For the soothing love.

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For the soothing love

Of my beloved,

And the needy words

that departing want,

of the true little moments

of forbearing pride,

and all the things that

remained unsaid.

 

For the soothing love

Of my only beloved

And the deep awareness

Of things I will see,

I await an oddly

Long awaiting

Having thoughts of gardens,

And rivers, and trees.

 

And then,

When the night

is still as is dark

I sit on my knees.

Stillness`s a spark.

The forgotten poetry of silence.

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It` s silent, finally. I can only hear the needle` s noise through the fabric.It` s calm and soothing like the sound of the sea waves. I have no hostile thoughts, even the bad ones hurt less.Up, down! The needle appears and then disappears. A straight seam flows in my mind, a flat, background seam. The time passes with a different beat, the proper one, not too fast not too slow. Like in a good dream. The needle appears then it disappears, reminding me that it is real and feeding me its simple, undemanding friendship.

On the diligent charachter of hope and the futility of arguing.

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(the painting is a gift from my son)

 

My book
this book,
the earring in my lung,
the cherries
the cherries
and the blood spot.
My God
my God
forget me not!
the flower
the flower?
or the blood spot.
The lighthouse
that floats
on the iris of my eye
this stem that strangles me
is that I
The pool
the river
this sanitary thought
hanging
hanging
at the back of my throat
Mother
my mother
did you see?!
this beating
this beating
within and against me!
Your face,
that smile
a pin in my brain
Mother
my mother
take me home sane!
The chair of your voice
I drink from my mug
Billy!
Billy!
My hands are are cut!

The frame.

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The vase falls

Making the same

Noise, all over.

The vase breaks,

Not like an egg,

Empty, all over.

I wonder how

I have nothing to say

Nothing to disrupt

But my chilling

Sterilizing pride.

That`s it!

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Over barren ground I stand, my brain cells refusing further noise abuse.

I dream of a new device that can mute the whole world and the reinvention of the country (as opposed to urban).

Summers.

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The field,

Conscious of time,

like a sundial

soothes me

by the breeze.

I walk,

Lights and shades

tattooing my skin.

I fancy

whole silence,

A flawless moment to accept

That I am made of

Abiding matter and

Patterns of anxiety.

A dread,

Over my brain

Summer plays

Like a can-opener

pressing my polite uprising

to scatter within

my walls,

like beads.

Friday afternoon.

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The clothes stain

The nurse-like clean

afternoon.

The clothes

hang

On the line,

Furiously improvising

In the wind.

I think of violins,

Lots of violins

In an eagerly united

Movement,

An attempt to clarity

And a wholesome thought.

 

The clothes rest.

 

When I regain sight of God

The world smoothly

flows within me,

colorful beads

In pacifying remembrance.