The birth of a poem...

The essence of very tiny detail, like a carefully placed comma, or an invisible sigh of admiration, distilled into dewdrops sliding over the long green leaves that protect tulips from overexposure, redeeming the beautiful bold color and adding a dimension of its own.

Then letting it go into thin air, like a weightless particle,arriving in far-away places, like a carefully thought-out idea, a blissful singular event, a flash of infinitesimal brightness, arriving at noon, completely negating shadows and at the same time completely absolving them.

The reign of calm arrived with these words and it is here to stay...

Sunday, October 26, 2014

The Peninsula

Three sides celebrating the freedom of the open seas
One side tugged forcefully to the mainland
Yearning to be an island, adrift, yet always incomplete
Projecting the anguish of this uncertainty
Into mountains, valleys, gorges, rivers and lakes
All that nature calls its beauty
All that a human face
Would absorb as a sign of aging fatigue
A deep furrowed brow
Bitter sweet tears
Lines in a frozen clenched mouth
Cursing the blood on the lip where the
Bite of silent suffering left an indelible mark
If you could trace it back to the heart
You would find a dusty, cobwebbed cave
You could find a few rusty keys that could have ended wars
And then plenty of trunks of treasure
Warmth resembling the one donated by the sun
And plenty of sweetness, recalling the honey of the bees
Swarming around the old trees

Reconciling the useful and the wilderness.

Thursday, February 27, 2014


The hand that holds the knife
slashing through the canvas with systematic precision
doesn't belong to me.
I can't own up to such deranged outbursts
Better detach and describe, listlessly, wistfully
A pristine clean canvas like the sky in early spring
Shredded, sliced, exposing the background to nothingness.
Far away from art, closer to pain.
And again...
Sizzling golden traces in the indigo water
Light, like seismic lines, bathes in the lake
The night bears no grudges and holds no prisoners
Of conscience or otherwise.
All bar none. Congruent thinking, or so I thought.
Music without a care or regard to the world of silence.
Underwater mysteries waiting to be told.
Old romantic stories, in yellow letters and dry tears
Faint perfume and sickly sweet sadness
Long fingers tracing the words, like a melody
Over the piano keys, or the body of a woman
Equal sensuality. It touches the right chords.
And the night is immune to screams of pleasure.
Closer to madness. Far away from home.

Saturday, February 8, 2014


Music enters the hall
Like a cocktail waiter with white gloves
Carrying champagne flutes on a silver tray.
Elegant hands reach for the drinks
As the bubbles electrify the bodies.
A golden river  follows the rhythm
From the deck to the masses of hungry hearts
From the beginning of time, the sound of the drum
Through the smoky jazz bars with the blaring trumpet
To the outer end of the circle, sounds that thrill
Modified, amplified, like a soul from a machine
Waiting to see the light
Waiting to be life.

Music writes destinies; opens doors; clears perceptions
On the other side there’s warmth, there’s bliss
Sound divine, come on in.
As the records spin, the merging of skin beneath skin
Dancing to the end of time
Music writes harmonies, leaves traces in history
Something to come back to.
A continuous party, celebrating life.
A wish fulfilled to the optimal potential
Of wordless expression and acoustic supremacy.
Underneath, a desire to resist, to fight the urges, the oppression
Underneath, the human condition, always needing something else, something more.
The walls fall down, the times change
People greet the sun and walk the moon
And distant galaxies.
Above, a desire to be free.

Above, a never-ending party.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

What's in a heartbeat?

Special compartments for the sun and the moon Bathed by the nymphs at dawn Catalogued by the spirals of time No beginning, no end. No discontinuing. The unstoppable force of love. Defended by angels. An army of celestial guards Who know what's right, what's wrong The messenger of the wind blows the conch And the legends become wisdom, the song Becomes a lesson. Life takes place. Islands in the stream of honey and blood In a heartbeat. All this the heart knows. Remember well. Repeat it. Let it flow