A Damsel Of The Night

Rare is the night,
and the painted sea
in blue and white
and ripples of grey
when the moon alone is restless,
adrift in his aura, translucent;
a crimson delight
is spread on the waves
and a damsel from the ocean's depth
comes floating gently on the moon's rays

The milk of paradise rains.
The damsel draped in silken robes
of the moonlight spinning around,
filtering through her fingers, her hands raised to receive the grace.
From the horizon far
where the sun's fire is burning still,
leap the flames and mingle with her tresses;
The humming of the ocean stops
in the crescendo
as the moonbeams fall on the cosmic thigh
of the maiden with her hands raised

Image source unknown

Silence Is not Peace

Walking, I had to bend,
to remove a thorn that gently pricked.
A nostalgia, an empty bench.
A winding road...A distilled memory at every bend.
Though a path is trodden every day,
though the silence breathes,
though the wood in a silence wraps me around,
silence is not peace.

21 Dec. 2016

Image credit: francisco javier Lozano Martinez

Paseando ,nostalgia, y recuerdos 

A Love Story

A Love-story

I have been waiting all awhile
for you to tell me the story of your love.
Let us be shamelessly true,
No, I don't mean the confessional mode; I mean let us be just true,
not to each other, just true, like the sky or the earth are.
And then come to think of it; we will be telling the story of the whole mankind and the womankind,and the animalkind and the birdkind too, and oh yes why not the trees and the plants as well?
But no, I am not ready. I cannot be true when I have no story.

A crumpled page
in a book read long ago,
that was the time when I
was led to swim
in a world called the ocean
of poetry.
There were dreamboats twice as large
as the vessels that set out on the sea.
They had the power to launch the ships
and steer them safely to the ports.
Yet somewhere I do not know
why I tore off a page to make a boat on my own.
I stopped a long while reading the abstruse maps.
Sometimes on a whim, I pick up the book
and still, get stuck where I was.

Thanks +pasajul de noapte for the image

Originally shared by pasajul de noapte (noapte)

Of All the Footprints

Of all the footprints in the forest
those of the elephant are supreme.
The forest has a leeway that it always hides
by erasing all signs out of view.
But the signs of the elephant are hard to erase.
 Follow them, if you are lost; they will surely lead you to the edge and lead you out,
out to the world which you lost.
There is another way too.
Give up the search, and stay where you are,
and make the forest your home.

The Party

The dainty elegance of her white organdie,
the bouquets in the vases, like ladies who are careful not to touch
the alien color of the white tablecloth ,
and everything sacrosanct,
towards everything else untouchable;
the party goes on into the night.
She smiles, a vivacious, conquering, winning smile
and everything pales, lacklustre,
as she glides like a swan on the wings of intoxication.
Painfully, excruciatingly close
to the night of passion,
she fights the tears, hides behind the facade
of peals of laughter that open and close.
In the moments between the laughter ceasing,
and  the sneaking in of  silence when her mask falls,
he catches a glimpse of the shadow,
falling between the conquest and defeat,
and that is the moment for the wolf.

And a silent witness in another corner across the room
watches the precursors playing on her face and quickly reads
 the fugitive marks of lament
for the buds not opening and dying in the seed .

By Sushama Karnik

Kostas Michalis originally shared:

Passion Flower Plays: A Performance!

Music: Empty Arms / Hughes & Herbert / Blanchard !!!!
https://vimeo.com/44541919

Music: Empty Arms / Hughes & Herbert / Greer
https://vimeo.com/44540569

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,
Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
What saint strained so much,
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing,
In my veins, in my bones I feel it --
The small waters seeping upward,
The tight grains parting at last.
When sprouts break out,
Slippery as fish,
I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
(T. Roethke)

Image: Imitation of Life / D. Sirk

Listen, lay your head down,
close to the earth and breathe,
and listen, quietly,
you will hear
the sounds of waters rising forth,
the osmosis,
of the surface and the depth of sounds,
blending, merging into one
earthy sound
breaking forth
grains parting
and speaking
a new language
not yet known,
a tightness , parting
with a gentle pain
into the darkness below the earth,
the seedling tearing the cover apart,
and a subtle sobbing,
a sobbing of joy,
the joy of the seed, the earth and the sun
watching a stem braking into light 

2015-04-02

2 photos

The Lost Moon

A morning Moon

with half his splendor lost in the fog

and half still shining in the mist,

was about to say adieu.

But the world of vegetation stirred, invisibly and subtle,

the magic lingered in the air still.

Suddenly the borders vanished.

The grey sky touched the earth.

And a world hitherto unseen, opened to me.

I saw before my eyes, the massive clusters of the roots,

restless, deep, as if with thousands of feathered quills,

they were writing a script for the earth to read

and decipher at some later date,

finally to dedicate

to the force of Life that stirred within.