Category Archives: Figments of my reality

Setea

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Camille Pissarro – June Morning, View over the Hills over Pontoise

Am pictat la așternut de seară
condurii tăi cu talpa măslinie și luna presărată în geam,
în linii uniforme am unduit o apă
să zăbovesc în brațele-i doar nuferi-gânduri
și torțe roșii într-un lan din veșnicie…

Plouă peste oază și stoluri curg în mare
nimicul se adună și e o sete care doare
când din țărână crește iarbă și din iarbă nasc stejarii
durează-mi Mare temelii din stânci cu tâmpla albă
și-mi sculptează tu Iubito sufletul din sare…

Vino-n vis cu mine în noaptea cea mai lungă
să răsărim necunoscuți în calea de pe urmă
să-ți scriu ochii în poezii și piept în florile de viță;
oare mai răsfoiești tu stele aprinse peste zare
și insule din zile cu misterul șoaptă temătoare?

Vision

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I want to hide from the present day
in a conscious thought of my own
beaten and outside the law
my God has forgotten me
the steps go down,
from the darkness that is left to shine
I want to run
why won’t you let me be a sinner?
beauty that I crave
when nothing else can’t touch me
I just need to feel
the deserts sliding through my hearts,
into so much place to build
I want to hide from me now
my face covered in dust
no mirrors to see me
only essays in art,
I am a sinner
love is for the absent mind
it does not obscure my eye
I can still see words in between…

Portretul lui Alice

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Noapte
frunze mov pe aleea de pe marginea lacului
mână caldă, degete reci
ochi felinare – privesc și le iubesc fără să văd
brațele ramuri, picioare stinghii vopsite mov
dragostea odihnește în mine aripi ce bat înspre cer…

o chemă încă Alice
un nume ce-l purta fără să știe înainte să o cunosc
în lumea din oglindă,
ca o neliniște pe valuri ce izvorăsc între stele
trăiește în întrebare, temătoare
vâslind, vâslind, vâslind
viață, între bulgări de soare –

și-a pierdut chipul
roșu ca o inimă, într-un câmp cu maci
sorbind portocale fierbinți sâmbătă seara;
Alice, lași urme de pași pe dale
Alice, lași urme
Alice!

îți creionez sufletul
în Marea din spatele pleoapelor
unesc zenit cu nadir și între ele conturez o lume
te răpesc pentru mine
nemuritoare în clipă ca o apă care curge
tânără tu, tânăr eu
vise-gânduri sculptate de timp…

Ben

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Did I ever tell you about Ben,
tall guy I once knew
a good friend
someone I’ve never really talked to,
like you,
a wonderful guy
of the sorts that fall from the sky,
he played the violin
those days he needn’t take an aspirin,
for he was hot,
he was hot…

did I ever tell you about Ben
or the song I wrote for you,
in my desert
it was a jewel
in a world that is cruel
the notes got stuck,
so perfect
could make The Giants bow,
he never did hear
the ear it was deaf
to the words that he lacked…

I remember Ben
for the stars he could not see
the rhythms not understood,
he played the violin
I was drawn to The Sea
a wave of you
over a wave of me,
coffee in a cup for tea…
one time only I’ve asked
if beyond the stars
he taught there was life,
but he never looked back
stayed in bed
white lilies under his head
and walked away forever…

so did I ever tell you
Ben came from above,
a night in the Castle Park
looking for a purple star
he made his way through,
to you…
the very last touch
a rosebud for a birthday,
left me a journal
in a language amiss,
not in the sentence
but the way I should have kissed…

but Ben was wrong –

The Dance

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There is a time
it’s most days hidden
when the dark veil falls to ground,
curtains open to the few that still believe in love
and the nights be getting longer
filled with words that make the dreamers want to rise
you and I shall talk till morning catching nameless countless stars,
we’ll be making the dissection with a rusty human knife
in a double blinded trial
we’ll be sailing running kites,
finding threads to build a story strong as Russian Kevlar vests
and a backyard with an oak for our golden restless mutt,
not afraid to ask the questions
not afraid to listen to
answers are embracing shivers
knowing me and knowing you,
falling deep we’ll find the ladder
adding steps up to our heavens if we go shall be together
hand in hand or souls like feathers,
are you ready for the treasure
diamond feelings that no other could have measured…

Reflection

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Submerged
I write
the flickery path no one takes anymore
from the moon
through mountains
back to my second left toe…

My thoughts diffuse
as endless waves travel
on a surface of still that I touched,
with raspberry roots
which are all left to be culled,
and
my hands are frozen…

A kiss,
on the moss in the shadows,
yellow dream
like a glimpse of unexpected,
forests rise
over the pond at the end of the world
over eyes
over giants
over time
a fence between the green and the purple.

