"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love

We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands

She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up

I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't

She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly

The will o' the wisp is
displayed on the screen of
conventions. There are those
who pretend to decipher it;
by borrowing philosophical speculations from the great
thinkers, they formulate a
critical reading, justifying the
poverty of the lexicon.
They dare to do so.
On the other hand there is
Poetry, sat on a bench
in a park somewhere, on a
rock nearby the ocean, on
an old chair in a remote room
without any other furniture,
on the pillow made with papers
of a clochard,
on the cover of an unabridged
book nobody wants.
On the trembling hand of a
young lover who picks flowers
for her, that remain forever
between the pages of a diary.
Poetry is in the multiplicity of life,
in the thousands layers, either
red or grey, that compound the
variety of the existence. It can't
escape feelings, love, roses,
tears, grief, graveyards and
gardens. And, even when it turns
to be redundant with naivety, it
keeps the greatness of its end
which is nothing else but itself.

I was taken out from my mother's womb by a doctor's hands.
I was taken to my mother for the first milk by a nurse's hands.
I was welcomed to my family with a rejoice by my grandma's hands.
I was cared; when I cry ;by my mother's  mighty hands.
I took my firststep with the support of my father's hands
When I went to school I hold tightly on my sister's hands.
In my college days my hands were in my lover's hands.
After my marriage I hold on my husband's hands
When I become a mother I searched for my childern's hands
As I grew old and weak I walk by holding my daughter's hands.
I was fed my daily meals by my son's hands.
The coffin that I am now is made by a carpenter's hands.
The bouquet which is laying on my chest is made by some other's hands.
So many hands helped me to complete my life..
So many hands are needed to get buried..
I'm waiting for a heavenly hand which could raise me to eternal life...

Nature Nature
My True Teacher.
Gives me all what I want to know.
Makes me happy when I am low.  
From Almost  Everything I see
From the Sky to the Tree.  
Teaches me Endlessly.
If only we all  could truly See
What Nature teaches you and Me.

Happiest sitting in the wilderness
no manicured gardens for me
its the wild in the wildness
the freedom I seek and need.