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Sunday 21 April 2013

Poem: When we are ourselves



In an endless blue, I hold up a red balloon;
                    waiting for things to happen.
We lost something familiar in the connection,
as the nervous river of thought feeds our bodies,
in cloaks of invisibility we wish to hide.
Hands that used to wipe away our tears,
when there were monsters under our beds,
                     have grown away from us.
So we learnt to be unmoved and untouched.
We hide our vulnerability under our cloaks.
How can we ignite a life into a new heart
                     and call it an accident?
Then we are tragedies,
crashing one over another.
We are not a definition of life.
We collect pieces and dots of eternal summer rays
and flickering shadows of raindrops.
How those insignificant stains
make a much more meaningful picture.
A single drop can colour a glass full of water;
                      before it melts away;
– that’s what happens when we are ourselves.
.

Saturday 20 April 2013

Poem: Of skin dreams


He asked her why she carries the moon upon her shoulders;
but her answer gave him more questions than answers.
»So that the ghosts I know become faceless.«
He knew the balance between intruding and letting things develop.
»May I give you stars, so people might confuse you for a night sky?«
She smiled apologetically: »I didn't ask for the stars,
but for someone to lay down with and watch them.«
It starts with a few gentle piano keys.
Between tiny neon bulbs we spread our hearts on these sheets,
wishing our hands would grow roots
into each other skin.
“My eyes are burning and my eyelids feel heavy,” she said.
“But I’m afraid to even blink,
‘cause all of this could be gone when I open them.
My mind keeps reaching for you.”
He put his palms against her cheek and said:
“Your skin and nerves developed from the same group of cells.
They were of a familiar mind; lovers like you and I;
they were separated, but made something beautiful out of it.
Now the nerve cells keep grasping towards the skin.
They never give in. Carefully listening to every stroke, brush, tingle...
So don’t be afraid to rest your eyes,
I’ll draw dreams on your skin.”
---- so many ways to touch someone
electricity of our fingers leave us breathless
refilling our lungs, restarting our hearts
until there is no fear left inside.
.

It's kind of weird how this poem and drawing accidentally fit together. Neither one influenced the other.

Sunday 7 April 2013

Poem: Shadow of our lives



the stones we gathered have disappeared
crystal air-bubbles invading through the hourglass
escaping through the oceans with no memories
          of our precious minutes
in the room where clocks keep on ticking
          I see it clearly now –
our lives are plays displayed on our dashboards
if I write a story, would you play a role for me?
- touch me deeper than myself, for I am not a fragile bird
or would that be totally inappropriate?
           among twenty-seven versions of us,
we write down the one designed by time and space
I searched for a definition of myself in your words
as if your eyes have a better understanding of myself
now we don't seem to care if the other lives of dies
we painted on the walls of our parents house
writing down stories of the faces we found on the ceiling
          - not giving much care to the one we were living
we carelessly ran away from things – not knowing they always ran after us
we knew that when we grow tall our feet will fit in the grown-ups' shoes
and we'll take longer and more important steps
little did we know our faces will change their colour
and we'll abandon the games we used to play
but the manner with which we'll do things, will stay the same
we had today, but today turned into yesterday
and yesterday clings in the back of our minds
like a faded memory and now we're questioning its existence
for everything has an expiration date
        we were never kids first,
always trying to put ourselves in the roles only adults were allowed to play
from primary school, to a college, to a job, to a house, to a home...
years later we forget how to keep wonder
where is the force that glued our hearts together?
words of freedom hang on the wire through wind and snow
birds whispering their songs at sundown
the winter of our hearts has passed
many people have left the train
many love stories never reached a beginning
         or have lost their spark
many new lives have begun while others have lost their writer
remaining ones searching for a sound mind and a place to hide
as the time capsule swallows us into its depths
         are we out of our minds?
future us dropping past into the sea
the dead town stealing away tomorrows
slaves refusing revolution for comfort and injustice
who's driving this train anyway?
there's a promise of a treasure on a map
we're running like mad men to the hills
so we can fight for the little we managed to hide as our own
in a seemingly small playground we are building future
not out of rocks and stones, but with hearts and bones
and we wonder what kind of shadow our lives will cast behind
.

Tuesday 2 April 2013

Poem: Growing



cells are not the greatest of liars
they document everything,
conscious or unconscious,
things we'd call waste
this body has been caged by my thoughts
beaten by words,
judged by penetrating eyes,
scorn by social media,
reshaped by depression,
extinguished.
fallen,
a back that got strong from all the rising up's
there is a strong taste of desire
to bloom
eager to pull all the weeds
so our gardens would over shine
the mess we've made
there's something growing inside
I felt it move today
the gentle sound of a seed bursting
and small roots caressing
jumping through the shadows of the mind
I do not know what it feeds on
and if it's been here all this time
waiting for a perfect moment
to change the strings of my voice
blossom needs a spine to stand
mine has been long time in the making
leaves are pushing on the stitch
from the inside
oh, wait, I think I'm gonna sneeze!

Monday 1 April 2013

Poem: Two lovers lost at war




Feather fell down in a dusky lighted room,
with enough sound to be noticed,
but not enough to draw attention.
The same manner in which I’ve been
opening and closing doors.
Dreams we make up as kids,
'cause later we forget how to dream.
Even if they are taken away from us,
it is important to create them.
Otherwise today has no more tomorrow.
All that we know, we can capture in a glimpse.
Our expectations are greater,
but they blindfold us.
The flowers on the window
and candles at the door.
A ballet dancer as a dandelion puff,
bending the arms as if to speak;
in a storm that comes and goes
as if with the waves.
Standing on a floating feather,
with an angel weeping at the shoulder.
We haven't been running,
yet we have always been racing,
since the day we were born.
We shed our skins and call it dust.
Fear finds the smallest of cracks
and it permeates through.
Growing bigger in an anxious mind.
There is still place to leave a trace.
Curiosity takes you a step further
and awards you with undiscovered lands.
Remember the feeling when your heart
just can’t take it anymore?
Chasing eternity through the golden summer fields;
there is quite enough light to hope,
for two lovers lost at war.