When time
takes away the color from the green-leafed nature
– it will return.
When time
touches the human so heavily
– a memory will remain.
But when
the death-dealing people
take the breath away,
besides memories,
remain questions,
– Why?
– What for?
– In the name of what faith
does a Human kill a Human?
(Translated by Artur Komoter.)
More at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100007962137277.
Spring storm
Sky is heavy with gray clouds
I can feel the wind pressing down
On them to wring water from their grasp
That same air fills my nose
with pollen from the
seemingly fresh breezes, then,
perversely presses down my lungs
to prevent my inhaling a full breath.
My head begins to hurt.
I return inside,
close my eyes a cool cloth
shielding them from reflected light
until I hear the crash of thunder.
My eyes peer out at gray, darkness
where there had been blue,
dark clouds hover where earlier
white fluff skittered playfully about.
Now, wind is in charge,
wringing the water out of those
dark shapes to great effect.
Standing now, by the window,
I watch water stream down
hear it pound steadily on my roof.
When wind and rain have spent themselves,
I open the door and pull in lighter air
free of water’s weight, free of pollen.
Air fills my lungs with
coolness. The pressure on my head
relaxes. Water has washed away
sun’s vise-like grip on the day.
Others may run from beach, walks, from
plein aire garden sketching when rain comes,
but I rejoice, revel in the rain.
The whole house smells like
a canopy of smoke. My body
smells like smoke.
Sometimes it feels like smoke,
about to waft away.
Often, I feel grounded, so focused
on my fears and perceived
inadequacies that it is hard to feel
tethered. I like the word tethered
and use it often in my work.
This image of being strapped
down reminds me of the free form
art the smoke seems to take
when emerged from the spark-end
of the cigar. It’s a celebratory
moment and the wisp of carcinogen
shows no fear.
Spring whites
hanging on the line.
A breath of fresh air
is coming our way.
Celebrate mom
on her special day.
Flowers and candy
in the month of May.
Everything special is
coming her way!
Intellectual asylum would appear
to be the remedy for optimal
loquacity miscarried
When the appeal of one’s personality
is measured by the dexterity
of one’s decibels
there ulcerates a retrograde aspiration
to be a rock, to be an island
fortified by the poetry of the ostracized
Owners of the souls so branded
by body language
that an honorable mention
of cultured eccentricity
would be a conspiracy to euphemise
an incongruous presence
To be themselves
is to pry a fissure of contentment
into plains of compromised comportment
and no capacity of sheepish smiles
earns admission to the shelter of frivolity
The con in conversation
disrobes syllabic status like a Trojan Horse
unraveling a spoof of euphony
to decimate at its source
the confidence attained in one’s small talk
on the basis of its evidence in one’s own ear
The cajoling army of loquacity ignites
a brash battalion of belly laughs
like torches for the anarchistic culling
of the unassertive into their cathartic Bastilles
of libraries and coffee houses
Watercolors met pastels
what a wonderful blend.
They have been mixing it up
ever since.