Gaza

There is a war out there.
And no one is able to say who started it.

There, people shrouded in glowing white
Move around, mostly children.
It is a silent procession through broken down buildings made of alphabets
A playground that came apart under lights, like a nervous acrobat
With a spine of cactus.
A little farther down the road, is the " Dead Mothers' Lost and Found Dept."
"Finders keepers", they say, "Losers weepers", they say.
Continuing into the night, they will find their favourite film star,
On fire, frightened and not such a hero afterall.
He will die, forever, and the thought will break that girl's heart.
They come upon a barbed mirror and ask;
"Are we on the wrong side, or is that the right side?"

Then the youngest and weakest of those children
That boy right at the back of the amnesty queue
Who has silently been fitting together these pieces of alphabets, acrobats, dead mothers
and broken hearts into his jigsaw puzzle memory,
that boy will say
"I can't wait to grow up and find out"

Do you ever wonder
about the terrifying whirligig of time?

Love Song for Mephisto (1)

In your eyes, Mephisto,
Are promises of a hellish love
I'll take it; Because you see
In these years I have come to doubt
That there is any other sort.







www.oleanova.com/gambling_art.htm
By the artist Olea Nova

Trust

with some i can never find
and others i was completely blind...

There is such sadness in the music that the Cello brings. A sadness capable of immense inspiration or it might unravel all fortifications that one makes around the soul. The Count said to the other courtiers - no he did not say he asked because he did not know himself - the secret of forgetfulness...

Why are we taught to fight all feeling? Especially feeling that might make us honest or vulnerable...Truth is fragile and often breaks like old women's bones. A broken heart. A scattered smile. The wish to draw tortoise shells on all the walls and breathe life into them...But

Never go so far that you may not return. After all death is so incurable. Static and stubborn like a finishing line. It takes away the beauty of a place, borrowing from it its eternity - never, never to return that moment of the sea.

This is who I am. Who I wish to be. Why must I fear that eye which looks at me. It is mine own. I must speak because this silence will drive me insane. Sometimes the music envelops me - lifting me from this room and beyond the forgotten owl's nest. Only sometimes.

Then what of those green burdens? Can I leave them for the cart to carry when it takes me away? Power, Courage, Honor, Right, Success - I try to believe in all these things. Perhaps I even do. And it shames me so the believing and the non-believing only because often I get greedy for an answer, which is which, who is who.

And then you say there will be time for everything.

Ah! that these days might have passed by a blue sea or in sun flower fields. But now these things; the blue sea, the goldmines of a sunflower field, aquatic life, other galaxies and the sadness in the music that the Cello brings - now they must be collected and pressed into folds of words - one day, a Spring day, to be found out again and thrown away into that place where we throw away everything that ever mattered.

Poetry has left the room...room has left the poet...left poetry in the room...