Poem_2012

Hard to breathe

For different reasons

Muddy water muddy sky

Quinoa for lunch

Potato for dinner

There is no salt on the table

There is no salt in the air

But only Mapacho smokes swirl

There is a stoned Buddha on the floor

People start chanting

Various

Sounds of wind

Sounds of Icaros

Green lines move from left to right

Then, some blues and reds

There is a man

This man follows me

His body is seen

But where is his head?

There is more than one man

They are coming towards me

They have torches in their hands

I want to get up and see

But my body’s immovable

Must be someone up there

I feel it’s staring at me

Then the fear disappears

That’s only after seeing what it was

Or have I chased it off from my own fears?

It is getting cold

Someone is crying

I force myself some cold splashes

They say a tree has 1500 different spirits

Everyone gathers around

We smile to each other

And hold each other’s hands

Everyone’s in need

In need to be here and now

Let’s swim in the river of floating leaves

Able to breathe better

Carbon dioxide is necessary for plants

There is enough in the air

We need oxygen that plants produce

Nu says he was left at the jungle when he was only 15

He had to live next to the tree for 5 years

He had to eat the whole tree

Then he is the tree

Butterflies do not regenerate when broken

But they still fly and fly

Hard to say goodbye

My timidity reflects his

We will meet again

We will meet again

Poem_07/2015

There is a small goat

On the field somewhere

It seems he is alone

It seems a first love

It seems nine years have passed

and so the misery begins

Cries of the goat can be heard as laughters of the goat

The goat eats half cynically

With certain boredom of a bourgeois

With certain distance of an artist

With tears of a being on earth

Someone approaches far from the meadows

To release the goat

Or to educate

The wind blows strong

Almost too strong for a small goat

Therefore the goat stays firmly, balancing

With the force of gravity, climbing

With the vigour of capability

With all its commands to each muscle

With a song of influence

At the back of the mountains

The poet sings of the goat

As if to break an engagement

Much pressure’s felt

On the three fingers that touch the pen

On the stomach with worries and doubts

Searching for something that can hold of her

Searching to exist as an extreme necessity

For the meadow, or

To somebody

Or, for the goat that stumbles along with drops of rain

Poem_02/2015

There is a box

In the box there is a language

In the language we bow

In the language we shake hands

In the language we wave hands

In the language we proclaim our love

In the language we make the invisible, visible

Sometimes this box is thrown in the gutter

Then we shout out loud to be heard

Sometimes this box is placed on the sharp point of the pyramid

Then we whisper not to get hurt

Sometimes this box has no language

Then we are very very happy

Poem_01/2015

Let’s accept the fact that they are very coincidential, our decisions
Though, the first encounter, always with the bubbles from the predestinations

I am secretly in love with dreamers because I have no dreams

Look at the faces of lovers and they are framed sadly
Desires, wishes all in one scoop blowing away in the wind
We say we fall in love because we fall into the tears, traces and hair
Who ever said that love makes us danse so ever lightly like feathers
We lock our love tight but it might be too heavy and become dangerous
I will be careful as not to do things he dislikes
Rather than trying to do things he like

2015.01.03