The beauty of my spotless eyes.

(Self-portrait)

My mind tiptoes into assaulting memories. 

I hide my words and bite my tongue. 

(Remembering like this needs silence). 

But my hands take a life of their own, 

they dance with my stubborn heartbeat, 

and scratch blank pages with vivid dreams. 

Those precious moments that are just gone, 

almost unannounced: 

To love, to cry, 

to win, to lose, 

to surrender to beauty 

as it becomes the pupils 

of my sad eyes. 

But oh, 

how could I not be grateful 

for having lived so many dreams? 

in company, in solitude, 

with lovers, with strangers, 

with you, my love, 

my sweet friend? 

Do you remember how 

I loved you, how I cried with you, 

won you once, was stubborn, 

and then surrendered? 

I lost you. 

Still, your beauty is all 

my spotless eyes see, 

without ever shedding a tear 

nor a single shadow 

of regret.

White canvas

I welcome the white canvas. 

May the reason why 

we paint on it 

be our humble wisdom, 

our loving inner light. 

May the colours 

that we choose 

be the landscape 

of your truth and mine. 

The future is empty, 

the past is gone. 

But we are still here, 

holding our hearts, imagining 

the many shapes of hope, 

as the first brushstrokes unfold. 

I welcome our blank canvas. 

What its vastness becomes, 

is yet 

to be 

discovered. 

(Originally published in Smith).

Quiet and colourful

Lovers and northern lights, by Paul Bloomer

Impossible to lie when the answer lies in my heart. 

Impossible not to scream and cry, 

and beg compassion not to abandon. 

And that is when my love overflows anger and sorrow, 

and expands like a clear sky 

opening to kindness, to the *light* 

until all is quiet 

and colourful. 

(Originally published in Smith).

YOU are beautiful.

Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh

I am. 

My heart. My mind. My actions. 

And I always try to make it all good 

and beautiful. 

Not that I always succeed, but... 

I am beautiful. 

YOU are beautiful. 

And it's love what reveals us, 

in the wide mirror and spirals 

of the spectral universe, 

dancing, whirling around us, 

with all its possible meanings. 



(written on 12.08.2013, another night of the Perseids)

Nevermind

Earth Birth, by Deborah Milton

Whether you like it or not,

I have the right to admire you.

Whether you wish it or not,

I have the right to want you.

Whether you love me or not,

I have the right to adore you.

I dare you.

You see, I carry no gun,

so dare come forward

and punch me, damn!
Dare to punch it all!

Nevermind my pain or loss,

I'll stroke your rage
and empty your lonesomeness.

I'll suck it all up until you blossom,

like a baby being born

right into my loving arms.


[Inspired by Kurt Cobain and Nirvana's album 'Nevermind'].

Oblivion

Tear, by Amapola Blooming (Made with Scribblertoo)

These are the colours of my loving sadness.

This is what loving sadness sounds like to me.

Every time I kiss you away,

your frail touch lingers with me.

Like a blue violin. Like a blue violin,

an aching bow strokes my skin.

Like a blue violin in this violent silence,

echoing oblivion,

caressing my defeat.

Listen to Piazzolla's Oblivion by Guido Kremer

There's this passage. There's this splendor.

 The Fibonacci Trail

There's this passage that I must pass:

There are stones, there are trees,

there's a river, and mountains to marvel at.

My pilgrimage has just begun,

under an ever changing, faithful sky.

There's this passage that I must unravel:

There are clouds, there are storms,

there's the sun and stars to marvel at.

There's this splendor that I must discover,

but not without you, not without us.

Please walk with me, walk with me

and just hold my hand.

Religious pamphlets on a winter day

I'm sure you've seen them:
stacked flat religious pamphlets
like glossy butterflies neatly arranged
on a makeshift table
in the midst of a frozen cotton-like winter day.

Have you noticed them?
On one wing,
a bleeding heart stabbed by thorns burns in the wind
on the other,
a cursive whip shapes the words "HE died for you"

People also tattoo these things.

Those pamphlets, they cost nothing,
but they make me itchy, they make me watch my ticking wrist
and polish my impoliteness with a carefully sketched pearly grin.
That is, when the voices of the lord, like talking statues
annoyingly insist "I" take one.

And they start to sing about Jezus.

Those glossy butterflies, if they ever perch on my hands
they eventually end up crushed like paper meatballs.
I heard they make excellent food
for hungry domesticated dragons.

A hungry domesticated dragon or a fireplace...
I wished I owned either one of them. But I don't.
Which is one of the reasons
why I avoid tattooed butterflies.

You see, it's not easy to keep up the pace
of those paved, fast treadmills they call streets
and feel a fossil's heartbeat and cursive whip
become alive and curse inside my pocket
like a crushed meatball in the rush of a frozen cotton day.

