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...

Monday, January 16, 2017

Beyond the Stars

There's a place beyond the stars
Where dreams pause to take their breath
Before they return as the night throws its veil
And the dream ships set sail
And all the starry desires sparkle up
A quiet fire..

There's time beyond the stars
Immeasurable, unstoppable, irreversible
And all clocks are just pebbles snatched from rocks
Of the hard essence of time. Between dream and wake
Before the whole world becomes just a grain of sand
Something else, somewhere else, in another dimension of time.
A quiet moment.

And that's where words fade.
That's the end of all meanings and beginnings of the new
Dreams reloaded, stars keeping it true..
And before you go to sleep..
Please take a moment to think...
And keep that fire burning
Until the quiet moment beyond the stars comes

Until I return.

Friday, January 13, 2017


Soft light seeping through the dark blue sieve
The illusion of a starry sky above.
Sweet honey dripping on your lips
A forgotten kiss, wistful craving for love.
Stay within the role, recite the well-known lines
Go through the motions of everything being fine.
Step out of the stage, into unscripted territory of raw fear
"Here be dragons" on the edge, no spotlight, the end is near.
Unraveling the mask at the first break of dawn
The reproach of the new day, skin battered and torn.
The soul's battle's lost. Bruises you cannot excuse.
Distant sirens keep you awake.
Help you cannot refuse.
The snow covers all signs of commotion.
The illusion of order is restored.
Curtain call. Applause.
The hungry masses will be back for more.
Some other actor will play out the great
Anguish of the long lost kiss
The indigo canvas will simulate the sky
Some onlookers will wonder why
There isn't any more comedy or bliss.
The critics will write their reviews
Truth and beauty chasing blips
On the monitor of vital signs
Right up to the flat line.
What else is new?

Friday, December 16, 2016


I always follow thoughts; they take me to far away places
I end up leaving a trace behind me without having to touch
Or to see. Magic and fantasy help me fly, and then I try
To think, to remain on the brink of there and not really there…
To write, to dream, to reflect upon…

An island is a perfect reflection of the soul.
The soul can reflect on the island in a way
That no other concept on Earth could possibly offer consolation.
The delineated firm ground in the midst of the sea
The soul that belongs to me and me only
My own dreams, my own territory
And that’s not something to share, it’s something to own
To live through, to carry along.

Standing proudly there, through the times
Islands in the stream, souls in the current of life
Resisting, insisting, breathing, giving a sign of times
To space and space to the lifespan, while it lasts.

Nobody knows. And yet the moment is there.
Every moment a snatched pebble from the jar
Where the warning signals are kept for every soul.
And through the misty murky essence of tomorrow
We fill the now with memories and good times
Because sorrow will only make us slip away
And dissipate.

I’d rather be an island forever more.

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.