Flowerpetal

Some words are seeds of newly harvested thoughts

we donate them unconditionally and irreversibly

like we do during Thanksgiving Day

for loved ones or good friends.

Some words are foreign devils and ghosts

that come to us at three after midnight

crossing the wall that separates two words

at the time when it translucently dilutes.

Some of them are innocent young children

who temporarily lose their way home

in the bushes of life – holding hands

dragging each other through the unknown paths of life

uphill and downhill.

But some other words are young phoenixes

born there,  from the ashes

there, where the fires of crushes and distractions

incinerated  everything

but “flowerpetal”.

And look how the wasteland between us

is turning in to an efflorescence

together we planted the young phoenixes  in the cold ashes

the buds of the wings flourish in our eyes

and you start calling me again

“flowerpetal” 

©M.P.

COMA

Do you know who you are?

Do you know what happened to you?

Do you want to live your life that way?

Time is a perforated bowl

The Bitter fluid leaks like gallbladder tears

I envision the white dots on the black dress of my grandma

and they talk to me in a soft and sweet voice

“be careful sweetheart…when you gut a chicken

a drop of bile can waste the whole bird”

My thoughts are slaughtered and feather-plucked chickens

hung on the hooks, all lined up

The butcher has the cleaver, ready, in his hand

and a black cat paces on the floor

back and forth…. Back and forth

It’s dark, the maze is like the crooked neck

of a stork … ready to be cut… bloodless.

In the nooks, the whisper of the silence groans

Just a little more time… just a little more time

Time is a perforated bowel, drop… drop… dropping

the gallbladder’s bitter leakage…. sometimes slumbering sometimes awake

sometimes light sometimes dark….sometimes joy, sometimes terror

sometimes flying sometimes falling…crash and crumble

time is the sorrow of a sand granule

that falls inside the hourglass…. In infinity..

The line of feather-plucked chickens comes around

It’s dark… no light can be seen on the horizon

Even the end of the labyrinth is not in sight  

then anxiously waiting for the question of after the coma

When the breakdown is over.

Do you know who you are?

Do you know what happened to you?

Do you want to live your life that way?

©M.P.

* “ Do you know who you are? Do you know what's happened to you? Do you want to live this way?"
from : " Grey's Anatomy"

Love me for what I am

Save the white cloud in the corner

keep it unchanged, as is

even if It’s not a bed of rose petals

where lust quenches its thirst.

The drops of dew in the morning

You shouldn’t expect to be diamonds

because when formed on new leaves

caressed by dawns first sight

they look livelier than a pearl.

And when touched by a dove’s wing

you don’t feel flame but light instead.

The little camomile flower in the corner

covered by grass leaves and morning kisses

you can’t expect to change

for it could not become an orchid

So even if the world where I am living

seems strange distant and far to you

please give me a place in your planet

love me for what I am

unchanged in your heart.

©M.P.

To her..

Woman

You know very well:

The wings of the dreams are Ikarus’s invention

and his fault altogether…

you know as well that he was a man…

but you are still walking on the thin line between the light and dark

beseeching to him with your little shiftless voice

trying to borrow his mistake…

The cross you hold on your back

to your hard and long journey

Woman,

Can never be used as a plow

for your hardened soil….

Woman

You are the earth and it’s fertility

wasting the holiness moister

that crowned you…

But you never should forget

the salted tear is not the rain of soul…

that can quenches the thirst

of your cheerful plant…

Nude

Seven layers
of my skin, I'm going to peel
and donate here and there
for charity...
but,
who without fear
can see my skinless flesh...
the lights and shadows
through the ribs
can watch without repulsion...

..........................

I will bestow my substance,
soul and my bones,
to him... and only him.

Waiting-flower

There...
where I was waiting
for you so long,
there...
where you ever
failed to come...
A blue flower is born
with the roots
impeded by a stone.

Swans retreat

The swans die silently like the dreams
by the shore of my sorrow's lake,
when the sunset evaporates,
hanged in the new moon's disc...

The drops of your happiness
causes bitter rings
on the surface of my sorrow's lake...

Ever expanding circles...
The whisper of dolor
keeps wake the silence of death's threshold.