• Threefold blossoms: tenfold more than tenfold.

• To some, evolution branches humanity out into existence.

• The hatchling of a dream: the perpetual movement of the species.

Miscarea permanenta a vietii: visul pe care ultima geana de netrezire, de somn il atinge ca si cum ar sparge coaja unui ou.

• Waiting: the non-movement of movement.

• The noise in the mind -short-circuit- the straight line in life.

• In nature, corpses rolling in raptors' eyes reflect the sky: tearing off the flesh, the sky's tearing up.

• The night moth's freedom is viscerally acute as you hold the moth in closed hands.

• He was his own everything, yet she is his lost paradise.

• To meet God, to introduce yourself to Him, you won't stretch out a handshake nor will you bow. You'll only lend ears and knees will bend. You'll be praying.

• Words can bless or curse you, therefore you can love or hate them.

• Sing to nature and it will sing back.

• It's not the story that binds two people; it's what binds the story.

• You pass by. He raps as you do. It seems to be about you. Dedicated. And, then he calls out your name.

• Seek it, know it, preserve it, spread its wings but nothing of your essence too thin!

• I collect, I recollect.

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/652819/the-art-of-patience-by-sylvain-tesson/

Credits for the photo: Personal Archive

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Presumably, precious cold is

biting the skin off of the Earth.

Theirs, too.

Even the faintest trace of wind

is strong on those rosehips that pierce

the hand.

Holding it out and looking at it

punctured from place to place,

pain that says:

'No, this time is going to be different.'

As one wolf spider, a doting mother, carries its weight

They feel a tinge of regret.

Threefold blossoms - tenfold more than tenfold.

Photo credits: personal archive

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

If you want to know if somebody was loved growing up, ask them about their hair.

She can't speak for little boys, but she assumes for them it would be how many pairs of hands they were ready to exchange.

One for their mothers' wombs - the feathers of their intrauterine life - cool now, heated then. Another for their mothers' spine, around the waist and up, like ivy up the walls of long-held wishes, cooler, embroidered softly in a flipped reach for the neck, where another, in an embrace, like a tiny, two-sided necklace, would tip back, blindfold their mothers' eyes while growing ancient eyes on the back of their very palms, and cathartic ones on the front. Fingers, multiplied by two up to ten, would comb wavy into straight hair, and straight into wavy, or, in a glottal stop, would just be mesmerised by how wavy would stay wavy, and straight straight, how many other types of hair will go back and forth between being one or another, or just themselves, authentically themselves, untangling, untangling, untangling it, like any sacred melody, before leading the eyes, old and new, into foreseeing the intricate maze of weightless webs of womanly charms.

Hair textures, tints' metamorphosis into colours, thickness, styles, accessories - nothing left to chance. No length predetermined, changing all the time, historical stages of roots, follicles and shafts. An extension of the primordial dermis, smooth with caresses, but also furred with cuts and bruises of another past, her hair is ultimately the only memory left of the rare animal she was while growing up. Deep-rooted, pappus-like, sprouting florets blown by the wind, her hair has evolved over the span of zillions and zillions of seconds into the grey strands she can see now.

No scientist could possibly ever tell that evolving towards extinction can be called evolution, except for the greatest ones who have gained clarity in the perfection of life.

"I've been thinking about not dying my hair any longer" is the moment she has turned her own history on its head. The same head growing the same hair roots. Different colours, shades, textures, styles, accessories or no accessories.

People around her can swear they have heard a different kind of story. This one person, for example: " She had said she'd be back from her son's house by nine, but it was eleven, and soon it was midnight, without a word from her. I tried making her change her mind before going there, but I was met with fierce determination. She was going to tell him the only story he wasn't able to grasp after he had moved into adulthood. She looked dishevelled but convinced this time she had the right proof. Her white hair blowing in the wind..."

Background photo created by freepic.diller - www.freepik.com

https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/little-white-flowers-lie-brown-hair-curls_2612550.htm#page=1&query=hair&position=12

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Inside a giant grape,

A safer world pulled out

a cascade of lace, gentle blues, heavy reds

concrete telephone poles on top of

paper-cut telephones huddled together

A lightning-rod, distant holes,

the white skin of winking and crying lights

bobbing

distant

'there's more over here'

the lights of home, elegant but

two-dimensional and thick-skinned

perfectly obvious, faded pockmarks

on the cheeks of houses

like a melody growing taller

'Doesn't it feel, I dunno, special?'

