A Wounded Eagle

The wounded eagle

The cloudiest highs

The willowiest lows

A slight touch of white

Somewhere In between

A breeze of light from bright to orange then red

This is not a sunset


 it is I

My blood on this sketchy horizon

An eagle that never flew by…

A sunset of all

I sketched for you this forest

Colorless as the world would be

With you not seeing it

A green sandstone

This this pasture

With your bare feet

Not walking on it

All of this

Sunset of all

Colorless sketches

Poet’s heart

His darkness with no nights…

Like an Error Correction

Like an Error Correction

It is you on one side

And me

On the other side of the silence.

We agree as weird as it comes

That there is Poetry

Quiet and humble beyond what

We can call by the first name.

Words, rhymes, and easy metaphors,

 Brown bag lunches, assorted, vacuum packed

nuts and yellow raisins

Crowd the library shelves…

Oh, how we color the world

With stereo nightingales and larks!

But there, way out there,

A universe moving sigh,

The never-mind,

Like an error correction.

The Night of a Family Dog

The night is crawling

Heartless and slow

Moonless above.

Nothing to guard but a wind

Playing the squeaky gates…

Nothing to throw a bark on, nothing to show for

When a push comes to shove.

The daylight breaks the silence,

Wet grass echoing bells of fog

And the cold creeps in

Chasing away the sleepiness

Of that old farmer’s dog

The Scenery of Inner Me

This is I, whether you see me or not,

A built-in chaos, too bothersome

For a good night sleep.

Mountains of blue annoyances!

Stop it! You are not the sky,

Not my sky, at least!

To many graves in my deep within,

So many that I shed tombstones

Through my tears.

So much past in my life of past dues

So many start overs, so many fears.

“Tomorrow will be a better night,

Better than all tomorrows” says the poet,

“Let it be, I shall be fine,

Buried in death and sorrows,

None of those mine”

Nothing New

The same as wherever

From bellow to above…

A man and a dog,

And the leash in their love.

My Sunday Metaphor Feast

“If it weren’t for the church towers”
Old villagers would say
“the sky would crumble upon us
With none of in-betweens
But all the far-a-ways”
“Who are you”, asks the shadow,
“to claim the ownership of me as your right?”
The light kept silent
As the shadow grew louder and longer
Towards the night.
The pastures and the waters,
The sky in starry night.
Oh, mountains of amazing,
Oh, rivers of delight!…
Goodbye, balcony, rampart of mine,
And you, flocks of limousines
Grazing the asphalt on my soul!
Somewhere a trail writes its testament
On the back of a run-away sheep.
…And the moon, up there, solemn and bright
Like an Easter sermon.

The Sonnet of Loneliness






You un-spoke me into silence

you un-saw me by the sea

As I sigh beneath the thunder

Bound to be or not to be.


Never mind my painful rumblings,

My sleepwalking to who cares,

You unborn me, let me vanish

To my heres, to your no-wheres.


Though you see the whole is missing

Missing limbs or missing chains

By me being or not being

Your the sames are not the sames.


It’s me alone as worthless sob

Lost in crowd, this lynching mob!

End of a Poem

Picture 040“How long you live” is better said “how much”

But in conclusion, this life is nothing but

A totally unprepared speech, in a new tongue,

Started from scratch…

Your Tears

Always here at the shore of my dreams…

Your tears, darling, resemble a sea,

A shore less sea, if I may say so…

There is nothing to hang your dreams on,

Nothing beyond, nowhere to go…


As you cry or whisper your will

I can see some timelessness here and there,

Don’t dilute those live particles of love

Don’t waste their touchlessness just everywhere….


You see, one plus one seem to equal two

In this betrayed loneliness of your eyesight…

Where is my place in your cry, darling?

Whose darkness is flowing through this night?


Listen, this silence is melting on some sandy shore…

I see more in your tears, a lot more!

About The Stones

There must something, something

Mysterious at least about the stones,

A frozen velocity, a flight somehow

Fallen from between the wings…


They have a story behind them,

They’re just a bit heavier than the dry bones…

They aren’t just crushing

Those ocean waves in vain!

Somehow you feel there’s a language smoldering,

Petrified moments, forgotten pain.


If you are hungry enough you can speak them into bread,

They could be much more than you can think about,

You can count them twelve by twelve

And build an altar,

Or just do nothing so they can cry out…

Before The Firing Squad

Let’s run away, my darling, let’s run our days away,

This life’s a crucifixion, this planet is a cross,

Don’t speak a word this morning, don’t ever dare to say

“We’re gonna die!” don’t speak us unto loss…

Forget about the winters, forget those rocky hills,

Let’s run for hope, my darling, for our only hope,

Forget the empty freezer, forget those nasty bills,

We’ll never reach the ugly end of the rope!

There is a heaven, darling, our God is still the same,

Don’t ever mind the winters, don’t worry, don’t be sad!

But if the doors don’t open we’ll still enjoy the game

And hold our hands, my darling, before the firing squad…

Somehow About The Poem

The price of rain decreases

At the free market of poetries

Even if

The sky sends a look

Through each drop…

Even if

My leaves of paper got green

While you, poets,

Were fishing

Radioactive trout…


Even the incorruptible time loses

Some moments

From place to place.  Just

Pick them up and give them a breath

Before they become stones

(anyone knows how unuseful

the moments of stone are).

In the rest

The poem is like a silence,

Like a place from where

Someone just left…

This really matters…

Who can pasture

The flock of my words,

Those trend setters, some will say,

Who kill the grass

To smell the hay…

There’s no place for you,

O, shepherds of my words,

Trough this squeaky forest of wooden swords…

This green pasture of bar coded grass blades

Is not for you, nor are those virtual shades.

You show some allergies

To that optimized blue of the sky

Not to low, not too high…

Leave those stereo nightingales

And this computerized dark,

I want my words together

In the poem of this ark…

Don’t rest by those

Y2K compliant still waters,

Allow some death

In your breath!

This really matters…