WORLD POETS MAGAZINE

  I Am Not Clever Enough To Exchange Kisses With a Dynamite in my Mouth   1. Bring me face to face with the new born day               unbutton my shirt                                  and throw it to the wind! For, news came; that life has accepted me! I’ll spend some time more in life                               in the company of fishes and trees; Trees, our handsomest face. Otherwise I’ll be taken to task              for having failed to show men                  ...

  It is cold   Lovers have fled the grass and the murmuring voices no longer ring through your castles of sand   You return somewhat grieved to your annual death   Then we meet again as old friends who faithfully seek each other without rituals without welcoming embraces   your waters who camp on the beach and my soul tired of absence   Only you listen therefor I also listen to the stories you amassed during your passing summers   love stories, surely, and one or two absurd deaths in your arms   But with you time aged without healing my wounds without erasing from my skin of distant ashes the few words of love I still remember   Only you understand   shadow of the shadows the extinguished fires and this Absence transformed to regret   Just like every year in the coldest hour     Lord I am a child, tired of running scared of the roads and the shadows of the night   I have slept on pillows of stone with my open e...

  somewhere above the harbor where seagulls spear the day with old songs of Sirens lost I find myself not anchored nor moored to the coming of yesterday’s debris weathered and carved a message a wooden whisper a note in a bottle bobbing on grey water I see you you ship of dreams sails singing my breath the wind     ***   that day the tide whispered a few words to blue sky above to make sure history moved ahead standing in straight lines small men watch the grinder turning all before them to pulp blue sky still above moonlit nights when lakes tend to loot pale beaches reed conspiracies sing of new and inexplicable things the streets are swept tonight by a hundred small men with their eyes on the run weather is just another word for being taken apart     ***   I see signs in the sky where worried faces roll running for office in countries where flags burst into fire on any given day ruled by the unfair and the...

        The Love of Other             In the dark times will there also be singing?            Yes, there will also be singing. About the dark times.                                                     Bertold Brecht                                                                                                                                          Such a gift to be born that first breath of a perfe...

  To sow the wind, to reap the storm                 For Jack Hirschman                                                                                   A forest with only one single tree, it stands in the middle   This is a poem that I wrote some years ago   Now I understand  what it is about: It is a poem about Jack Hirschman   And what does it mean? It says that a lonely tree    is longing, longing  for other trees, many trees   to fill up the sense of the word...