I cannot count or measure
the words
that make me
complete in a poem.
A poem
is not really the best
definition
of what I want to say
about myself.
Many times
poetry writes
Leaves,
You are not afraid
to wither and die every fall
so silently;
Teach me to wither
in the silence that will make me green
into the forever-coming-back spring
of the cross.
Wave your arms
Around my dying body,
Every day,
Sun,
And keep me woman,
Through the birth.
In hands, I am holding
Your forgiveness
So I don’t forget
The time.
Keep me alive
So I
Do not edit
my life,
my body,
my spirit.
Let me be
wherever the rain falls
asleep in the fresh anonymous mornings,
far away from any “I”
that might adulterate
my eye.
Do not write
Air!
My flesh
decomposes
in birds.
My nose smells the past
sneaking out of
this unconceivable, unutterable
present reality.
Poetry!
My sentence to
death.
My will
for another
make the coffee,
this morning,
my love,
is black and bitter
like yesterday
the rocks spill their tears
in the wind
this morning is not begun
and, yet, it\'s done
make the coffee,
my
knock at the egg shell
before entering my memory!
the birth of an image
on the stage of my eye
is like a drop of blood
and a baby cry
in the dawn of an era.
I die.
I live.
another
Open Your Eyes
and let me see
the meadow
I will enter when
I’ll pass
on the other side of the sky
I am leaving my shell
and enter the waters
beyond the clouds
I breathe my
The birds are talking about my soul,
They look for words and set a goal:
To give me a name by the end of the day…
They sing and pray…
Along the flight the birds are counting
The feathers lost
My shoes are dancing
far away from my feet,
in other lands,
where music is louder,
where dance is not forbidden,
where joy is freedom
and freedom is joy.
I am barefoot
in this dream of
My eyes ajar
glimpse
to the endless view
of silence
I am made of stone
says the poem
I am made of water
says again
and I am still here
unchanged
What is your name
when you
fresh words
chopped to make the meal
of the soul
sometimes take revenge
poisoning reason
with colorless blood
in golden cups
lying on the sheets
at the end of the
agony
poetry
cries
Let all the fish fly
in my soul's deep ocean,
where the mermaid
has never stopped singing.
I have chosen the verse
half fish, half silence,
to bring you my love
about to be born.
Let the
Do not hide yourself...
it is so easy to smell the transparent poem
in the breeze of your steps.
I know how to find you,
I know how to define you
in unspoken words...
you
cannot just pass
The world is fool!
It is wonderful
When you think of it
Vice versa.
It is my eye
Touching the blind
When lost in time
Vice versa.
Maybe the day
Is not today
To ask about life
Vice
There is a time
in anybody\'s eyes
when rocks can speak
a language
we\'ve never felt before...
There is a place
in anybody\'s soul
where birds build nests
to lay the eggs
of
The world is fool!
It is wonderful
When you think of it
Vice versa.
It is my eye
Touching the blind
When lost in time
Vice versa.
Maybe the day
Is not today
To ask about life
Vice
The mornings spread their image
into the eyes of the sun;
into the light of my darkness;
in the forgotten days of the memory
I find myself counting the dew
and making plans for its
You smell like an old book,
my love,
and how could I not sense
every story,
every word,
every punctuation mark,
even the space between
words
has an unexperienced smell
when I touch the
