Poetry

I stand, my hand
gently waking the old wooden gate.
Before me, across the startled lawn
my little house looks at me
through the weeds, askance.

Alone it has lived for twenty years
growing rust of sorrow and fears.

Tears trickle inwards, searing the heart.
Then together they take a private trip
and eyes silently smart.
My feet work out a step
the gate warms its hinges.
Time, hiding under a shroud of leaves
and mourning the dead of spring
steps out to greet the present.
The door, oak, old and standing
never looked more alive.
Never before the answer came in sight.
Hey yes,
yes, you did right.

one day
i won’t wake up
to begin another day of living
that i love so much

i won’t sit at my computer like i
do now

nor will i look at my walls
at myself in the mirror
having died, i’d like
once more
to visit, just pass by
pause as the wind invisible
to read a line i wrote

sometime somewhere on a wall
“i’m born to do only good
i’m happy, i try the best
i can”
i could still have tried
moving on, i look back
i’m happy the way i died

Why the days play the day
like a tape
I’ve heard just a few days ago?
Why when the evening
touches your memory

it’s like it’s touched
just like before?

And when the moon
holding night’s finger reasons
ain’t it like we’ve reasoned all before?

The morn waits with its stale bread.
The mirror with familiar eyes.
Day peeks through the keyhole,
another one, waiting
to devour some more soul.

It’s cold outside.
I pick a day from the past
choose a few moments from it
and make myself a fire.
Rummaging among words

scattered in my mind

I make your flesh my pen
and paper your bone.
It’s then I love to warm
and wake up a poem.
My fingers become nervous
as words begin to touch.
And there in them,
hidden somewhere, crying in the mind
I find a lonely feeling left behind.
I touch it for a good long time.
Silently as we share the poem
feel its throb and rhyme
memories shore up to greet the tide.
I love how it then becomes warm inside.