crepe myrtle

dressed in white
just like a bride,
holding in hand
a pink lacy drink,
purple with shame
for playing this game
in the hot summer wind
to make the bees come
getting drunk with the nectar
then leave well before
they are ready to sting
this crepe myrtle lady
may well be
the summer's favorite tree,

summer day

when the morning came with car roars dampened by dew
she was getting fresh water and coffee ready to brew;
the newspaper was ready to pop out of the mail box
before she could put on her glasses and sox;
a trip to the market was a high point of her day
at times letting herself attracted to the bakery
by the smell crossing her way;
with fresh bread and brioches in the bag,
back home came the lady before the high heat of midday.

Midday was slow, mildly boring, sometimes nothing more
than a transition towards a well deserved nap;
from which shed wake up looking out the window at the delicate lilac
ready to digest the news on TV, with cookies and tea, always close to the phone.

when the afternoon decided to shake the curtains and demand attention
she was playing cards by herself, chasing boredom with a wave of her hands,
waiting for friends to bring news from the town
like who got married, had babies, is still alive or recently gone?

when evening come, covering trees, streets and roofs with its shawl
loneliness dropped its shade as as well but she could still set her goal
on teaching her nieces an nephews, armed with a dictionary, and a sense of fun,
the vocabulary, accent and grammar in English, French, and occasionally German.


at night there was time for the colored TV to set the background tone
with a book in one hand, and a puzzle crossword in the other
she was lulled to gentle sleep, her mind never tired preparing to dream
the thoughts and the plans of a far away trip.

- buttons, lavender, coins

the memory of roses - Ti

My romanian aunt would use rose petals to make a jelly - or more something like the gliko toy koutaliou. She was not using just any kind of roses, but a very flavorful kind. I remember the color as mauve-pink but there may be other colors too. The sweet syrup was wonderfully flavorful and the petals squeaked when crushed by the teeth. The jars were stored in old unused brick heater (soba). Not for long cause they were gone after just a couple of 5 o clock coffee visits from her lady friends.
(i wrote this as a comment to Maria's blog, and thought I would keep it as a personal memory, thanks Maria for the occasion).

sharester

there was a time when art was flying freely
circling over the city she was, high in the sky
ready to cross any borders, rivers and oceans
and the children sung as if they had been promised
that they will be forever young

the children were sharing their music and getting curious
because of them the the artists were becoming famous
all over the world, their fame spreading by work of mouth
and mostly by means of web mediated sharing

as an artist I would be very very complemented
if my words wold now fly digitized via web
from node to node, from headphone to headphone,
from brain to brain - my words would spread

i would also probably be rather poor
cause there are no means to track
the happily bouncing digitized art
but then this had been always the case

for the practitioner and creator of art
were mostly poor but protected under the wings
of some rich art lover and patrons
expect that today we have agents and record companies

most shameful of that we have trials
to punish today the grown up children
of the sharester generation
but not enough judges who did not have a part

what is it fair I do not know
I just wish art could fly again from sould to soul
I wish I would be the wing to support art's free flight
with the unconstrained beat of my heart

child at heart

music now -

all his life he wanted to find out who he was
and the quest took so long he had to postpone growing up;
he tried many faces, he tried many voices
he danced between worlds, but he kept his own heart

through his big black eyes, and piercing voice
poured out imaginary creations of better but possible worlds;
golden images gathering love and hope from many years in the past
projected onto small screens were swung by his music
right into the hearts of so many teens
they danced on the streets and they dreamed
music translated in images, and they felt like golden felines
ready to jump on life's back - be it in harmony or conflict

but he had to grow up and this was somehow a sad, long postponed jump
into real life. why would one do it if he still feels
he is a child a heart. not knowing what to do this life's pump
stayed for a while in limbo and then suddenly stopped.

kids poured out on the streets, fit felines ready to shout
they wanted him back, they were ready to fight - but there was no one out,
reality was placid and mute and they only thing they could do
was remember and then somebody realized the best thing to do was to just sing out loud

music poured out on the streets like a river of light
forgiveness was throwing its shade on the asphalt
the chorus of people some old and some young
felt somehow like him - for a while allowing to be children at heart.

tabula rasa

a vacation is for the mind
like a wave is for the beach
an opportunity to get clean
peaceful and open wide
to a world of opportunity.
who knows how many sand dollars
and star fish are left behind
and need to be thrown back in the ocean
by a kid with a pail;
before is too late for them
to get lost for life
paying dearly for the sin
of exploring too much, too far
dangerously ignorant
of the passing of time.
deep down on the dark bottom
of the ocean they are given
another chance to refresh
to resurface if that is
what they really wish