PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I

The little boy, playing in bed

while his wounded mother cooks,

is throwing little words and circles

out of the window.



She smiles

(the whole world lights up)

he chatters excitedly - What can he see?



There's a monkey at the window -

behind the door!

But he is falling

into darkness.

And though he never raises a cry

he holds up his claws - this dark

stormy

boy.



II



She never taught him how to cry only how to sing.

Happy in herself - just as she wished to be -

she taught him endless space and vastness

and she calls him: Open-hearted.



Behind him a mountain of metaphors

in front a river a mouthful of night

and a train of caravans calling him away.

(Where is that thread

that fire

the skill?)



III

Running - down an alleyway

he splashes cooking oil all over his shorts this boy!



He wets himself

with laughter

running through Eternity -

through this alleyway

this pack of dogs

the conspiracies of fate!



IV

The solid front door remembers the hand that made it -

You are the key -

and the creak of the universe — it's your sole secret

You lean your dreams and future against it.

For its sake you endure the woodworms

gnawing through your heart

the reek of damp

the hammering of enemies and relatives.

(Long is the absence of light

that paints things awake -

Long is the presence of paint!)



You come home exhausted — from wherever you've been

the wind at your side — just as you wished

toyed with by traumas.



Once he made necklaces from seashells

colouring them with his own fairytales

once he made friends with strange frogs

- and all the while she's watching him

from behind the door /from out the window

(when she runs to pick him up

he will not raise

a cry!)



V

In the forest the lonely one knows all the voices

beckoned by the eyes of loved ones

their songs are luring her

with their tender fingers

and her own translucent solitude.

She sits in silence

close to every thing

brewing tea

stirring the porridge.



In the garden

of a strange home her home

she welcomes the pots and pans

to the sounds of morning.

Scrubbing everything in its proper place

one eye on the radio

that calls her to those distant sands

the desert.

But her colour flow like a river

so she can sing….

And that boy?

………. ………….

In a green forest

or a red forest

or a desert

now who calls him to Eternity?