I gazed toward the floating docks,

clusters of sailboats tied off to the dark, summer sea

'They withstand anything.'

Strips of colours twinkled all around

the sweat leaking off the summer night, 

the tight noises and the late breeze.

In no time, they started the descent and

I could see this layer, faint and tired, super quiet.

I just stuck out my hand to grab it:

'It's like picking grapes.'

'A “found poem” is one that is created using only words, phrases, or quotations that have been selected and rearranged from another text. '

https://www.facinghistory.org/resource-library/teaching-strategies/found-poems

Photo credits:

https://www.freepik.com/photos/grass

Grass photo created by freepik - www.freepik.com

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

New

A seed, a bud, a leaf, a blossom - the tiniest possible

carries strong (still) the heart of the Earth

The feeble beating sounds of what is yet to come

Not long ago forgotten in the rooted belief

that what is once dead is dead.

While you're watering the perspective of one leaf,

another plant has lost it to the frost

because in your recklessness, you've entirely

moved past what death could bring

the realisation that the end is there when it's not.

You're likely to make more mistakes like this one

And then make some more, but you'll never lose

sight of what you've learned.

When the lessons learned teach you more

about life, you will give no advice.

You'll stop talking even to yourself

You'll stop listening to those thoughts telling you

not to listen

You'll just be here-now

With every new beginning

In mid-winter or early spring

in the awakening dawns of summers or

the changing golden leaves of autumn,

despite seasonal endings and beginnings,

in spite of any remembrance, memories, or deaths.

You'll live

As purely as life lives with all it lives.

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Could this cooking day be just a bad hair day, one telling you to stay out of the kitchen?

Listening to a story about burnt food and then getting into the kitchen with the confident air that this is no way going to happen to you today, not today, since you'll be extra cautious and won't leave the kitchen until the food is off the stovetop, would be enough to set you out for the cooking process.

I'm one of those people for who the food is a mere necessity but having the secret wish that I could one day know what being a glutton/gourmand feels like and what would be like if my taste buds blossomed and thrived on delicacies or if I whetted my appetite (for cooking) by feeding off TV food programmes or travelogues that focus on nutrition, diet, unusual and special recipes/food. As I was saying, food is there just to fill my stomach, to help me get ahead with matters of the heart and brain, to be read as the soul and the mind, since these two are the most important in the mere existence of someone like me.

All until food becomes a whole experience in which the smell and taste evoke more than a simple cooking process; they can actually take you back to a time you remember fondly. The whole food experience is in the hot bread you used to gulp down as a kid, as dangerous as it would be for your stomach, a danger that could be surpassed in intensity by the dirty hands with which you break its heel before getting on with the rest of the bread; it's when you cook with someone you love and the smell, the taste of that food will forever stay with you; it's when you help out you mom, whisking egg whites until stiff, chopping the veggies, washing the dishes as you go, listening to the advice she is always giving about how food should be cooked, ignoring it until you get older and realise you don't know how to cook this and that, yet remembering the moment clearly; it is in the ripe fruit, mature veggies, dry seeds and herbs that have taken in the sun, the soil, the rain, the wind, and some more. And some more...

I wonder if moms that cook daily for their families have time to stop and think about this. In this respect, we are probably the same, food is a necessity. However, moms might think cooking is a burden at times, and food a necessity, but their burden gets lifted when they see the happy faces and full stomachs of the family members and hear words of appreciation or requests for seconds (a second helping); the whole experience turns into joy and they refill their passion or creativity.

Back to my cooking experience or let's call it just a cooking day: I was there, the food was there too, but I burnt the garlic sauce; the crunchy garlic had a toxic edge to it; however, I decided I could still eat it. Later on, the apple pie turned out a disaster worth recording, which is what I have just done.

Picture attributed to pikisuperstar - www.freepik.com

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

A nonsensical story for which you'll have to use all senses, including the mind (admitting the mind is one of the senses).

The heart has a seat at another table looking closely while coming to its senses.

Co-authored with one of my best friends, whose sweet name is Adina: here's to you!

