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, November 29, 2012

A fine silk ribbon

A fine silk ribbon, pink lace, the bow undone

As the fingers trace the shapes and forms from skin to fabric to skin...

A constellation in the sky, shining brightly, the mystery solved

As the night gives grace to shadows and they die, reborn as dreams

As the eyes close and die away

As the trickle of time slows down in the galaxy

There's me, wanting to be you...

There's you, defining me...

A melting
 union of hearts and minds
And no certain ending...

The night spreads its pious veil...from star to fabric to star

We go far...far away.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Piano (The End)

Where do old pianos go?
Left for dead, on a desert island, by the river
Or between the sand dunes, as caravans go by
Left to dry, to rot, to lose all melodies...
The keyboard gathers dust
And the old legs start cracking
And there's no one around to bring it back to life
To revive the perfect memories.
That's what perfect memories are for...
To be left intact.
And that's why we don't go back
To where we've been, even if it's the most beautiful place
We've ever seen.
For fear it might not be the same..
And there goes the memory..
Soft, tingling sounds, piano tunes...
Elegant lines, cocktail glasses
Smoky eyes, silver cuffs on the wrist
And a story about to be told
As time grows weary and old
But not the feeling...
Not even after the piano is swallowed by the
sandstorm and the elements
The feeling lives.
It may be good or bad
It depends on how carefully you store your memories..