Caravan

We took the endless road,

no signs, no map, not a single soul.

The winter around us

grinding his teeth to the unlucky ones,

the ones with no caravan.

The queen wears red

Soft-kissed and warm-turned,
the skin touched the fresh pillow.
The last bit of the cream applied,
the golden box thrown into the bin.
But not before one more deep breath
is taken from the now empty space
of vanity and youth obsession.

The queen lies now in bed
and wears red inside.
Her life is blue, her house is yellow,
her teeth are black, her weather cold,
her kingdom ancient, her hands weak.
But her face smells of roses,
of bergamot and citrus.
She closes her eyes and counts
her children, like others count sheep,
to fall asleep or die in their sleep.

Windows

Tell them that the winter is here.

If they want to visit,

they must wear their thick skin,

forget about the virtues of the sea,

and wait until the fog clears

for the surprised birds to sing.

Tell them we are here.

At Last

With a group of friends

we’ve talked many times about

apparitions.

Mine had been just a few:

a bird that wasn’t there,

words that grew on the top of trees

or places that blurred into each other.

But the other day, there she was,

my friend from thirty years ago.

She hadn’t changed and walked

under my window with the same grace,

the same wild blond hair,

and that smile, full of future pleasures.

I hadn’t known how much I’ve missed her.

I hadn’t known how much I remembered of her.

As she walked away, back into the past,

I realised that the time has come

for everyone to reappear

and tell a story.

9/11

“Twenty years ago the world changed.” Of course one could oppose that statement by saying the world has been changing every single day ever since its beginning, which is certainly the historical truth, but humanity as a whole witnessing a horrific and significant impact, in real time, realising the change, in real time, entering a collective psychological new era, in real time, was unprecedented till 11th September 2001.

On that day we all knew, in real time, that our youth’s dream of a peaceful, free and tolerant world was moving, in best case, away into the far-away future, and in worst case, would become a memory of the past.

Our collective fears came out to be true: terrorism in our cities and airports, wars on, or of, terror in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, hundreds of thousands refugees blocked or drowned at our borders, abandoned people who were promised a better future from this or that self-righteous power.

Where is our common altar to pray on a day like this? Who is our common god for healing? Maybe the only thing that can save us now is to look at and examine our bodies: “This is our hand, this is our leg, these are our eyes.” We must start from the nill of our common humanity. Not in a sentimental way, but in the way when you get lost and look for a point of recognition in the landscape, a mountain, a lake or a river where you can start walking from.

And that walking will be long.

Photo: Findings from the sanctuary of Asklepios in Ancient Corinth.

From the ongoing film photography project Endless archives of light.

Waning Crescent on July 4

Moon phase for July 4 is Waning Crescent,

says the moon app. The photo of the moon shows it

melting in the space darkness.

The surface is like the skin

of an old man who’s seen the world:

wounded, marked, dry.

When we don’t see it,

the moon forgets about us.

We don’t. We wait.

Just a Girl

open.spotify.com/playlist/5nfkyAAwMyxZWSKL2WUMM2

A young woman in an attractive pose

The sea behind her in moonlight mode

One is torn between kindness and irony

For some this is considered a parody

Where she is we’ve been before

We’ve posed wide-eyed, watched the door

To see the right one enter the room

Worship, accept, and save us from doom

And yet indeed it has been also sweet

Dancing with someone in their beat

As long as the song would last

Summer, love, the night so vast

But preacher don’t preach

Because we’ve left that beach

February 2021

8th February

The silence of snow
is one covering much said,
a time to revise,

time to examine
the alternative versions
of things thought well known.

Under the white shapes,
another garden is formed,
the most essential

is seen with closed eyes.

—-

14th February

Almost like Christmas,
a snowy Valentine’s Day,
warming for some hearts,

for others just frost.
Dried flowers in books, letters
that were never sent,

vows that were broken,
but also some not needed,
as years press the earth

for us to walk on.

—-

16th February

I saw a photo,
the sea was in the background,
wintry and confused,

trying to reach the shore.
The wind must have been there too,
like movement frozen.

It’s difficult to
stop the mind thinking of
what cannot be framed,

of what escapes us.

—-

23rd February

There’s an air of spring
examining the frozen
earth by touch, shyly.

We’re not ready yet
for happiness, the heavy
curtains are still closed.

At least the winter
would not lie to us, would not
say all will be good.

One doesn’t know now.

—-

25th February

In a vast black sky,
stars must search for their brothers;
their signals are sounds,

their pulse is slower
than light, but finds the fellow
stars eventually.

Trembling together,
shining apart, know better
than to come closer.

Some got lost that way.

—-

January 2021

1st January

As I cannot sleep
I may as well write a word
about this New Year’s night.

It has covered us
with a thin blanket of clouds
and a waning moon.

Modest and quiet,
no promises have been made,
and no vows taken,

though we humbly begged.

—-

3rd January

Head on the pillow
one hears the own heart beating
dull from afar as

through a cotton field,
then louder; wild streams of blood
heat up flesh and skin.

A walk with closed eyes,
about those internal paths,
in awe and weakness

we give in to sleep.

——

9th January

Even when the grey
skies seem endless, beyond them
an opening waits

for us to travel
to see, to fetch, to bring back
what is always there.

We must prevail
now, we need no metaphors
for what we know true,

substantial and good.

——

11th January

As we get older
we start giving away belts,
as waists matter less.

Winters seem longer,
cold more intolerable
for our thinner skins.

News are no surprise,
except when we forget what
we’ve already heard,

sometimes age itself.

——

20th January

Strong wind is blowing,
only thoughts are too heavy
to travel with it.

It rattles our doors,
makes noises like a toddler
seeking attention.

We couldn’t have known
how good we are in waiting;
we used to worship

finish lines, deadlines.

——-

27th January

A year doesn’t always
last a year. More accurate
would be to count time

like trees do, with rings.
Wide ones, narrow ones, no year
has got the same length.

How old, how weathered
one can be, how strong, how week,
there’s no calendar,

you see when one falls.

——

31st January

Crisp air, fragile sun,
soft frozen white on the roofs.
January leaves

questions unanswered.
How much longer till, when, where,
can we meet again?

There’s a fear we hide,
there’s a hardness we took on,
a mighty distance,

we might not let go.

December 2020

6th December

To strangers: Come back!
We’ll meet at the train station,
northbound or southbound,

people just again
heading to an unknown place.
Ask for directions,

or miss the same train;
we can start then talking, find
out we once lived less

than six feet apart.

———

15th December

Invisible rain,
as if going through a cloud.
On the other side

the night is waiting
in its confessional box.
Our secrets are new

only to us. We
tell them in low voice, release
them from their wordless

life of working hands.

——-

26th December

There has been no snow,
the cold has stayed in our hearts,
preserving our souls

through the long winter
that has started in a spring.
We’re not who we were,

we talk less, plan less,
certainty has left for good
our dictionaries,

a call for writers.

———

28th December

In difficult years,
they took the same decisions
every day anew:

to stand up and cook
if nobody would do it,
to live, even if

other people die,
to laugh at a joke they knew,
to forget until

there’s a chance not to.

———

29th December

And so we prepare
a fine gateway for our ghosts:
pride, illness, hate; we

light candles, burn herbs,
all gods should be satisfied
with our offerings.

What‘s next should be pure
oblivious to us fools,
what‘s next should be new,

much to burn indeed.