os passarinhos no meio das vinhas não parecem perturbados,
Lagartixas castanhas, lagartos esverdeados…

E tudo com a noite fica adormecido,
Outros seres despertam sem qualquer sentido,
Rãs, sapos e grilos que grande alarido….
A brisa chega com leveza e sem contas para dar,
E eu aqui dando beijos a tudo que eu quero sempre amar…


Victor Marques