eatartdaily

creative writing & photography

Why do I feel like I can’t when I can

20171217_120917The seasons
changing over head,
around our curling
toes. Would I wade
through winter like
a perfect polar bear?
Holly, reeds, banks of
wheat, on the other

side of you,
rolling over
from one edge
of the universe
to the next, because
it is your bed.

The cold not as cold
anymore since acclimatization to
Northern Europe by default
during some impassioned study
of English literature and Italian
medieval painting. My personal life, foofaraw,
conclusively, but why

the earlier tension? Maps of our
maturations, or our infinite rotations?
Dramatics melo and epic
star-studded above sky scrapers.
Flock of birds, singing with human voices.

They know
your name.

Apparently you had introduced
yourself some time ago,
shouting ego! Ego! Ego!

(In Greek the word ego is used
to mean me. The object
pronoun, make a note,
not subject pronoun.)

Half man, half bird,
why go back?
So many lifetimes
ago.

Stick to what you
know. Why stay,
why go? In the over head sky.
Rivers flow.

(You swimmer, you.
Such a giver.
This generous side of you.
Stick to this side.)

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Embraced

20171216_123830I cannot resist your love.
Hesitation cannot be
the only thing
I bring
to the table. Your arms are
open wide.
It can make me cry
to realise you
love me too.
One in so many,
loved. Not insignificant,
dust in the wind,
an eyelash long life;
loved.

Love me,
on this
holy
night.

Shout our love
across this holy island,
with the radiance
of silence.

At the tail-end of this year,
in which we lost.

Next year we will win again,
my best friend.

Hold me?

I hold you.

Heaven’s gate

20171216_125544 (1)Yet so much simpler.
Albeit so true.
Is the
longitude

and latitude
of my
undying
love

for  you. My shyness
embraces the sky,
but I
fly,

close
to the sun. To
the
firmament

where we
were begun
by
falling.

Some
continue
to hear a voice
calling.

Child-like voices
singing in impenetrable
universal unison,
circling the rose.

Meanwhile
I forgo
a pose, for a
son of gun.

Thus
absolve
my resolve
for

a
son of bird.
Bird-back.
Bird-wings.

Word in its yellow beak.
Centuries
of migration.
Of survival.

Every
Word.
Jewelry.
Illuminate my soul

so that spirits
will admire it,
not devour it.
So red.

The words I could say,
not the words I have said.
My undying love for
you,

pool blue,
glue of glue,
this is
Love,

through and through.
How do you do?
I’ve been expecting
You.

Definitely Seraphims

20171213_122145Christos?

I looked up, awake,
through the
walls of my house,
and had a vision in a minor
key
of a
ceiling-less,
wall-less
space for me
of infinite space
ancient abundance
and all the time not in the world.

Darling?

They were
others
in the
moment.

I could discern
the
curves of
probably halos

Oh my gun.

the feathers of
maybe angels

What have you done.

and finally the song of
definitely seraphims
20171213_121726
Is this artistry. 
Is this embroidery.
Is any of this even fair.

because who sings this way
so magnanimously
who sings songs like this
so brutally sincere
who displays devotion in this manner
so loyal you can hear the harm
who synchronises their whole being
entire
to a living, inextinguishable fire

of desire within desire

power within power

flower within flower.

See?
We woke you to a perfect start.

The calyxes of all the flowers are suddenly studded with eyeballs who rove,
and love,
the mask that reveals your face,
in addition reveals your heart.
20171213_122040

The portrait of the artist as one with his muse

Find her
Seek her
She is sound
She is solemn
And she is wild

When you find her
Do not disturb her
Or insult her
Nor wound her, with lies
Love her
And her blood will run from her veins to yours

She is change
She is mother
She is stillness
She is nature
She is fire
She is water
She is light
She is years

Charming years
You charm me into a charmer
Charmed I’m sure
Take a bite off my charm
Pride goes right before the fall
Fall down with me
Funny thing about pride
Fall in love with whoever you do not like just fall down with me
Too close to the sun

Ok I get it
Some eternal wooing of my heart
I shouldn’t even be writing most of these thoughts down
Like pulling out shoots before they’ve turned into trees

Should let them sink
Back into the mind
In a room in the garden
Where an artist had to be a boy

Hello little boy made of wood
Why the long face?
Come out of the shadows
Play with us
Someone called you something you were
someone called you something you weren’t
and you found out in both cases

Those were faces you thought you could gullibly  trust
Places
Pencils from pencil cases
Apples
Blue ribbons
Tiger hairs

You startle us with your gifts
You are jewelry
You are precious stones
You are the icon
And the miracle present in the icon
Evident in the believer’s kiss
You are the believer’s red kiss
The believer’s blue heart
The white of his sorrow at the distance
and the gold of his joy at his closeness

You are anything holy
we are so blessed to hold

Open your arms
and hold me in them
dear muse
I am your artist
And there are so many great examples of artists to emulate
But when it comes to being a person

there is only ourselves.

No parents.

No friends.

And definitely no lovers or spouses.

When it comes to being a person there are no precedents even though there are so many of us.

7 billion.

And that’s just the ones alive.

Let’s include those who have died in our number?

Could we have that number?

Numbers of souls.

To be oneself.

Number of souls.
20171212_133922

The writer and the actress who plays her

IMG_20171211_115848Once in a while
as one finds oneself
at a dead end
whilst driving one’s car

once in a while
one finds oneself
against a cliché.
As in, a cliché

is the only way
forward.
I saved this moment
in the heart of me

so I might proceed
if required.
It is always
required. Today,

the cliché
is the one
about Throwing
caution to the wind.

It rings
so true
to me
right now. I was so

wrong
not to put it in song
this song
I was sung with.

My life.
To get it right.
Entailed an equal distribution
of day and night,

of darkness and light,
of being loose,
and of being tight,
and all the rubber bands

in the middle, always out of sight.
So I am throwing caution to the wind.
I feel like Vivien Leigh and Emily Brontë,
simultaneously.

Imagine me.
An American poet
took off my clothes.
Removed my whalebones,

left me shimmering in robes,
and with an all-seeing flower
in my hand,
from Japan.

December

20171207_115851

Forty one years later

20171207_122515There are
the masses,
and their mass movements.
To be met
with a
refusal to comply.

 

The Mediterranean winter wind

20171207_115944I was
free-falling.
Then I was
free. Then I was
caught.
Like a bird in
lime stick.
Cruelty is so
ordinary.

I kept falling
in love.
With the same person,
over and over.
I decided finally
to stop letting in
lunatics
into my house. Now
I
stand
on this tall balcony and the Mediterranean winter
wind

shakes my black hair.
After all, I feel like everything I receive
from the universe is
finally fair.

Has always been
fair.

We all give our
finest honey
away for less money
than we deserve.
What the word
for it?
Dear Lord.

I wanna hang here with nothing to hate

20171207_115918I wanna
hang here
with nothing
to hate;
hang here
mid-air
with no one
to berate,
no need
to play sedate
coming up
with excuses
why I was
late. I wanna
hang here
and reverberate
with kindness,
be great. Be quick
and take risks
before hesitation
sets in.

Grab the heart
of the thing,
pulse,
wings.

Love life,
with varying degrees
of participation.

As many as are
required,
then take
one step

back.
Forward.