And my mouth gets filled
with scents
nostrils with fire
from the inside,
lighting the cord that’s keeping me here,
birthing the Sun
and the river…

$ld: ldump –raw

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Where is the… the raw cruel pain of being alive? I had dreams for a while. I remember having them. At least for some time. They would often come out like popcorn in the microwave: salty or sweet, hot at first and with a smoky aftertaste. Simpler days, when reading under the blankets at 1 AM was the best it could get. And following the lines of an old library tome I was escaping reality, somewhere far beyond where anything was possible…

The raw and the cruel are right here. COVID-19, Australian fires, Florida storms, plane crashes, killer hornets… But is that all so abnormal that we feel suffocated or maybe it was always out there in a form or another and what is actually happening is just a sick form of feeding hard to swallow information to everybody in order to induce mass psychosis and depression. I don’t say we shouldn’t be careful and protect ourselves or that all of the above is fantasy. But what if all this negativism thrown at us just another form of war? What if we needed a war in order to progress, to boost “post-war” economy, to shake us form the procrastination that engulfed us as of lately?

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Breaking Alice

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Alice has filed for divorce
she doesn’t need an ass she wants a real horse
to pull the lever every time she comes
one big fellow to hold her real close
with a big heart made of steel
that her troubled mind couldn’t hurt couldn’t spill…

Alice, she is never getting tired
you have minutes, she has all the many hours
asking you to follow, does she ever come?
showing you the door, does she ever run?,
her blood is restless, so is her soul
Alice dearest is never getting old….

Alice darling walks on the line
with high heels reaching the top of her thighs
seeking fortune under falling skies
looking for another kind of guy
to dance in the puddle late at night
one wild stud to whisper with brown eyes…

Alice, she…

Alice writing back home
is sharing sorrows with the Christian old folks
the letters are wishing only the best
but at night she still could not rest
her mind was elsewhere to say the least
had it coming since she was a little happy kid…

Alice, she…

Alice darling got me on a hook
lost once she gave me that dirty funny look
first time I kissed her it was a rut
being slow was all it ever took
she started questing for the Holy Grail
even when she learned it was just a fairy tale…

Alice, she…

And now Alice wants to break
all pages that we wrote in the book of James
the prophecy was not intended for us
something was off but neither did ask
doubts where there form day one
but what if you had the choice to love anyone…



Friday in the Sun

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Waking up a sunny Friday
last December on the last day
I drank coffee followed by red wine from a better time
and the hundred dreaming songs of dancing summer
put them on one by the other,
feeling small before you grow
no one shows you what is right nor they tell you what is wrong
and the shapes you learn to draw kissing edges on the floor,
was a painter dressed in coal
up until you brushed my soul…

Walking on a sunny Friday
from late morning to November
I built castles in the sand where to kiss and hold your hand
but we’ve never burned enough to turn dust to shining glass
and the ocean came upfront
washing out the fairy gold,
in the daylight magic paled being lost in the glitter’s mighty cost
and the stars we watched together never shone on heavy weather
only music did remain
lighting torches in the rain…

Wandering on roads this Friday
couldn’t pull into a driveway
the stone giant with a heart needs a spark to gain the light
but there’s nothing to be found on the bearing that he’s bound,
reading books with empty pages
didn’t teach to see the braces
and the walls he raised around from the surface to the Sun
took him more than just his time spent on hopes and silver line
and the question being asked
lost its purpose in the vast…

Old cotton

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“We all imagined his hesitant, stammering manner
Merely concealed his heart’s strong core,
But he had his misery, his hesitant stammering manner
And nothing more”
– Mary Megan Scorato’s poem for Dr. White
Mount Misery by Samuel Shem

***

Old cotton in my coat just married with new leather
I wonder if eleven years will bring at least another seven
and if I pray to Jesus and the saints and Holy Mary
my heart may come to life and fall in love with Jenny…

The coat I bought in Central Store I never sewed a patch
it’s like that constant feeling you have known but rarely had,
I did not see at first nor did I really want, it got imposed
but soon I fell for good, so down that no one understood…

Old cotton tainted brown it lived and traveled all around
the stories bound to tell are more than I could spell
had I for each a nickel my words would touch not tickle
and the image that it sells makes the good girls slowly melt…

Cotton coat with dark-brown leather suites me like a feather
like the letters that I wrote when bouncing off the heavens
and the late night promises while holding hands together
it turns me into a gentleman, a fellow with good manners…

But when I put on my leather coat everything turns dark
in the cotton dreams that follow I’m a giant built from sparks
I crush and burn and love the thousand miles of road ahead
and nothing’s going to stop me from blowing up your bed…