The empty bottle

A chilled draft of darkness cracks the ghostly curtains.

Like a burglar, it crawls and tiptoes into her room,

Leaving lingering traces of olden mud behind.

A miserable, empty bottle rolls on the croaky floor

and hides under the dusty, massive teak table.

It peeps at her despair with pity:


She curses the night, spitting rambling insults,

splitting her sanity into horror and blight.

Her odious words sound young, rebellious.

She's not yet a woman, no longer a child.

The ocean in her eyes lashes her vision

and memories pour out like pointing knives.

Like that empty bottle hiding under the teak table,

She too, got to know about misery too well:

The cruel rage of a reckless man

On a starry night at the seashore,

Gripped her life with lust and drank her breath.

Now she soothes her shivers with songs and sketches.

She draws bleeding hearts as fetching clutches

Breaking through the chest of headless babies.

She composes slurred, frantic prayers

She strums thunderstorms, random hurricanes,

With a broken cello and ravenous chants.


Yet, in her ocean,

in the very depths of her torn eyes,

an angel,

an ailing angel hums loose verses

of drown innocence

and sunken lullabies.

Dance me (for Medhi)

Dancer, by Miró

Dance me, love, dance me, 

dance me to unknown magic places.

Where the wind unchains its wings

and echoes our names, our destiny.

Dance me, love, dance me,
dance me to liquid places.

Where your ocean awakens my shore
with the wavy strokes of your senses.

Dance me, love, dance me, 

dance me to mysterious, taunting places.

Where your arms embrace my fear 

and become my blanket, my shelter

Dance me, love, dance me, 

dance me to dauntless, wonderful places.

Dance me long to where we belong, 

where our fiery lust will be sacred.

Dance me, love, dance me, 

dance me to blossoming places.

Where spring buds know no resistance, 

where love will never surrender.

Dance me, love, dance me long,
dance me slowly to timeless places.

Where the rising sun unveils our lips
and decisively kisses 
                                                                 the birth of us.

Dragonflies

 Image source here  (Narancsmag's photostream)

Lived love like dragonflies,

fragile, intense, mystified.

To us, to them, to the universe, and specially for you, Diederik.

I came here to listen
to the birds, to the sunny grass,
and those rainy mornings.

I came here to listen
to strangers, to new faces,
to new allies.

I came here to listen
to your noises, to your silences
to our voices.

I came here to listen
to your fears, to our call,
to your passions.

I came here to listen
to your music, to the scratches,
to our harmony.

I came here to listen
to my source, to my fragilities,
to our strength.

I came here to listen
to our tune, to our songs,
to the sorrows of our planet.

I came here to listen
to your movements, to your rythm,
to our beat.

I came here to listen.

No wonder we can all dance again.

Any would do

A tender kiss,
a meaningful letter, 
a caring moment,
a long love story.

Any would do,
always.

Spring

 

Amapola Blooming, self-portrait

Shedding my old skin,

undressing the past of my eyes,

stripteasing the unknown, 

beckoning better times:

 My love is blossoming!

No wonder

 Eye of time, by Salvador Dalí

My pupils are bursting

with vivid memories,

of sleepless silences

and lavish loud poetry;

with thrilling images

of your eyes in ecstasy,

piercingly mirroring my lust,

carving into mine like hungry knives;

my pupils are bursting,

with flashes of naughty laughter

and graffitis of swearing words

as I ride my love on you,

willingly, rebelliously;

my pupils are bursting,

with haunting memories

of this restless human craving 

and my fearless animal loving.

No wonder I cannot sleep.

Silent Love

I want to baptise my skin

and give it a new name;

a name after my blossoming petals

and your burning fingerprints

as your summer breaks into my spring.

I want to wash my nakedness

and give it a fresh smell;

a smell after your restless breath

and the sea waves of your lips on my lips

as my ecstasy echoes in the wind.

I want to ink my skin

with her new name;

a skin named after our rythmic hips,
our silent whispers,

and a love that simply dances, but dare not speak.

Lovers, by Henri Cartier-Bresson

Untitled

 Smiling Angel Gabriel, in the cathedral of Reims, France (13th century)

Original image source: www.champagne-mante.com/Nouvelle-traduction-The-Cathedral 
(imaged altered with www.photofunia.com)

Oh, how I love the flair

of your gorgeus imperfections

and your unarming, honest smile!

You know?

 Marilyn Manson

You like to mock me
because I rock.

You want to fuck me
because I trust.

You like to taunt me
because I stunt.

You want to taint me
because I glow.

You like to knock me
because I love.

You want to break me
because you lost.

How sad.
You could be happy too,

you know?

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?