Look at the birds flying south

Pointing to the birds in the sky you said 

look at the birds flying south 

an act of migration 

I said, it was a dance 

a murmuration,

an act of togetherness 

into an open sky, 

into the sunset the birds 

move together 

next to me, you were silent 

your eyes on the horizon 

its beautiful, you whisper 

I'll think of birds now 

of glorious sunsets 

when I think that you left

fifteen minutes after the birds flew

Not the world ending

In simple few words, you say
the world is not ending

your face under the birds of paradise
framed well with the notion

that the world lasts
the distance between two eyes

it will not end, this world
because of loss

because of a few tears I've shed
while you were sitting across from me.

to get to you

To get to you
I'd have to cross two oceans
I am not a great swimmer
I am also afraid of sharks
I am scared of the high tide
I am captured by the night

to get to you
I'd have to let go
what I have built slowly
an empire of bonds
writings on long summer nights
dancing bodies that excessive love
the difference between the moon and the night sky

to get to you
I'd have to give once more
without expecting to take anything back.

Mission completed

The harsh hand
on your chest, closing in

like an end
it calls onto your senses

love is another way to showcase
violence

package it differently
with roses and determination

wills and vows to change
this is a new mission for you

with that harsh hand
a mission completed

wrapped on a delicate throat.

all that's broken

a constant need of repetition
they call you obstinate
for trying to fix all that's broken

a power for a woman

a woman is half a head
left open on the table
without waiting for a saving hand

A stop on Earls Court Corner

Tyrian purple I decode for you, the name I read from right to left on the street corner
a tale before I pretend to lose my native tongue to process exile
even the bread we break later we don’t offer thanks for properly
to the gods that have kept their eyes open while we spilled out

read the rest here: https://crevice.ro/a-game-of-hands-rock-paper-scissors/ 

Aradi: Territories

Call it peasantry, the practice of hands turning the soil for air
dirt capsulated under fingernails:
a primal attachment that keeps you standing

gone is the old wind trapped under earth
leaving a new face out sunning
the arriving faces, like soil and oxen, turn over these small pieces of ground

Read the rest here: https://crevice.ro/a-game-of-hands-rock-paper-scissors/ 

A game of hands: rock, paper, scissors

it used to be a childhood play
that my hands would tell
your destiny

Read the rest here: https://crevice.ro/a-game-of-hands-rock-paper-scissors/

other versions of a nightmare

I had a dream in  which  you died
when I opened my eyes
you screamed at me

after the heart is open

After the heart is open
I tell her, a wildfire

sweeps around the edges of the room
taking with it, the clothes

the photos, the gifts,
all physical beatings over memory

after the heart is open
a hurricane storms

in its belly there is a calm
unlike a storm, safe from a rain

of stones and waters
things taken from other people

after the heart is open
there is a vacancy

like there never was
wildfire, hurricanes and earthquakes

all forms of natural disasters
caving at the touch of a lover.

Flights,Birds, Skies

There is something the jailer does not know;
you can take the birds down from the sky

yet you cannot take the sky away from its inhabitants
it stays in them, because it has always been home

this is the sense of wings, there's a new power
that is given by virtue of the space that opens up

to contain the power of the flight
once taken, like a release, like freedom is to life.

a king

A light afternoon
glides like a caring king
because of the wails

Daisies

Ring around the roses
but you pick daisies

not in season, these flowers
that are a wild spring breathing

daisies, daisies
denting on your window

this is age, you sleep
with the daisies looking after you

breathing.

in the room, a woman

She stuck in the room
like a cigarette
in a pile of cigars

less expensive
yet still destructive

recycling

reuse, the minute because it doesn't come back
reuse, the things you'd throw to others to handle your burdens
reuse, the power of the muscles on a human body
reuse, the weight of a summer's sun on your skin
reuse, the way you turn around to the sound
reuse, the births and deaths of hope
reuse, the purpose you've made for yourself, revised
reuse, the minute of eliminating burdens.

a song on motivation

Tools to make
the space is an open floor for you
to create, just start

left on a table

His breath in the coffee
her shades kept close by
both took a flight
up into the day

poem and picture by author 

this is art

watermark, is what's left
a splotch
onto dark paper

Eyes

Hazel, like warm honey
these are the eyes I was given to look
I sought: the sun, the reflection of leaves, sunsets

Blue, like the ocean
these were the eyes I looked into
he sought: ice, skies, dusk

it was a matter of where
the eyes fell, for with the same shape
we still see with different colored eyes

minimal life

Try looking at the things you keep
unlike humans, you are able to discard
items that are shelled-out

fished from other people's pockets
or dreams, broken up stones
end of evenings, boring conversations

try extracting the old
out with it and in with shiny things
against the rule of your head

try looking at things you keep
to add onto you, like boulders
on your shoulders 

despite the hammer

tedious cold, end of summer
a common, textbook image flies
despite the hammer

battle warrior

a warrior after a battle
I stand without comprehending
how your voice rose
but I fell

has this autumn started yet?

Has it started, a season like autumn
hot like summer, heavy on the heart
why then, does all this death look like a joke?

it has then started, the cycle of regeneration
fitting into us, a skeleton into the trees
like finger for wooden tables

does it have to make sense?
this destiny, this end
this vacuum?

the issue with poetry

is that it says too much
in too little, yet
abuses your comfort, this poem.

a bad day

a bad day is a day
when there is no room
for a folded smile to unfold.

me, you and a birthday

like a betrayal
this day dawns again
when I had asked for complete darkness

No one has loved enough

No one has loved me enough
you blink and tell me
to name stars after me

as if stars are lovers
when the night sky is lit

it is little moments we will remember.

like odd birds

Yesterday's discarded clothes on the table
you speak of desire like one speaks of birds
flying at odd directions, in odd hours
I listen as I put the clothes back in their shelves

To ease death we say

to ease death we say, all sorts of things
valid or just left there in the space that has been opened

to ease death we say
the baby was incomplete

the heart couldn't function anymore
fractured around its edges

to ease death we say
it was a disappearance

journey completed
from the East to the West

to ease death we say
the loved ones are gathered

somewhere that's boundless
maybe this is how the verbs break in on us

to ease death
regardless of what we say

waiting in a vacant time, lets us expand
into easier versions of the same death.

rejection

Discarded are the hours
you never slept
judged by a mysterious hand

givers and takers

- practice an open hand
- practice taking something from an open hand
- practice slander
- practice remaining silent
- practice safe arrivals
- practice late text messages after worry
- practice love
- practice another version of love
- practice being present
- practice absence with an excuse
- practice snipping tree shoots
- practice planitng trees.

Inappropriate time

The open curtain lets in the wind
her bare body baring itself on the bed
you leave to pick up a call.

hunger

I've seen the orchard
filling with apples yet denied myself
picking the blood you've planted for the season.