Driftwood fire

Driftwood Fire Its tender, warm opaline glow--- Rises up as an iridescent helix Combing the darkness gently. ************** When I first met him He was pulling an arrow Out of the snakes mouth. And tonight we are standing waist deep In the shallow rivulet, embracing each other And I press my cheek on his chest and ask Where are we going, dear, where are we going I dont know, he whispers, but my darling We are two pieces of driftwood, Seldom destined to meet, Let me treasure this moment forever Because such moments never repeat. I saw Roses leaping over the fences When in grey waters, we lit our fire And I heard moths beating their wings I felt the old snow hills perspire.....

In the Land of Dry Waterfalls

In the Land of Dry Waterfalls

In the land of dry waterfalls

Turquoise cliffs cast violet shadows

On amber rocks.

For thousands of years

These valleys had been

In clutched possession of silence

All these years nothing had stirred

Only calm dissipated in eerie quietness.

But at last a wren had to sing

Making thousands of swallows follow her lead

An indigo rivulet snaked and devilled 

Through veins of cascading sands.

Nobody knows from where this all appeared

But some children tell they had seen a shaman

With beautiful dark emotionless eyes

Pulling out needles from a doll’s body

And the spell broke as the baby cried.

I Am The One

I Am the One

I am the landscape, I am the panorama
From me into me, the snakes are slithering
On my stony outspread palm, olive colored toads leap
I am a piece of paradise, inviting you to stray into me.

I am a bright expanse, burning luminosity
I am the dry bushes, brambles and tree stumps
I am the creaking sound of aflame branches
And I am the approaching breeze, still wet with dew.

I am the shudder running through the tender blades of grass
I am a little nest of moths on underside of a nameless leaf
I am the rotten bread crumb, lovingly shared by a tribe of ants
And I am the blue-green sky sliding across the groves and thickets.

I am the sonorous moan of the oars dipping into silence
I am the murmurous ripple disturbing the waves
And in turn obscured by their upturned glitter
Now I am the golden bird that just alighted on your boats prow.

I am the bared sword of an alive sun gleam
I am the hard stubble that ceased to be a cornfield
I am the oozing drop of honey, I am the glinting trail of resin
And I am the tangled spiders web trying to thicken the undergrowth.

I am the white-haired serenity and I am the suckling baby
I am the One you can understand but cannot explain
I am the motionlessness of a long awakened rock
And yet I am no more than a loose end of the Knot.

The Carpet Weaver's Fingers

The Carpet Weaver’s Fingers

Cracked, calloused, perfectly tanned russet

And yet taut, groaning in protest

Coarsened by soft, wispy threads

Stunted and creased like loosening seams.

Weathered almost dead as skin shed by a snake

They twist and drift in a rhythmic magic

While moonlight splutters like dying flame

In the caressing breath of a spectral wind.   

The shrill chirps of cicadas echo off

The thick and heavily plastered walls

As he spins the wild, unfettered yarn

In unfolding length of haunting ache.

Only in the end his unblinking eyes

Show signs of life and squint a little

As he surveys the smouldering holiness

Now instilled in a piece of fabric.  

Finally, he dares to raise his gaze

Iridescent with a neon glow

A damp earthy scent clings

To muted sobs and howls of wind

Perhaps emanating from muffled whispers

Of hyenas prowling in those grassy waves

That slender fingers of the old weaver

Embedded forever in carpet braids.