the road

I walked on this road
everyday for 20 years
or perhaps even more
and nothing ever changed
except for the cracks in the asphalt,
the depth of the holes
and the shapes of the shoes
that were walking along

it used to be filled with children
playing ball
or hiding from their peers
and their parents
till late
when the street turned dark

and now that I grew
somehow old and I can wear heels
I find that in the few years
I have not been there
everything has changed
but the stones.

secret island

at sunrise you told me
about an island who rose from the sea
in your dream.
you woke up and walked out in the morning
from your white house
and from the disappearing mist
the goddess a love
created for you
an island like a rose;
it was just then rising from the sea
and it was called Rhodos.
wrapped in a pink cloud she brought it to you
that morning when the aurore
touched your eyelids
with her fingers

and just because
I happened to be
next to you this morning
at sunrise you shared
your secret island with me

and now I have to go all the way
to Rhodos to see with my eyes
what you saw in your dream
when the day was getting ready to begin

the tree I wish I could to be

between an ephemeral butterfly
and a long lived olive tree
I choose to be
a winged - but rooted kind of tree;

between the twists and the knots
of the olive tree trunk
and the straight ascending pine
carrying with him all the vines
that dare to cling,
I choose to dance any kind of dance
that will keep the light
coming down to me;

and if I cannot be
what I am not
who cares
if I just talk a lot
and paint the walls
with all sorts of words
for which sounds
are yet to be invented?

you - may I ask

there are those
I have tried to love
because I thought I could see
their wonderful colors,
amazing colors that shone
even through the dirt that covered them
at one time or another.

some said: "do not bother to love me"
just as I was trying to paint
their true colors on their faces
they turned into shells
(mostly white shells)
and they still quietly wait
at the shore for yet another wave

some said: " do not bother to love me"
and they stepped out of my way
and into the deep, secret ocean
looking for a different life
and enchantment elsewhere
and they turned into
gently colored and moving anemone

some simply let me touch them
with my hands and my thoughts,
we drank together from glasses
into which we had squeezed
the essence of our true colors.
we must have mixed the wines and got drunk
for a year or two just to wake up
on a desert beach with white stones
everywhere and nobody with whom to share
the taste of salt and our thirst.

these must have turned into mist
and the droplets that fall right before
the raising of the rainbow.

but you - you make coffee for me
every morning, unless I make coffee for you
you - you catch me every time
I glide after being launched
from the top of the mountain
at the start of the rainbow;
you who can swim above all kinds of waters
and under all kinds of rainbows
while holding my hand
you - can I ask? what made you
bother to love me?

fly shoes!

I fell in love with a pair of shoes
red and pretty,
that I have never tried on;
frivolous thoughts danced in my mind
like butterflies,
until dizzy they fell on my beige flat shoes
who all exited decided to fly.
then why in the world would I
change them and their wings
for another, be it colorful, pair
if those shoes can fly?

the city

behind the glass walls and the steel
the heart of the city beats fast;
in the plazza where the farmers gather
the pace slows down and the air is warmer.

on the fast streets the nerves screech
in tune with these tired brakes,
on the lawn you can stop and secretly yawn
and you'll get back a smile from the strawberry vendor.

I came here to sharpen my intelligence, and my skills
compete for a place among the high ranks perhaps,
and I found out that sharing a family recipe
can be just as rewarding as well as heart warming


where does the city really live,
behind the glass walls and steel
or out in fresh air
where time has been known to flow freely.

wake up

You wake up one day
and spring has come
it is the rain who tapped
with a tousand little fingers
at the windows, and now has stopped.
it left the place to the sun
who warmed up the earth just a bit
enough that there is perfume in the air
now from those pretty weeds.
as pretty and green as they are
they sneaked in the yard
from the forests,
they take over the lawn and your soul
and it is certaing that everything
started to grow,
including that song
you harbored in your chest
and kept warm during winter
now it is ready to go
high, in the air, free fliying
and lifting you up on its wings.
you are on your way
go ahead - dancing your way
forward like those pretty weeds
from the forest

quote of the day

"A cook's best tools are his hands". Ina Gartner

who gives is who receives

there are times and there are ways
that the way to win is to loose,
and the way to receive is to give
think of weight, think of energy
think of burning the logs and gaining the heat
the more you spend, the more you have

think of the fights you avoid
and the peace you gain
think of the good feelings
you get after doing good deeds onto others;
think of the bank of favors
where your account grows
whenever you help another.

