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THE DARK

At night.
The wind.
The crack.
The lighting.
Out of light.
Thunder.
Downpour.
Cats meowing.
Dogs barking.
Screams.
Knocking at the door.
(On the window in the fourth floor?)
Knocking from the roof.
Knocking from inside the closet.
More weird knockings.
Sweating.
When will the lights come back?
Nothing can be seen.
Too many noises.
The lights won't come back.
Drowsiness.
Dreaming?
Morning.
Closed eyes feel the warmth on the face.
Yawning.
Open eyes.
Darkness.
At ten?

IRRELEVANCE

from sunrise to sunset,
from Monday to Friday,
from pay day to pay day,
from waning to waxing
small irrelevant differences
everyday that passes by
to the final sentence.

THE WAYS OF LOVE

I'm finally fed up with love poems.

Are there work poems?
I'm in love with my new job!

CYCLES

Is it that when one door shuts a window opens?
Or... do you have to close the door before you open the window?
Can't you simply just walk away from the room?

POEMS ARE ABOUT

Poets have written about many different topics.
About life, death, love and their personal antics.
They use sarcasm, imagery, alliteration
but there is no doubt they all part from inspiration
(and ninety percent perspiration).
They wrap feelings in haikais, sonnets, ballads
some ate oysters, some had saladas.
But it is a fact they don't have to write about distanced lovers
or relationships that refuse to be over.

I miss my Shadow.

ANIMALS

Animals are independent.
They are smart.
They mate to breed.
They don't need love to breathe.
They live.
They die.
They do what they have to do.
No wars, no need for power, no addictions, no therapy.
Just life until they can't anymore.
And they don't commit suicide.
They just die.
No depressions, no regrets, no what ifs.
Plain life.
Some even fly in the sky.
No heaven. No questioning.
Lots of achieving. No prizes, no awards, no rewards.
Not humiliations from offspring or mates.
They have clear their paths.
Even pets. Lazy cats. Crazy dogs.
Simple.
Don't know if happy or sad.
They live.
That's nice.

MELANCHOLIC HAPPINESS

A warm glow comes through the window,
Soft music oozes from the lap top,
Weather can not decide how to behave.
A brown, grounded aroma fills my nostrils,
Small sips of swirly smoke slide down my tongue.

I think of you,
I write of you.
The little pilot is rekindled.
I miss you,
I am glad you are back.

OPEN WINDOW

After all the sunshine came in,
only dust settled in.

I still kept it open,
in spite of the rain,
the wind,
the bugs,
the excessive light from the lamp post at night,
from the moon shine,
from the planes that never landed for me,
from the derisive, twinkling stars.

It is still open, but nobody comes in.

LOST CONNECTION

S: I just wanted to know if you were ok.
C: I'm ok.
S: I wonder why I wanted to contact you again, I may hurt you once more...
C: Yeah, I wondered that too.
S: Beep... beep... beep...
OV: Sorry, you've lost connection.
C: Shit! Again!

ANGSTORM

It starts slowly:
grey clouds of doubt,
tiny, spaced droplets of unpaid bills,
gushes of unhappy thoughts.

It soon speeds as the debt raindrops grow larger and closer to each other.

Suddenly you are drowned in
debts, doubts, anguish, anxiety
and the big downfall of unemployment.

It lasts for a long while,
blackening the horizon,
making things seem bleak,
hopeless. Pointless.

You pray for peace, for calmness.
(The worst storms come at night,
so praying for the sun is out of question.)
A phone may ring, a mail may appear,
only good news --and maybe a large surprising inheritance--
can peace the riot inside my head.

PEN ACTS

Written sometime in February 2011

The pen got stuck on the paper
it didn't know where to go
or what to do.
I just lifted it and it left a dot.
A harmless and lonely dot.
It may have many meanings,
but let's face it, it's just a dot.
Harmless.
Pen draw another,
and another,
and another,
and another,
and another.
Harmless, lonely, little dots.

Only now they formed a constellation.
and they can be quite suggestive.
Pen joined the dots.
Up came a first letter.
Why fooling around any longer?
I took it and wrote your name.
Then pen filled the spaces in the a and in the e.
It closed and filled the n.
Not happy enough it drew with its black ink between the rest of the letters.
It enclosed your name in a black box -long and narrow.
It covered your name until I could see it outstanding somehow.
And suddenly I saw the grave where you lay.

GHOSTS IN JULY

Appear in the machine
With voices from a past one thought gone by
Among the rain, along with the mist and the fog
Their words illustrate the screen
Making me wonder why
Making my heart beat wild.

FIRST DAY OF SUMMER BLUES

Blue-grey sky suggesting an impending storm.
Dirty pale blue heat making me sweat.
No wind makes everything still and expectant.
People wonder looking at the sky, sniffing up
When will the rain start?

STILLNESS

Way past midnight.
Home alone.
Some distant cars coming back from parties act as background noise.
Far away in my bedroom, the National Anthem is playing.
No moon tonight after last week's eclipse.
No stars in this forgotten city.
Lamplights shine, airplanes shine in the distance, occassionally.
Can't sleep.
Too much silence.
Nothing to do.
Absolutely no worries, no expectations, no illusions.
Nothing.
Nothing will come out of nothing.
Until when?

UNAVOIDABLY MISSING YOU.

I was able to live without you for many years.
I can live perfectly well without you.
I know I will be able to live without you for the rest of my life...

I just don't want to.

Whatever.

THE BUMPY ROAD

My grandpa used to say, "Why so much jumping, being the ground so smooth?"
Being a working woman in high heels I should know it is not true.
The ground is bumpy, it goes up and down, it has holes, it has stones, it has small pebbles that get inside the shoes making the walk even harder.
Of course it sometimes is smooth, and when it stays like that for long it may get boring.
It may not be easy, it may not be comfy, it may be tiring, it may be frustrating end even excruciating, but it will be rewarding... some day. I hope.

LACK OF CLARITY

Other could have been his answer,
Different could have been his response.
Leaving aside all remorse,
He still a lot made me wonder.

DOUBT

MOURNING IN THE MORNING

My earlobes are mourning the loss of the earrings.
The earrings lay abandoned on the shelf,
watching me while I get dressed.
I brush them while I take the bottle of perfume.
I doubt, but I refuse to wear them again.
Not anymore.
But my earlobes are not ready for any other pair.
My heart is in pain, but you still hover inside, reckless, caged, uncertain of staying or leaving.
Every morning is the same.
When I look in the mirror something's missing,
but if they hang from my earlobes, still you're missing.

ELEGANTLY WASTED

Door ajar:
Over the rug
both Jimmy Choo lay spread apart from each other;
Louis Vuiton is vomiting coins, credit cards, keys and more
marking the way to the big king size bed
covered in a huge goose dawn edredon and golden satin sheets
where I lie half-naked, messy haired, spinning head.
Too much red.