April Afternoon Ride
Mileage you had both.
Enough of it in separate ways.
Fast uphill, slowly down on many.
Straights that curved endlessly
and corners that were
just too straight.
Finally, your paths blended,
like the branches grow above
the same root.
You swayed hand-in-hand,
meandering abundant glee.
The toll, you knew it,
would rise in
the far horizon.
Where one would let go
the palm of the other
to pay that obulus;
wave before
the in-between.
Shared journey
side-by-side,
thousands of miles
at linked paces
awaited.
Steep yards to ease,
long ones to enjoy
in each other's eyes.
Your laughter shrank
the hills beyond to moundlets.
Winding ascents
became yearned
promenades.
Then, in a second,
you both crossed to
the other side.
Rockpool
To P.
You rage not
as you have accepted
that the sun would lift
its weight tomorrow.
Clouds can empty their
angry tears in the sea,
folding the layered colours
in distant gray gusts again.
Yet, you raise not your arms,
as you foresee it will be
breeze kissing your hands.
Sitting on stones, slumping
like those shoulders of yours
from which the waves of years
washed the muscles
off the strength.
You learned that the pain
is just the smile of them.
Grinning gently at the distance,
your eyes are rockpool.
Little lives are scurrying,
slipping away between smooth
slabs taken from that
far matter, full of shapes that
you still remember closely.
You know that you will stand up,
soon, once more with straight back.
And the ocean
will carry you beyond,
whence the sun collects
its light every morning.
Eve on the Railway
Twilight sliced in frames
by masts denouncing their warmth.
Repeat melodrama of distances,
as the ageing diva, the sun
bows and leaves her purple
perfume behind on the plains.
Houses grow on the hillsides
like many noses and sneeze
lit windows of bracketed views.
Curtained from your eyes.
Nodding at the speedy stills
head pats the pane wondering:
how slow is the fast?
Electric dreams are meandering,
nostrils pinched by the diesel.
Lights float and fade.
Sings reluctantly spell
themselves in the ears
of the awakening night.
Wires, phonelines web
the limbs of the town.
The streets still surge beats.
And extra cars enter, exhaled
someplace thither; you see
how close the far has become.
Towards the Night Lights
For a moment, I thought I would rest.
Under darting rays my neck is bent.
Behind my eyelids, scent of scorched roses
closed in a garden that I have never
stopped to see.
For a moment, I would rest.
Let limp my palms. Numb of pressing
against ever tightening corridors to open.
Limbs are thirsty for the water that I
dared not to drink.
In a moment, I will rest.
Freed of dust has been building over me.
Mocking of sand won't be my lullaby,
for the road still curves uphill
under my feet.
In this moment, I cannot rest.
When my shadow has left me,
beyond heat, beyond dust,
even beyond steps, between the stars;
with my eyes open.
A Zebra's Laments
Call it pyjamas.
Still, my nights are restless.
My garment is a clutch of
black and white fingers.
Of the same hand that wove
my flesh, and ushers
red rivers in my limbs
replenishing themselves.
Still, I am but a meal
for the maned beast.
He savours indeed my stripes,
and curves; beneath my form.
I just hope he mistakes me
for the flattest barcode.
Ice cream
Queen rubbed her cheeks on my fingers.
A memory that still lingers.
A few coppers that remained loyal
hidden in my pocket. Not royal.
The early summer blowing dreams
in my lungs and the skull in reams.
I was strolling by the Harbourside,
loosened or hastened the stride.
For all I owned were my steps;
friends convinced to follow ebb's
devoted pilgrimage to the see.
From my poor days, I tried to flee.
They lead me by a corner shop
In its cool premises once I hop.
Glaring at the sweet and salt riches,
the hungry hand an ice cream pinches.
I possessed the cold treat not.
It did me, though, untying the knot
on my thoughts rigidly gripping.
They escaped and I am traveling.
Look at the blue wrap: it undulates.
It is sea hugging boats with waves.
Telling sailors' hopes and woes
in wise words of quieted hues.
Chatter of crests dampens, never rests.
Walked from the port at thirst's behest
Tempest I swirl from the darkest wine
to quench it through the glass's spine.
Blond beers yesterday, today grapes.
Slow steps towards the waiting drapes.
Creased in the afternoon. Tidied pillow.
The tide tonight will billow.
I wake to see frost on chocolate shell.
Rocks of broken nuts to mountains swell.
And I am now in a tight harness
pulling myself over snowy ledges.
I climb forward layer after layer
where the air tastes cleaner.
Deeper, still, there is a lure
to continue this enchanting tour.
Orange swirl white cream cleaves.
Beak of toucan among silver leaves,
who is playing hide and seek.
Its mischievous eyes at you peek.
Hoping to find him in the jungle;
He will not make it any struggle.
He lets me snuggle in tropical,
where the colours are mystical.
The birds are painting songs gaily
in the humid, ancient-green canopy.
Their sounds are dripping from the leaves
collecting below in finest weaves.
Streams merged from ripples of flavours
emerge loudly that my tongue favours.
