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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