Sunday, February 23, 2014

if I cried tonight, what would it be about?

of the life we lead:
the love I could not seed
or the one I've put on hold?

of final conversations:
the words I successfully bleed
or the ones which rest untold?

of the people we meet:
those who were mild and sweet
or those who shook my world?

of the paths we miss:
the dreams they could well feed
or the ones I'd chase, fool's gold?

(shared with The Imaginary Garden)

(as you may well have noticed, I have problems rhyming but now and then I insist on trying)

The fear of the fear of saying goodbye

how accurate can
the account of a story be
when it's told
by both sides involved?

it was spring.
or was it a week before it?

it was sunny.
or had it just finished raining?

it was mid afternoon.
or was it late?

you ran for the bus
never saying goodbye,
never looking back -
this we remember.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Get on your bike son

Get on your bike son,
this is a fragile time
to be awake in the city,

Carry back home
your collection of bodies
and bombs,

It's enough frolicking
on the burning streets.
you know what they say

of boys who play with fire.
The future won't be written
in the dark, small hours.

Go get some sleep.

(Shared with the Real Toads)

(I had no idea what to write about until I saw this photo TB took on the inflamed streets of Kiev, 25 people were killed yesterday and I find it awfully sad to imagine how many other lives will be lost until the problem is solved. Because I found TB's title quite sarcastic, I wrote on the same tone, from an authority point of view. The poem doesn't represent my opinion on the actions people in the streets of Ukraine should take. People must hold strong.)

Tuesday, February 18, 2014


I read it in The Tibetan Book of the Dead
that the last thought on your mind when you're dying

will become the first seed of your next life.
I'd like to see the people I love last thing.

Other than a child?

A tree.



A polar bear.

Because despite of their size,
they have light, gentle steps.

Because they understand
what it's like to be alone.

(Shared with Poets United)

Monday, February 17, 2014

How wolves change rivers

You came into my life
to change my course.

You caused my beasts to
stay away

and brought songbirds along
so my soul had a chance to sing.

You've saved me a place
in a better, simpler world.

You've engineered me into
a river more adaptable to swings.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

The space of the things gone

There was so much of you in the heat last night
my senses wouldn't let me be.

A light in a window somewhere kept me company,
I wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep.

You spoke to me from the future
and I told you not to come

for I dwell in the taste of all things past now,
while you belong in the space of the things gone.

(a poem in four hands, the other two rest here)

Friday, February 14, 2014


You climb down
Mt. Nemrut every year
the night before Valentine's
to sleep in my drawer under
a bunch of old letters.

I nearly forget
what you sound like,
the years between us
have weakened our story
I rarely tell it now.

But we were words in vows once.
I had your chest,
you had my lap,
we made promises
we wanted to be able to keep.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014


the origami folding man
sits comfortably in his room
watching the days as they
unfold before his eyes and
chooses which ones to live,
which ones to get by,

this is the day we meet:
you fold me a falling star
too fast I can't make a wish.
this is the day we part:
you fold me a dragon fly
and leave tied to its wings.

I stand behind and die.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

To clothe a man with a poem

Go under his skin
and find out what

keeps him naked
on under-zero days.

It's an idea.
Wear it like your own.

It's his road,
resting upon his bare shoulders.

Believe it
before you need hands,

or eyes.

Monday, February 3, 2014

On a boat headed North down the waters of Leathe

Three generations of women in my family
had embraced oblivion
before my mother lost her sense of smell.

Let me tell you something
about the process of forgetting:

it starts
with car keys
you don't know where
you've placed.

there is the repetition of
ordinary stories which,
on lucky days,
are heard just twice.

The next big thing is
losing the sense of smell,

being unable to tell
your favorite perfume
from the stink of a dead cat
across the street.

When I was little,
the house would
always smell
like pineapples
on my birthdays.

The smell is a bridge
to the memory of
having been there and
because I remember it,
I can always go back.

My grandmother lived with us
for six months before passing.

She smelled like soil
but she wouldn't remember.
She is the one to be held responsible
for me starting to put words together.

So here is the answer to your question:
In a few years, I may not remember -
this is the reason why I write.

Because although I hold you high,
I don't know your smell.

But I will always find you in the words
'mouth', 'waterfall' and 'bassinet',
my bridge to you may never be
other than the written code.

This is why it's
so important to me
that you remember.

(To M.)
(This poem is an answer to an argument around a question on who would or wouldn't remember the other in ten years) 
(Shared with The Imaginary Garden)

Sunday, February 2, 2014

My best friend

he carries a shattered
sobbing me to bed
after a bad day

and tells me about this dream he had
where I lived in a colorful house
and happiness danced around me

and I was enough.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

On the fair use of Huxley's repetition truth effect

I don't love you.
I don't love you.

Since it's important for you
that I believe it and that it is true,
I came up with a plan
while you were out.

I don't love you.
I don't love you.

three nights a week
for four years,
one hundred times,
I don't love you.

I don't love you.
I don't love you.

Sixty-two thousand and
four hundred repetitions
to make one truth:
I don't love you.

I don't love you.
I don't love you.

(But hell,
the true truth is
that it's too early.
Tonight, I still do.)

(posted to dVerse Poetics)