Thursday, May 6, 2010
What decides our aware presence in what really matters?
At times, my life, is opening up its eyes in the dark.
And my heart beats in its midst
I have a sense inside of me, as if a crowd is coming through the streets,
They swarms forward in blindness and concern, on their way to a miracle,
As I remain standing, invisible,
At the edge of the world,
Far out at sea, on a barren island.
What is determine the value of our presence here,
From time to time of the edge of life.
May it be that, that my heart is beating
May, it be while my heart still beating.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Grumble and clattering glass is blending with music and laughter. Her eyes searched the nearby faces, for someone beyond the cocky smiles or slobbering hog desires.
Her gaze is suspecting a sudden notice; although never meet any disclosure and her sensation of sorrow remain untouched.
She, is a chic cat with her amazing hair running high over her bare shoulders, framed by a tight dress in a variety of black where the lower edge is evolving into thin socks that are striking down to her glossy and delicious needle heeled shoes.She is like a carefully mixed cocktail; of razor sharp self-confidence and shy self-esteem.
She is one step from a bored leave or a pace into someone's fumbling lust.
Here she goes, to be in the center of the importance, but are acquainted by a naked seclusion. She feels obliged to change her desensitized to the presence, but is trapped in the room of indecisiveness.
In this very moment, close to her, I would dearly grip her arm, in cheers and merriness, while we fade away by the rushing years and whilst she stand unheard, wrapped in an exciting glistering packaging, yet wilting to an aging remnant.
I would ask her not to turn away from the true meetings with us. Turn away from a mutual attendance where we choose to choose each other, not whirling our gaze to yet another treat.
But this moment crack up as if a sharp gust of wind is cutting through the room and our togetherness. She moves swiftly, like a predator against its prey, but her aim is out the door, out to her gloomy solitude where the hurt just is an old acquainted heap of sorrow.
Yet, in this instance of movement, I caught her glimpse of farewell. Caught her silent message of saying; there is no more space within me, neither to hold the joyful burst of love nor splitting faint portions of love and care to inflamed potential and regular misapprehension.
This is our poor and spiteful fate: to be divided by fear and pain, be secluded from what we rightfully own within and to be departed from our mutual bond of kin.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
In the last of night’s hours love are ringing
For those of us who retreat,
Not yet in time each other seize.
In choice and anguish
and loveless ease
We hurry, tired, goes to sleep
In a bed of hope
Of great expending
Although such is the remaining
Full of expressions
yet blank in words.
Foul of nature
In gentle urge
Bridled
With grey extending
Cold and damp
In endless ending.
Once in a song
Our grave is dark
But faith is strong
In vastly hearts.
Once we sang
While our bodies where meeting
We ate and drank
With continual repeating
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Eagles, clouds and mountain giants.
Movement stretches out of land and stone.
Urge is hammering from a wretched chamber
Left us bound to flesh and bone.
I'm on the borderline to the heavenly kingdom where all contexts are a stretched vastness, but where the hidden, at any time, can emerge out of the haze. My soul rests on wings, flying over houses and fields, where we live our lives, linking to each other like ripples in a coat of mail. A chainmail hidden until the day when we must prepare for battle, on the edge of our utmost and where everything can be lost.
All this, in this view, close to the sky, makes me want to bring up the mountain giants, resolve every ring from its links and call us all for departure to leave, to something other than a bounded waiting. I want to see how the mountains rise up out of the ground while shaking off the dust and soil, to see how we go out of our house with walking sticks and start to walk away on a pilgrimage. See us stride to remote countries where our hope and opportunities are not shackled in a reiterate song from the heart of our dungeons. Watch us walk in a steady pace alongside the marching landscape where each and every moment brings us new meaning.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Walked along the frosted docks, the sun was shining low.
I glanced upon the fragile ice, on ducks and many hungry crow
Rows of many wooden ships of types and names I know.
Sun above the top of roofs, breathe thru cold and snow.
The sun stood over the heights of south, beams of golden rise.
Smoke from chimneys hanging wide on winter pale blue skies.
And so when the mirrored picture meets the bay,
Reflected in ice with rime in blue allay.
The gaze climbed houses, masts of ships, dark scores of frosty trees,
And it sweeps shed of light and illuminates within the icy window glass against the breeze.
So, as turned to stone, the painting is, depicted and reclined.
Here, the town has had its seat, from time out of mind.
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