sweet magnolias

image from http://www.basdenfamily.com/
at the end of spring, at the budding of summer
it is the time when the air smells sweet
from everywhere you are surrounded
by the aroma of southern magnolias

stately and green they mark the south
with imposing and statures. Graciously
they offer globes of white surprises
as their gift to the coming summer.

they share their shade with growing bunnies,
their branches with aspiring climbers
their skinned knees growing strong
with each run on the lawn, with each climb and each rest
in the shade of sweet magnolias

open your flowers and open your hearts
to the heat of the summer, and the songs of robins!
open your eyes and see the white lights
brought to us today as they were before hundreds of years
from the old good times by the sweet magnolias.

literary start

going, blowing ...Ana makes poems - with rhymes and rhythms!

time

time is what you make of it
that is most of the time;
like - when you call a friend
to drink a coffee al fresco;
and it is clearly not because of the coffee;
like when you climb a mountain
of any sorts and heights
and you do not care how high and far you can get;
like - when you read a story in the night
to a child, surrounded by hugs,
and it does not really matter what the story says;
like - when you listen to your grandmother's stories
that come from the depth of her life,
and snowflakes start falling
from the heaven's highs onto her hairs
and your eyes barely start seeing
what time was and how it changes us.

sometimes choose to sit in silence
by the river of life for a couple of seconds
let the river do the running
and the talking too
and start listening;
and then choose to make time
your friend, and time for your friends
while life is here to be lived
pure and joyful too.

traveller's song

when you take a trip
it is your chance to learn again,
to become a new you
so listen to the life you pass by,
keep your eyes open
and new days will reveal themselves
in colors not seen before
when walking walk in peace with the road
you chose
with the people you meet and try
to speak like them
to walk in their shoes for a while
try to be there
for them to help and to talk to
but mostly to listen.
your world may gently be reborn
if you step out
of yesterday's constricting skin
freedom may start growing
in your mind tomorrow;
perhaps if because you have sat
on the banks
of the ever-changing river of life.

plantation garden

image from tclf.org

http://www.celtic-life.net/galler36.jpg


down south where the summers are steamy,
it is where sweaty hands used to gather
the sticky tobacco leaves,
where rice grew in stratified ponds,
and the cotton bloomed.
it is there where the afternoons
flowed like molasses,
while evenings were headed towards the night
guided by banjo strings;
the rhythms swung the rocker
on the wooden porch
they impregnated the soil
under the swamps
and the herbs danced
never minding the mosquitoes.

if you put your head down onto hard soil
your ear can still hear
yesterday's rhythms.
you can sill feel the love of the lord
who has turned the fruit of the soil
into a beautiful garden
of reverend roses,
camellias and azaleas;
where the oaks shelter
under moving shadows
of spanish moss
long standing statues
and the remains of
those who have passed

dance on the beach

it starts with May when the sun gets high
and the heat sets in; when the sand is bright
and the oceans seem clean, when you ride
the tide on a foamy crest till you need to rest

one morning children start coming
with their plastic shovels, ready to work the sand
to build castles, tunnels and incredible sculptures
and for lunch they'd have sandy patty cakes

a kite will rise high in the sky to signal for all
the beginning of the hot season;
down on the beach a girl with a very wet curl
would dance and her dance aims to catch

the shadow of the kite running
on the very bright sand;
the seagulls' laugh -
cause for them as for us
summer is never enough;
the rolling sounds of shells,
and crumpling of ocean herbs;
while the dance goes on
the crabs run to hide
waiting for the tide;
the ocean itself
does the drumming;
in the background
for just a while
the waves are humming