Mountains

Behold, you say
the mountains
higher ground than most
a certain fog, a mist of unarmored sift moves
like ripples over a lake
near the foot of the mountain
behold. you ask me gain
they are high, we, sink onto earth lower, why? you ask
I cannot tell you
You wouldn't understand-
You, owner of the plains
why do you envy
the altitude of the mountains?

In case I forgot your flowers

I.

I said I loved flowers
roses, their red was unlike anything I've seen
nature's kiss for the eye
you said they belonged outdoors
just like I belonged best between words
I answered that I like flowers regardless
and you said you like my adoration of little things, regardless

II.

The flowers you gave me for my birthday grew
not where we said they would
because you mentioned dirt and rain
I thought you meant the garden, always wishing well for everyone-
but I left the petals for my skin
they grew on me -the flowers and I
I kissed the hands that gave them
that provided their water.

III.

Must we now speak about
insignificant clouds? Must we?
their shades would never hurt
nor question the colors in my hair
variations of brown to ash,
nor would they harm the green sap in your eyes
just give me your palm and keep silent
no more talk about imminent rain in our spring.

IV.

You ran your hand in my hair
begged me to chose a climate
a land best fitting all the
red poppies and lilacs you promised
me earth but I said I needed to wait for the season
to change, for my roses to bloom again
and I chose words, maybe to fill the gap
dead roses left on my windowsill.


V.

All that's left of thunder was a split
of the sky, a drizzle of stars
too cold for anything to grow
too cold for color. My world turned monochrome
while yours colored slowly.
I lent against a tree, in my fingertips tangled
the few roses, flowers you printed
like rings onto me.


VI.

Remember you gave me flowers
for my birthday
roses red and irises blue
told me they grow on me
I have buried them under the fig
where we hugged last, the last roses
have waited, too long for their waters
so when you are here again
maybe we'll dig the silver roses out
and I will wear them again
before their next blossom
or final funeral.

the darker side of us

Someone can always wither on one's own hands
like an old paper, used for recycling to waste
we are wasters,
chose death on our own,
call it friendly fire, or treason, or even a heartless form
of love.
there's always a hand that wants to detach from the body
and run over its own shoulder,
rushing to fury
like a poisoned apple,
then there's what come from outside of us
like a silver bullet to a fair princess's head
gushing out of a cold gun at night
when the windows are closed
when the light is out
when darkness covers all of earth
there's always a way to sweet revenge of the black widows
moments before dawn,
someone building a tangled web for the fall cannot care less
forgetting to shut part of the curtain
that lets in, all of what belongs to the outside.

A little out of line

Dear readers,

It's been a while without any direct contact from me. I have been involved into the whole process of  working with the amazing team of Tinderbox, the University of Warwick Masters of Writing Anthology. The great news is there's a massive London launch at Waterstones Piccadilly with readings and signatures. Please feel free to drop by from 6:30-8:30 and check the great work here:

http://tinderbox2014.wordpress.com/

to a cheerful launch, cheers.

Practice art

What blooms inside
the little walls of a heart
should be watered regularly
weed out the areas around
the trees with your teeth
rummage the dirt for oxygen
starve yourself so the blossoms
may live inwards
what blooms inside the walls of a heart
should always remain green
so should art.

forgetfulness

it is easier to forget
when you are a stranger
untied, free to your own flight
it is much easier to release
what is not yours
because you've never had it
it is the easiest for a person
to face what's dark, hide from fear
because darkness can be battered by light
Always the smoothest, thoughts
but not actual life.

on not rushing the wind

the wind comes on its own
no one narrates the story of its origins
it is almost impossible to count the particles it carries
rosebuds, umbrellas, pollen
the breezes of sighs is  its own world
you cannot rush the wind
not for nearness, or for a truth
the wind comes at its own speed,
leaves at its own pleasure-
trust it well, do not rush the wind.