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Knitting the time
With colored yarns
Creating a pattern
Of useful thoughts

The rhythm of clackety needles
The peace it gives me
To just repeat
And repeat
And repeat
Till time is so
Painted and decorated
That we make sense of it
With tired eyes…
Looking back
At the net we weaved (or knitted)
To pass the time
And find ourselves in the now
We used to know


Atardecer

Image by ogme via Flickr

 

 

Prove me wrong, please

I’m tired of being right

Or thinking I’m right.

 

Prove all my thoughts,

Beliefs, theories,

Prove them wrong

Let me have hope

And believe something new.

 

All my behaviors – so cemented in me

Will fall apart

Will have no base

On this old shield

That is around me – supposed to protect

But all it did was destroy me

 

Prove me wrong

So I can start tasting life


If I were music

I’d be all over the score

Incoherent – no cadence

No rythm nor harmony –

A noise – mismatched sounds

Like the Orchestra tuning the instruments

Just before the concert –

The intention of calm melody

Being declared…

If I were a painting

Cubist I would be

With precise geometric forms

In an altered manner –

Landing ground for the chaotic stance

That reigns over the internal order

The colors of dried flowers

Proclaiming the inevitable – end

So we can complete the cycle – so round and circular

Thus reaching the beginning

If I were a tapestry

I would have seedy thread

A sign of fatigue that comes with time

Feet that walk the long walk of life

And found rest in me.

My stitches would be spun

By old women hands –

Quiet – arthritic – contorted bones

conquered by the mighty needles

With every stitch a story

Forming an image

Searching the memory

What an irony

The elder can only sew

The remembrance of the wound

I am not painting, music, nor art

I’m not whole – nor part

But I spread myself – in disasters

I don’t try to hide what ignites me


She wakes up early
And goes to work
Doesn’t take care of the house
She is the bread winner – not a homemaker
The kids complain
Food feels like plastic
No taste – no spices
The world is practical
More laundry to do
Dust covers the furniture
Husband works hard
She pays the expenses
Get children in the shower
TV is calling
It’s midnight already
No time to turn the dial…
She answers the emails
A little wired
And the day comes too soon
Full of routine
And smoke
Messes
And pranks

She takes a deep breath
And faces the world
Fights the traffic
Her personal daily war
Modern woman
Like sardine in a can

Feels robbed of her instincts
Cannot listen to intuition
And – to hide her shame
She has a pill
To stop her monthly menses


I GAVE YOU A CHANCE
AND YOU FLED
AND I, PENELOPE,
WEAVE MISTAKES TO MYSELF
TANGLED IN MY LOOM…


Open the faucet

Letting all words and ideas in a torrential spill

Flooding the soul

That was rusty and stiff – empty without inspiration

So hard to control the flow

The stream is powerful

Runs freely – no caution

It’s better to follow the natural

The little sprinkling of the water

Refreshes me

But the rocks

Make the walk harder

Bruising my steps

The fall is consequence –

The climax of the navigation

I’m so out of control – no rudder, nor compass

I continue adrift – submitted to the torrential waters

I shall get to the Valley

That is expanding in my mind


Yesterday I thought it was too late

I thought I was tardy.

Today it seems like yesterday went too early.

And tomorrow is delayed.

Meanwhile I see this gray hair

Growing resolute

Right in the middle of my head.


Wind

Turning things

Moving time

Never rests

Just moves to another place

Taking my thoughts

Spreads them at large

No concerns

No regards

I am exposed

Wind uncovers me and everything

Licks my dreams

With silly ideas

Rearranging my insides

And lies next to me

As breeze

Singing a lullaby…


Censorship.


I had a garden

Now I am the censor of my flowers

I went around with scissors cutting all the dried leaves

Flowers that did not bloom

Or the ones who insisted on drooping

And took with them the colors that should have stayed

In this mismatched garden

Hay color

That crackles in my steps

The sound of dry

I go on with sharp scissors

For there is no place for quitting flowers

It’s important to free their souls from their

Dead roots…