think where you stand,
on the bench with the givers
or on the bench of receivers?
do you see them as two teams,
playing against each other
or do you hear them as chorus,
playing in harmony tunes,
taking turns, one after the other.

kitchen sink revolution

what would you think if all the kitchen sinks
on this old street of mine (and of yours)
will decide on the same day to cause trouble
and show disrespect towards people by means of a puddle;

a puddle on my kitchen floor and one under the counter,
a puddle in front of the fridge, and in front of the trash bin rubble,
and what if in their anger they would call in the ants,
the mice and the squirells to scare me out of my pants;

what if the bell and the phone will all ring
and bring messages from my neighbors that we are all in
the same kind of trouble and we all fight to get rid
of the same kind of puddles caused by faucets and sinks

Which would like to think that if they cause and maintain
a revolutionary disorganization they will all get attention
and grease, and only after we take care of them we'll get peace.
OK if you say, you call back the mice and the ants and I' ll be the plumber

trees in spring

photo credits David Clapp

The trees this spring decided to do
something unusual, uplifting but true
they gathered their sprits and took a deep breath
then lifted their branches up in clean air
and flapped them, and and shook them and gave a sharp cry
till the roots floated above the ground and they were ready to fly.

They flew over the fields early one morning
they visited cities, and villages in the county
then headed together towards the mountains
to see their relfections in a a lake who frozen in wonder
at the sight of trees floating above him tried to hid under
the shadow of the cloud. Then they turned back and replanted themselves.

rain

it is spring time and rain
does not fall here in vain
my garden is growing
(I tried to keep the rabbits from knowing);
the playground's been washed
by the dust and the time will be best
to swing high, and slide low
tommorow. Meanwhile the lake waters grow
so we can go boating, fishing
and swimming, but when can we go?

the color of greed (purple?)

and what would it be
the color of greed?
and the color of pride
and the one for the shame
of a leader to admit
that it has happened indeed,
that driven by greed
bright people did cheat?
did they fall in shadow
will they recover without a scar?
I wish them the joy
of retrieving light in their soul
the heart to admit
it was a childish mistake
I won't do it again
this is it.

daydream / live now

though I live mostly now
sometimes I find myself
flying ahead in time
on the wings of my thoughts.
many times I fly in the past
and even more times
I live parallel realities.

As a sanity dream
I choose a green field
of a possible now
and let horses run free
out of my mind
to find paths they only can find.

And as I follow the horses
with a careful eye I am
realizing the beauty of now.
the translation of maybe
into what it should be.

smoothly when the break is over
the transition done
my eyes need to move
from the green field
to the white page
I need to fill in.
I need to leave it
for others to read
to know I have been here
in a moment of time.

and then I shall chase
the paths on the asphalt
the lanes on the highway
transforming myself
into the one
my neighbor needs for a chat
my child for a pat on his back
my mom for a phone call
my other one for sharing the ride
on the wild horses back.

where have you been?
welcome back in the present
where you belong
with your dreams and all.

open the door

Open the door and they will come
be careful just whom you invite
you can become to them alike;
and if you let so many in
is it still your house the house you're in?
is it still you or do I greet a friend of yours
when I see you? and if this happens
is this wrong, or it will simply make you strong?
open the door, I told you so
they are all teachers and you are teaching them
a lesson too. don't be afraid to leave your footprint
in the sand, and on their souls.
just remember not to hurt yourself
when you are sharing and enjoying
the sips of coffee and the bits of realty
that your friends have brought for the big party.