entering joy
and rain
letting go
a quiet pain
creating space
again
broken rose
stained
her edges worn
whispered
to the moon
of a garden
a wound
a tender spring
exposed
I see the storm will steer me down
that road
where wild screams are split in two
camino bello
del sol y del río
entre hojas moradas
música y miel
hay rosas doradas
una lluvia fiel
lies
pour out in yearning
for the sacred love
of a woman’s heart
embodied in her flesh
her wounded warmth
validation for his hate
to fluidly be embraced
in the landscape of love
to leave old stories
at the river’s edge
to gently be held
where new begins
to tell a friend
not everything
ends
amor
conocido
desconocido
caminaré contigo
liberando mis miedos
dejando mis huellas
en las manos
de mareas
escucharé
al mar
memory
is slow to repair
it moves
toward the other
knowing
no one is there
slow
there is a journey
in me
still
constant
longing to be
in the light
of old souls
in the company
of those
who have learned
to walk
slow
half alone
half here
there
somewhere
hidden, written
in bitter poetry
untold
fragile extensions of her being
weaved the colours of seasons
into reasons to go
your tired feathers
broken
fell
to the greys of old
the dust
the cold
gardens in the rain
dreams pull me in
to the other side
of broken
where wings
and fragile limbs
quiver
frightened
by the echos
we don’t comprehend
until we see it’s love
that pulled us in
Beauty weighted against the ache of nothingness is fading gracefully. My body, an elegant scar of flesh fused to memory, gives way to its weary ghosts. Signs of light and lightness seep through the lines to the living. Dying. I see my corpse amidst the shadows, quietly ablaze.
immutable
desire
waiting
in circles
unseen
she goes round
she goes round
in circles
while you drowned
in the sound of the rain
I soaked in bright colours
walked through mud puddles
wet gleaming traffic lights
smiling
hilos de luz
tan finas
más frágiles
caen aquí
es mojado
el oscuro
no es frío
donde respiro
los recuerdos de ti
in this aching cold
my tears roll
slow
what happens
if the silence turns around
and the quiet in the walls
falls through the cracks
and I laugh again
One Sunday I remember sharing a way of seeing the world, written on a napkin, imagining your map of stories drawn on fine paper wings. It made me smile to think of travelling against wind with sad bears, old cats, imaginary friends and things.
la ausencia no existe
en los recuerdos imaginarios
solo existe el ascenso del silencio
diciéndome soltar
