Ship your love, my love,
And back
You’ll get
The star of stars
The rose of roses
The dream of dreams
The life of lives
You have coveted
for us.
The shadow of a shadow being loved
To the moon and back.
Picture by Frank Wendel.
Love is the fifth season.
It starts in March
With shines of longer days,
guarding the waters more.
It moves along with
greens and joys of May.
It flourishes above the lilacs
And with you I sleep
Amidst lilies-of-the-valley…
It drifts down July dusks
Colored in bluish touches.
……………………………………………
October is the beginning of times
Cutting edges and bringing back
Memories of youth.
Now it is the season to embrace
The truth.
Art by Ivan Tzarevitch.
I will look to the moon till my eyes turn blue,
Or I’ll see you.
Can you see me in the dark?
Can you put me in the light?
Night is not to be embraced,
But lived…
Moon glaring by Ivan Fedorovich Choultsé.
“Men had always been the reciters of poetry in the desert.”
― Michael Ondaatje,The English Patient
…As among dunes you can only see God or who you want. To see.
No assault to the imagination. No questions and whispers by people.
Only the wind carries wishes afar.
A poem soaring above the dunes brings the clarity of music and has the speed of sound.
And we get to see the glassy shine of Orion…
Love among deserts is never the same.
Part of magic deserts by Ivan Fedorovich Choultse.
So many have hurt me
Out of love.
And I have worn the scars
As triumphs
Over my weaknesses.
Now I see your love
On my lips,
Into the changing colour
Of my eyes.
Your tentacles are invisible
And caressing
As ever…
I feel your thoughts
Scattered all over
As floating images
In my mirrors, every day.
I Wish…
I were as beautiful
As a painted picture
On a wall…
Some say I have butterflies
Dancing in my head,
Green when winter’s away,
Red when trusting a dream,
Blue in hazy clearings,
Opening my paths
To you
To me
To him…
My yellow butterflies are polished silver
Glowing of ideas,
Shimmering of sparks
above linden flowers
In Spring.
Butterflies are always pink. Remember that.
Picture by Antonis Kalantzis.
Unii ar zice că am fluturi în cap
Verzi când iarna-i departe
Roșii când mă sprijin de un vis.
Albaștri în aburi de poieni limpezi
Care-mi deschid drumuri…
Spre tine
Spre mine
Spre el…
Fluturii mei galbeni
Sunt de fapt de argint
Sclipind în idei
Cu scântei
Prin ramuri de tei.
Primăvara…
My yellow butterflies By Ꮛ Ꮛ A r i e t e Ꮛ Ꮛ.
I know nothing of love, only that it is green. My love is painted upon the love of another.
Love is not a polished thing, but polishing your world with dreams is Love.
Love means spreading her paths with flowers.
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk through my garden forever” Lord Alfred Tennyson.
My love is totally simple and naive. Red in the flowers and the flamingos, green in the grass and the goodness of the world in you….and …I have a garden.
My garden by Katrina Pallon.
It was a strange and eerie time. Difficult.
I don’t look back. I don’t like the times when we are compelled, at least by convention, to create our invisible boundaries: New Years…
There is nothing to see. Or Do. Just comparisons…This Old is too New.
I learn from the past, I do not ponder over it. I agree with the Old, only if they remind me of another age, glamorously twisted into different and fascinating faces.
Anything that is good comes from the past. Only that we didn’t have the right mirror to see it clearly.
In the New world I would like to have a rest.
“To Rest is to receive all aspects of the world without judgment”…Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient.
A bath in the sun, a trip into the winds, New stories to be told, New times to be spent, Old people to be loved, and I don’t get to ask “Why?”…
Questionless…by Henri Rousseau.
