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The color of mourning

Is not black

It’s pale

Dry lips – twisted in sadness

Trembling hands

Cannot hold the pain

The color of mourning                                  

Dresses the soul

Of those who stay


The statues sit quiet

And observe the cemetery

Frozen – no pain, no feeling

Just gray

Cement on my death

On my mourning

Angels with hard wings

Saints, Jesus, and God

Watching over the fence

Deciding who goes or stays

Final and concrete

Unlike this garden of statues

Won’t go anywhere

Will stay and watch over the souls

Of the people who built them

Who come and cry

And death decorate

With real flowers

Or plastic ones

But the color is always


The Great Spirit
is all and is
in us All
He tells us secrets of the unknown
but we – most of the times – don’t hear
He enclosed our happiness
in all He created
but we changed it to something we don’t know
and we keep inventing and reinventing
much wanted and not needed
If we went back to Nature
and recognized the sacred
The Great Spirit – God – would smile
His big thunderous smile
and would manifest in all that is happy
and make miracles so visible
that all men (and women) would drop their futilities
and unite with one another
and be gracious again

What do I know about God?


except that God knows all about me

or maybe…

God spies on me when I sleep

and put dreams in me

and tells me the stories that should be told

when I follow that dream

or maybe…

God lets me be in my sleep

and watches me when I’m awake

but let me believe it is my doing

that keeps me going – sane or insane…

or maybe…

He is just changing channels

or playing with clouds

or is on a meeting with all angels and saints

about us – how to fix our disasters

how to go about so many petitions coming His way

or maybe…

God sits in silence

with eyes wide open – without rest

and doesn’t sleep

constant vigilance

He does tend to His flowers

But maybe – we became the weed…

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