Last day of 2008

life is not a wish fulfillment fantasy.
we walk on sidewalks that ends somewhere
but never in dead ends.
And in the mornings
through drops of dew
and pieces of sky
framed by frosty windows
splashed with layers of colors
red, turquoise, blue
yielding to the grey of the starting day
and stillness disturbed only
by the barking of a dog.

then fragrance of coffee and freshly baked cranberry bread raises
while the bouquet of an old wine
drunk the night before
and aimless in the freshness of a new day
continue loitering the space
mixing the warmth of old friendships
with the rythm of breathing.

The alleys of the garden swept clean just yesterday
covered now with early morning's ice
the screen of a computer glowing
with the love of beloved people
from remote places
or the beautiful poem that comes always
with Wies's end of the year wishes
and even though a Parisian babahoo
stands in the way of my wish
in this last day of December 2008

The mighty pulse of Life
pushes on
to pick up the shatterd pieces of last night's dream
to wash the tired eyes
and to walk
with a broad beautiful smile
all bumpy walks of Life
Flora

A Day Among The Buried

"The poem comes in the form of a blessing_'like rapture breaking on the mind,' as I tried to phrase it in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining. Life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of the life."
Stanley Kunitz





We treaded through the graves, on the cracking leaves
of a cold november day
on the otherwise silent paths
till we lost all measure of present and past


As we reached the monumental stone
a girl started smearing red on her lips
while the dark delectable chocolate
melted down in our mouth
And the girl kissed Oscar's stone
some things are never clear
even on such a bright day
a subtle, soft colored chimera
hanged there in the air
We took it in
our earthly souls wandering among the buried ones
Life's pulse playing a clarinet concerto
Music of words wandering into the vastness of death

the way came to an end
as it always does
in real life
careless of unborn things
longing to live their time of beauty
and to die
before maturity robs its dreamlike quality.
Flora