In the final hours of a perfectly fine timeline, no one would have expected such a future set out for us as the perfect end of a perfectly nonsensical life. In all its seriousness, life doesn't have a meaning. Not one you'd expect it to have. Life is worth living, no matter what. I'm quoting you. Yes, you. Any person alive and kicking, or bound to become one, like a new baby out of a mom's loving womb.

One day, we wake up as white as paper and as creased as a morning bed sheet or maybe our skin would be as white and creased as a morning bed sheet. It's still morning, we'd still have time to live it up when the bed is not the one we've slept in for years. It's a new one. It's a new room. It's a new dawn. You probably know this last line. If you don't, sing it and you'll know it.

Scones and crumpets, us, sat next to each other, sipping at a cuppa, pouring philosophy and fantasy into it instead of sugar and milk: two peas in a pod, warm clothes, hanging on the armchairs - the clothes, not the peas, or maybe the clothes on us, as, finally, you're skinny just as you've longed for all your life. As you will have known by now, life can treat you well and give you presents at the right moment; sandy beaches, wouldn't say no to shingle beaches, either, since the walking stick would still be one 'foot' closer to the waves and the sand would not be a grabber and stuff it down its throat. A sand glass.

The smell of salty water and medicine...You can get cranky. The daisies are still not there because my nieces are late. We are not. Rebelling against time, we're still compliant more than we'd wish. We're not late. We've never been. We'd still wander dreamily in possibilities. This is what the future is.

Flower photo created by wirestock - www.freepik.com

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

I

I've got my eyes from you...

As you're lacking full vision now, I would give you mine

if I could force it out of me, if I could truly give it up for you, if I didn't alter the 'yes'.

II

After the rain, the river rhythmically pumps

soul into the city:

Has crept inside its mouth hissing [from the tangled roots], skirting around,

growing occasionally downstream, lurking at the borders, drifting upstream.

All the blues on Earth smell like the sky and the ocean

Woven, swum, walked in the hardly spoken lute songs:

High is the hum towards the points of the compass, a little bit more to the east.

Tattooed sharply in the water droplets that fill the air, moving on faster, among devouring, sleepless monsters

of underground raves, those empty voices that make it clear:

no one you can think of is on that path, the only one left.

I

Yet, you know better: the city's got its soul, its promise.

Your lot knew it already: you were the child of the ever-after.

They didn't tell you, they didn't want you to know.

They were too scared.

'I'll give it back to you': the vision.

http://www.breakingtheglassslipper.com/2020/02/20/five-questions-with-rym-kechacha/

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/48997958-dark-river

Credits for the photo go to:

https://www.freepik.com/photos/water

Water photo created by wirestock - www.freepik.com

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

My Home is not a House

The Utopia in Dystopia

(The) promises we make to our children

Are the ones we ve already broken to ourselves

By and by

You ll get used to it.

You ll scream it and fist it that you won t

Chase time override decisions

swearing blind that the sweat of the days when they wake up under the bite of the nights

will gauge life the thick on the ground

And end up

Shovelling the bones unearthing them

When

The body turns to dust and you start hearing the greatest scariest fleshiest

decomposition symphony the largest dimension of a life lived

in

the moment or otherwise

When

Hands joining in raising quickly belonging

an old man and a woman nakedly true to something unanimously unique

diverse uniqueness

Young

When

Two mirrors double split same wall same people same roof

Same reflection? Do they ever swap places?

Is it themselves Or is it themselves?

Mosaic dynamics counter-tops overflow surfaces

Embedded

Sleeping

Slipping away from it

Sheeting...

Theory precedes authority and the little split in it is the only one honest

Entirely

This house is too old and sickened by its landmarks

When is Now

https://www.freepik.com/free-photos-vectors/house

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

'The' is the Missing Word

Old and young, white hairs grow wrinkles on the skin of the animal. Under my eyes-hallowed caves. Raw face time, locked state, and memories are seriously forgetting the past. I choose to wonder at the one. Change? A rogue promise hides breaking, sealed up a sleeve, stopped to become another; a pencil's mark pulls the heart of this sheet of paper, scraping at its loose end.

Fear bears consequences in silence: nook over flowers - green, red, orange. Risks and uncertainties are a lifetime spell of a stranger.

Despite established development, openings emerge.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/prose-poem

https://www.freepik.com/

Background vector created by veraholera - www.freepik.com

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.