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...

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.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Postcards from Rome

Postcards are a wonderful thing to write, to send, to receive, to read, to marvel at their compact conveyance of thoughtfulness and kindness and visual reminders of beautiful places. In this day and age, when email and texts render letters sent by regular mail virtually obsolete and hand-written letters are a rarity relegated to museums, a postcard still holds its own: it’s usually handwritten, it denotes a thoughtful action on the part of the sender and it creates a handy souvenir for the person receiving it.

Postcards are brief sentimental snapshots of travel or of sojourns in places around the world. I’ve decided to entitle this work “Postcards from Rome” with you, dear reader, as the recipient of my snapshots, my impressions and written sketches and improvisations of Rome, through my eyes and the creative force of my inspiration.


There’s a multitude of such books, websites, blogs readily available and written with care by much more competent travel writers than me. With information that would cater for the needs of the picky tourist to the seasoned traveler.

My bundle of postcards to you is less conventional, it contains scribbles on napkins, receipts, recipes, quotes, thoughts, impressions, notes, carefully thought out and less so, on this and that, sweet nothings and important snatches of imagination, like a scrapbook filled with care and affection.
Tied up by a satin ribbon for safekeeping and gentle appearance, it goes beyond the sentimental surface and connects all the reflections and impressions from Rome. I present it to you here.


Why did I want to go to Rome?
Because simply, it’s the most beautiful place in the world. And artists thrive on beauty.
Why did I choose to write about it?
Because I wanted to voice that beauty, through my own way of describing, to capture the city the way I saw it, the way I felt it. All the books and websites in the world weren’t enough to prepare me for the feeling. I hope to be able to render that nearly impossible feat here.

So I wrote this in order to have something to remember, and in order to give you, dear reader, something to remember me by.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Eternal Light

   Every time you look at a sunset, remember someone somewhere is looking at a sunrise at the same time and you are not alone…
Every time you look at a flower it gives a treat to your senses without demanding anything in return.
Its beauty is there, without pretenses.
And you can be the flower, if you let it grow. Let go of your fears, tell the sun the moon always returns. Tell the moon it would be nothing without the sun.
Let all celestial bodies follow their orbits. Let them disappear, have no fear, sooner or later they return…
Every goodbye on this Earth is only a beginning. Travelling without moving we have no choice but to arrive at the end and face the beginning. Every hello is a hope that opens a new orbit, a new vista for a better way. Every day is homage to the night. And if you collect all tributes your life won’t seem useless. Love won’t be a problem, a battle to fight, but a sweet little victory won to save the universe from disappearing out of sight…

Every time…eternal light.

Saturday, October 26, 2013


This ship needs a safe haven
Before it sails the seven seas again
This soul needs resting
These eyes need to drown into deep clouds
To anchor the wandering mind
To save the thoughts from drowning.
This heart needs to live and breathe
It's not monotonous. It's compulsory.
Think heartbeat.
The simple rhythm in complex patterns
Giving life. Giving hope.
This ship needs a harbour and a quiet sea.
This soul needs that feeling
When you're safe, when you're free
When you know you've arrived home.