Tulips and my silence (visual essay for romantic flower lovers)

 

All photos and self-portraits are made by Amapola Blooming. 

The muscle of my love

 

 Presentimiento, from the series Vanitas by Fernando Vicente 
www.fernandovicente.es

In the kindest embrace

and the saddest letting go,

the muscle of my love

longs for touching you

as it hopes to be touched by yours

and stay strong and flexible.

Through between the rusty bars

of the darkest prison,

the fingers of my love

yearn to caress your cheeks

and reach your hands

even for the faintest instant.

The muscle of my love

awakes and reaches out,

stretching its open arms,

languishing to hold you firmly,

to wrap you gently, to feel you softly

in the feeblest of the nights.

Like a dancer who can’t speak

of the future or of the past,

my love for you moves about;

at times clumsily, at times graciously,

as the muscle of my love sings freedom

at the mere thought of your bare beauty.

About lonesome love and other distances

  Winter Sunrise, Sierra Nevada, from Lone Pine, California, by Ansel Adams.

Here I am again:
another still silhouette 
standing helplessly 
among the edges 
of the highest margins.
between clustered clouds 
and vast horizons 
of distant, rising valleys.  

Holding the torch 
of my childish heart 
the unarmoured echo 
of my stubborn words 
gallops loudly. 

Squalling in protest, 
my broken voice 
strides relentlessly 
in resilient, resonant rallies:  

Why don't you?  
Why don't you dare, my love?
Why?

Farewell

 

Dali Ruby Lips source:  www.rdujour.com

When my eyes won't shed a tear
as they silently scream my sadness;

when my lips won't tremble

as they battle my sobbing, bitingly quiet,

then you'll know

that my heart is aching

and desperately fighting

to be the strongest in the longest day

as I wave you farewell

for ever, my love, for ever.

Strength

Every backlash in life is a golden opportunity to rediscover our strength and passionately enact our principles.

To the aching child in me

The Egg by Salvador Dalí

It will all be OK, my baby 

I know how much you're hurting  

But your heart is big and strong, 

like the sea, like the sun 

and you're so beautiful.

On the edges of love

Here's the image:

You and I standing
on the fragile edges of love,
I on yours, you on mine,
arms wide open and ready
to unfold our hovering wings,
capriciously teasing the gusts
and the wheezy tender breeze.

Icarus by Henry Matisse

The question is whether or not

we'll  still be facing other

and if then, without faltering,

together we'll jump into the abyss

and dance to the laughing wind

very softly, and so damn closely

even if it's just for a little while.

Love lullaby

Under the dimmed moon,
the spark of your bright eyes,
lighting up my dreams
as I close mine.

Chagall 'Lovers with Half Moon, 1926

In style

 (Shoe by Christian Louboutin)

I want those glittery shoes 

with skyscraper heels 

and thick platforms.

 I also want to walk in them 

smoothly and gracefully, 

just like Jesus did

on wavy waters.

Amen.

The itch of exhaustion

Definition:

When you realise that still there are
so many great things to do,
but you're anxious and exhausted

and your inner flame is gradually fading
after spending too much time doing things
that made you itchy and feel not as great,

only if...


But if you happen to feel the itch of exhaustion,
grab the chance! let it pierce your heart
and be kind to it, don't fear it, listen to it

because it's telling you that it's time
to live again, to create a star from candlelight,
that same star you always wanted to become,

no matter how big or distant,
or simple and humble,
you'll always shine on,

but only if
you remain true
to your real passion.

So close to happiness (with very little effort)

If only we lived constantly
in the flow of this truth:
that we're far away from being perfect

and so close to happiness!

If only we could forgive 
without any doubt
everything can make sense 

with very little effort.

Funny little speech (reflection on the truth & written very, very humbly)

 What was that shit-whole something all about?

What’s the purpose of it if not to honour the truth in hilarious ways? Why would i speak to all of you with false words and white lies when i know that my little speech could lift or break your spirits? or simply put you to sleep? Why would i be false instead of telling you of the intention of my silly words, which is wholesome, even when i fail to make bloody clear what some whole shit is all about?

Forgive me if I curse, I fucking don’t mean it. Forgive me if I forget to acknowledge your ‘little self’ when I get distracted by my ample ego. Forgive me if you expected me to entertain you like a stand-up comedian, but fuck it! I won't. And this is the simple truth: 'me sucks at jokes, even at cleverly ones'. 

Now

There's no before, there's no after... NOW is the only eternal state of liberation.

Winter romance

No, it’s not the cold outside,

but the warmth in your eyes

that makes my lips tremble;

and I still long for another kiss,

this time with no lies, no ties,

without labels.

Like a magic spell

in this sudden fable,

I confess,

I surrender,

this time I suspect

love is inescapable.

In a maze of doubts,

and haunting shadows

the temple of freedom

patiently awaits us,

as we slowly walk

through icy streets,

holding hands, firmly, tightly,

with smiling hearts

and a world of dreams ahead of us.

Sweet stranger

Fist against my heart

and a long, deep humble bow

for you, sweet stranger.

Home (to Leonie & Adam, and to you as well).

Our home,

it’s not out there

it’s not in the promise

of lucky numbers

or of random lottery tickets,

nor in the pretty words

of a skillful house seller.

Our home is not made

of the things that we own

under the roof

and between the bricks

that we share,

it's not in the things

that we bought for each other,

nor in all the money

that we can save or spare.

Our home is under the sun

and in those five lines

we drew as children;

it's in the loving shelter 

we then offered

to our imaginary friend,

and to the lost pet

we once found and kept,

hoping to never part ways.

My home is with you,

and yours is with me,

my family, my comrade,

my neighbour, my lover;

and with you too, 

kind stranger.

Even if we had to spend

long nights under a cold bridge

or if we fell asleep

under an ancient tree,

our home is in us,

mine in you, yours in me,

as we rest safely

in each other’s arms.

'Aspirante equilibrista' (To Elenia, who inspired the title and the thought).

If in order to test your sense of equilibrium you would walk on a long high cable hung between two skycrapers, don't look down: the harmony and beauty of chaos will leave you in awe and you might as well feel like jumping.

The path is now

My death will not be long enough to give sufficient rest to the sufferings I’ve had in this life.   Before a new day breaks in or an old day fades away, I will be in the seed that soon anounces the birth of a baby boy or a baby girl.  Again, I will get another chance to learn from old sorrows, and to seek and find true happiness throughout the endless line of life.  But before dying this time and crawling again some day, I’d better make sure  that I sketch my future path graciously and righteously;  now when I can still walk firmly, with clear eyes and loving hands, and a heart full of faith.

To my very soul mate, wherever you might be -

A thousand lives back,

the silence of which I speak

has always, always loved you.

A million blue moons ahead of now

undoubtely, I will,

I will always love you.

Even at this moment,

when I still might not know 

the shape of your lips;

even when I still

might not have heard

the sound of your name,

my love is not at all still!

It beats for you in silence

and misses you warmingly,

my love, my very soul mate

wherever you might be.

En la Casa de la Cui'tura (inspirado en el Mae'tro Cabral, QEPD) - (With English translation)

Con la lengua ardiente como un dragón,
ebrio de barato vino tinto,
escupiendo a quemaduras,
gritaba el Mae'tro Cabral:
A mí no me manden a callai', COñO,
que la poesía se hizo PA'BLAI'LA!

In the House of Culture (inspired in the  'Master Cabral' RIP)

With his tongue hot as a dragon,
drunk on cheap red wine,
spitting burning fire,
Mae'tro Cabral shouted:

Don't tell me to shut up, COñO,
that poetry was made to be SPOKEN OUT LOUD!