Very happy to have a poem with focus on environmental issues published in the 28th issue of Red Door Magazine.
My poem ‘The future question’ can be read here.
red door magazine
poem
Feb. 29
The house is now in order.
The voice in my head
suggests that I add a slice of avocado.
I follow diligently the suggestion
to leave the stones out of the foundation.
You can wreck it now,
bring back chaos: it is only a pet.
The description of what is,
without category or detail.
It is only a beetle stuck to your eye.
Whatever is achieved
should not always be remembered.
There are two types of masturbation,
related to time.
The closer you study a situation,
the more strenuous it is to establish a fact.
It has never rained so much in 150 years.
I used to think
despair was the only answer to life.
There is a great wave approaching us,
nobody can predict what kind of light it will bring.
I have never before struggled so much
to ignore harmony.
I think we will sell the piano
and start a new dream.
It is the essence of life to be occupied;
water is often involved.
The avocado falls to the floor;
tears swell up.
The kids arrive and the logos begins to tremble.
It is still raining outside,
since the beginning of the day.
I wipe off the first word
and then say: hungry?
The girls like the way
we have styled the living room.
This sentence evokes a sensation of existence.
People are picking up the news
with their bare hands.
I said I love you,
but concealed a parcel of shield as I blinked.
The heart has a necessity to explode,
regardless what surrounds,
what obscures it.
21st century poetry
the fog
The name
of memory
is water
the gate
trembling
is your own lips
approaching
the tongue
tasting its noise
like density
born to be kissed
another’s lips
transparent, liquid,
eager river,
flooding the islands of taste
that is war
softer than death
passage carved
by lightning
the buds aware
the whole mouth
is fire
the mystery
is rung
as breath
the primordial
contact
gentle iridescence
quickening
the whole journey
of history
your heaving
entering
and leaving
the mystery
the gate
invites
the water
the dream
shining
back like fog
from the water’s surface.
over days
I stretched light
into knife
to cut the cloud
one strong drop
of eternity
ensued.
What hand
faster than sun
to slice illumination
into tool
and then apparently
disassemble time.
Answers
like feathers
suspended in that dream
after pillows exploded
and silence so hypnotic
it resembles symphony,
the feathers and your eyes
vibrating like strings.
Then back just minutes
before the tree
enters the sky
with dark veins
into the night’s
quiet body.
That was suggested
by mind
whose story is pinched
from the perfume
illusion prepares
from time.
Was the world
a seat
old me
weaving yarn
after yarn
light, sea, dome, thorn
bit by bit
thing after thing
into a language
of surface
once
spoken
the saga of silence
returns
deepening as strata
to cover
the hills of the toes
and the eyes
those shores
curling back
to their source.
entwine
Light
defended
its destiny
by falling
featherlike
on my
hand.
The black
coat observes
how this hand
rivulets into
the floorboard’s
fissures
like water
thirsty of rest.
The floor
wakes
as flower
opening its meat
of wood
unleashing scent
birthed to rye
the air with its
good body of bread.
The wind
feeds
the trees
with salted
ferment
as it fattens
the leaves
for incursions
into clouds.
The eye
rains its
weave
almost waves
of mist
are visible
in the sky’s hair.
The hand
returns remade
to rake
the light
and bundle
its path
into
this knot
of cosmos.
migrations
How they got into thought
– the swans –
nobody knew
how they would echo through logic
like a kite in the wind
and
like little girls
they would comb their feathers
with infinite time on their hands
– these swans–
had a sense of mission
but they are complex
creatures with sin as a stain
on their coats of snow,
who knows if they’ll go back
to the nervous quivers of the pond;
for now, they’re stuck
like a satellite
to the cusp of an hour
and I’m embarrassed
to admit
that I stare at them
all the time
as they sleep between
the chunks of words.
Contemporary Poetry
us
They told me to squeeze
structure
into home
and open windows
to air out essence
see I have been obedient
shedding coats of laughter
like films of light over
a miracle of corner,
and this thing
consciousness is hanging
like dust
in the atmosphere
but we’ve
made arrangements
and passion is hard
like furniture,
mahogany and steel
like dream and real
together bound
in braid
somewhere near
the end of this
and the world
tiny pretty thing
climbs into the air
like a moth
to disappear
over the object
and become invisible
like the rest of
us.
Contemporary Poetry
Memory has become an uncomfortable lump in my consciousness.
It quivers
constantly and endlessly
ripens into new peculiar
shapes.
Needless to say
it increases weight
every minute,
often requiring immense
exertion to fit it in a corner
so it does not overshadow
the timid appearance of
the present.
It branches out
like a gluttonous tree
in all directions,
wavering disparate aspects
of itself without logic
or internal organization.
A primeval adolescent kiss,
a manure fight in the fields,
a quote from Montaigne
the location of masking tape
in a storage room, all mingle
shamelessly like an orgy
of bacteria in the Petri dish
of my mind.
Language is forced to perform
extreme feats of lucidity
to convey the peculiar manifestations
with which memory
fuddles the intellect.
I imagine a day
when consciousness of the present
will be completely drowned
by the swelling tsunami of memory,
leaving the brittle instant of now
floating like débris
on a flood of lifelong reminiscence.
Contemporary Poetry
Q&A
Father what is bigger than the moon?
The earth my child.
Why?
Because if the earth were an empty bird’s nest,
it could fit several moons inside.
What’s bigger than the earth?
A sun my child.
Why?
Because if a sun were an orange
then the earth’d be a tiny crumb of bread.
If you were starving, which one would you pick?
What’s bigger than a sun?
A galaxy my child.
Why?
Because if a sun were a bee,
a galaxy would be a swarm of bees
flying in hypnotic circles, ellipses
and parabolas around their hive.
What’s bigger than a galaxy?
Human thought my child.
Why?
Because thought is like a net
that can catch all the bees in the universe
and put them in a jar and study their
colors, structure, venom, instincts,
language, and habits.
What’s bigger than human thought?
Emptiness my child.
Why?
Because thought is like a tiny bubble in the vast
sea of nothingness that surrounds us, leaving
little more than a local ripple on the surface
once it expires.
What’s bigger than emptiness?
Mystery my child.
Why?
Because mystery is the quality that all things
share in their being or nonbeing.
What’s bigger than mystery?
You my child… you.
- dedicated to my unborn daughter
Contemporary Poetry
A noun is a thing that serves as a vehicle for the quality of its adjective
In the sky
whiteness
travels like a passenger
inside the cloud
I have seen it journey
across the blue
until it reaches the golden
arc of horizon
where it suffers
through a whim of fate
a mutation
from pure whiteness
to the brightness
of the gold;
but abruptly
as a bullet
entering a vein of blood
the vehicle cloud
turns red
in the throb or throe of twilight
and whiteness dies like a sigh
in the expanding gloom
of purple tinge.
Beyond Language 
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