contemporary poetry blog

Feb. 29

feb29

The house is now in order.

The voice in my head
suggests that I add a slice of avocado.

I follow diligently the suggestion
to leave the stones out of the foundation.

You can wreck it now,
bring back chaos: it is only a pet.

The description of what is,
without category or detail.

It is only a beetle stuck to your eye.

Whatever is achieved
should not always be remembered.

There are two types of masturbation,
related to time.

The closer you study a situation,
the more strenuous it is to establish a fact.

It has never rained so much in 150 years.

I used to think
despair was the only answer to life.

There is a great wave approaching us,
nobody can predict what kind of light it will bring.

I have never before struggled so much
to ignore harmony.

I think we will sell the piano
and start a new dream.

It is the essence of life to be occupied;
water is often involved.

The avocado falls to the floor;
tears swell up.

The kids arrive and the logos begins to tremble.

It is still raining outside,
since the beginning of the day.

I wipe off the first word
and then say: hungry?

The girls like the way
we have styled the living room.

This sentence evokes a sensation of existence.

People are picking up the news
with their bare hands.

I said I love you,
but concealed a parcel of shield as I blinked.

The heart has a necessity to explode,
regardless what surrounds,
what obscures it.

 

 

 

21st century poetry

and the emptiness of

poetry of despair 2013

A weak wind
being bent as silent structure
on the margin of the hours
by the beach
a walk through the empire of rock

after death

love sits
with legs cold
and the storm of the sand

every crash
is wrath
looped in symbol

of being alone
with others
older in the corner
of mosaic

mystery is a heavy mist
pounded on our eyes

love sits
with cold legs
and the emptiness of the sand

those fingers
to carve in the skin of this earth
the folded name;

the forgotten
labyrinth of him.

Contemporary Poetry

rockn’roll

dream_poetry

I paid
and he asks
how I’ve been
he left a shapeless mass of laughter
in the air
I’ve had a hangover for days
he says: rockn’roll
yeah it hurts
and the hard Furies strangle
each idea with a whip of flame
and in that throb
one must find a quartz
of moonlight under a window
and breathe in an avalanche
and heed the noise
dripping from the tiny tick
of the heart

sharply
the eyes begin
by the sway
of a moon drawn by wings
to sleep

and here
skirting a crater
at the roof of a boundary
I am
washed by a beam of music
pocketing the fog
and perfuming the worn rags of clouds
like in fable
or inside a final
visit.



Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			19A
		

	


			

			
Avant-garde-poetry


A saint is a stain on white monotony

aloud he thinks: I

am a strange dot among the government of lines;

a mystic is a calm slip into abyss

all joking aside he says:

above the city leaps into tower;

a shaman is a subject under the tyranny of wholeness

aware of segments he asserts:

a fraction is mind lost in the order of totality;

alone in the world every man wonders:

afraid like a leaf in autumn my life

amidst the rain;

a poet is an absolute ark of air

abstruse and above all

a little puddle of reflection

at the end he writes:


a full world and its aura

asleep inside a shoebox

an allegory for barefoot monks.


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				


			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			my eyes and shiver
		

	


			

			
poetry_of_Shadows


There will be no more.

I will close my eyes

and shiver

as a wriggle in timelessness.


No tomorrow.


From the table

we put in our mouths

the last lesson of the bread,

we close the door

and the familiar unknown

disappears together with the

city noise.


There was no explanation

for this history of glimmers.


There will be no more:

injustice – no more form

and ideas will be lost

against the sounds of the bells.


The eyes will become simple silences,

clouded by the color of the music.


Everything will be resting

at last

under the warmth

& patience of the shadows.


 


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			This is not an experiment.
		

	


			

			
postmodern_poem_about_mortality


This is not an experiment.


This is an animal

slowly dressing itself

with a garment of stone.

This is a shadow

shedding its bone

in a camouflage of change.

This is a sister

opening a drawer

to hide a wonderful thing.

This is antiquity

growing thick with mighty

buttresses of steel.

This is a mouth

inhaling sweet

movements of moonlight.

This is a perception

flapping in the silence

of the air.

This is a drunk

stealing a plume

from the waitress’ perfume.


But above all,

this is another hand

clinging to the edge

before the fall.


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			the end
		

	


			

			
this_is_the_end


Sorry,

I can’t tell you here

what value, how important,

where everlasting.

Haven’t found it, every bit

is rising like a moon

no matter if it’s a thing

or a thought it disappears

somewhere.

I feel human, literally

a heart pumping veins

in rings of muscle. And

also empty space between

all of you and this isolation of brain,

language, dark brown eyes,

I let you walk pass me

passersby. If I touch

you by chance by accident by love by desire

by dinnertime by church by antiquity by destiny

by skin by Friday by crying by leaving

it will be my memory moaning for

togetherness again with the ebb and flow

of zeroes echoing in the silence.

I do not claim

my isolation is unique,

my brain bottled in language

looking out into the world

through dark brown eyes.

But I cannot touch you

when you are a tricklebird

dripping from the skyline.

Sorry,

our days are numbered and

we must face the tough blue earth

as if it were the end–


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			today
		

	


			

			
nothingness


Today, I’m convinced

that the hard edge

of matter

is nothing but a

soft pillow

of cloud,


that I’ve never seen the earth


because I’ve made nothing

but sculptures of smoke

with the shadows of

the mind.


Today, I might shrink

to a piece of petal

and wait for a flood of light

to drag my sight toward perfume

and thaw my flesh

to dew.


I’ve never visited the world,

standing drunk here between

two columns of dream.


Today, I could have erased

memory with its tail of tale,

today I see there’s nothing

in space


not even the pulse

of silence’s throbbing slumber.


 


Contemporary Poetry

					

	
	



			
				



			
	
			
			
		
	
	
	

		

			in a distance
		

	


			

			
phenomena


I’ve wondered

to know nothing.


Seeing

my sea

of conscious,

weave wasted waves

of experience

into hairdos of light.


I’ve wondered

of returning

to enormous view

and an amorous

climax of confusion.


I’ve wondered to drink

night from water,

in unabridged absence

of divisions,

without order ,

with rain ribboning

the eclipse of impulse.


I’ve wondered

to forget

the sounds and the signs,

to find a strange design.


I’ve wondered

to know again.


Spying new round volume,

phenomena impenetrable else

glitters like a city;


in a distance sleepless to remember.


 


Contemporary Poetry