As they overflow the grooves deepened,
the ecstatic embrace is sweetened.
I am breaking sweat not in labour
but through joy which is major.
Minor than minute ice cream is left.
Still, my travels made me the richest.
Evening Drinks
I know the colours.
Red, wine and white.
The invitations.
The truth seeps through
the surface.
Időjárás
Bár ó méter,
baró méter.
Barométer?
Barom éter!
Hommage à A.H.
Some carves blocks
in to smooth shapes,
mixes colours an other,
one flows of notes
guides to the ears.
Eyes follow letters
adjoined by else.
Yet, what an artist is
who invents new words
from his spine and
composes epics on
granite?
Music it is,
arranged of minute
cracks.
Ledges sung first
or hundred times.
A symphony of the free will.
Wakhan days - The Journey
The dusty drape of sunlight is
pulleyed up by the morning.
It seems unvexed in repeating.
Smirks at the giggling dew as if
it had overslept cuddling the grass.
The rocks yawn, unnumbered,
they have seen many
steps, steps, steps...
Once they were the mountain
you have been climbing on end
towards the further ones
on paths stacking bends.
The sun is now drawing
its arc's dim length.
Legs had been repeating
an unchanged movemement
are finally stretched.
On the screen of eyelids
you imagine the left forest.
Yet, one heightens in yourself.
For all the miles, dozens of them,
has grown the strongest of trees
rooting in the mind whose branches
the calves have strengthened.
You will wake not as a serf of the road,
but the champion of the journey.
Arbor peregrina
Ochre breath of the desert rolls over,
exhausted, dry as the sand once it carried
and has scattered over thirsty shrubs,
to encircle you with its last length of silk.
Musk of the dusk mingled with minute
whiffs peeling off from bellies of fronds
rises as you rinse in your scent of that
dark, oily substance elongating leaves,
stealing twigs to branches.
History is
being wrapped
around your waist.
Between enchanting grooves of bark
dawn awakens and bathes you in
salty mists of the calling seas.
Seaside tanka
Ocean gifts distance
to rocks in humble murmurs.
Grass whispering years.
Settling sun's invitation
where morning meets the waters.
Moments
I open and close doors,
in front of and behind me.
Cigarettes.
Slumbery steps to
the mounted ashtray.
The smoke escapes
from my lungs.
Only these creased
mementos remain,
building up and squeezed
ill-fitting in the box.
Caged moments.
My throat is empty.
Words are rolling back
from the mouth,
piling up.
Once again
I inhale.
Morning Swim
Standing yet.
The shore runs away from your feet,
to home, under the duvet of blueness.
Lay your chest against where water ends.
Before dawn, with sky it comes to rest;
seeking until their breath into one blends.
Stride after stride relentless you push
along the seam of separated hues.
Undulating disquiet between blues.
Your head bowing and raising anew midst
slipping fingers of water fraying to mist.
Empty fall they back, thirsty air still desist.
Forgotten the coast, where they are bound,
you keep swimming.
Sorrow
Black bird! Come, cover me with your feathers!
Shadow me from the mischevous light.
Dragging clouds thus not promise me the sun.
Let your wings be my tent of sturdy canvas.
When snow constructs empire on all that living;
exhale your warmth under my skin, like lovers'
heartbeat through scented chest enchanted.
Give me the comfort of half closed drawers,
the invitation of shadows sitting behind doors,
around a unlit candle burnt its bent history.
Plug your plumag's grey wax into my ears.
In your beak, to the tree from where hunters
in their quieted follies are seen, take me.
I will not sense cold, wait not for spring.
I will be sat in silence as my feathers grow.
Sum
To J. M-W.
Loop of dust.
On the ground.
Around God's finger.
Idling
Along angled course
let the flies dash around
cutting the sluggish air
in to pre-thought shards.
To discover the continent,
that is my rugged cheeks,
eager wings do not relent.
Million flaps never cease.
Leaning against the wind
they are sailing to my face.
Head is rested on a plaid;
above stretches a tree.
Branches yawning circles
into their stacked shadow.
Caring not 'tis the air rises
or they are pushed below.
Flowing over sleepy fronds,
listless light, lukewarm,
in a careless, yielding nod,
to drops it is gently torn.
I am not even watching.
Letting rays fall upon my eyes.
Some glancing, some sinking
in the water that below lies.
Twin lakes, motionless they stay.
Through once unknown shores
Ancient breeze is fading away.
Chinguetti
Ratchet of prayers 'cross the fence.
Buzzing of flies upon my ears.
Aimless wind rises to wash it all away
Funafuti
Any news from the island?
Numb limbs of sky resting,
far, they fold in the waters.
Speckles of ships on the horizon?
Molten glass trembles,
weighs upon the ocean.
Blares forgotten their horns?
Faded wind whimpers
between my fingers.
Have not I been drawing
lines in the sand?
Palm trees press their
shadows on the shore.
Any news from the island?
Be calm. The sea will
rise and recede again.
Figurine
To S.K.
Exhaled the heat,
lungs are closed now
in tightened metal chest.
Off her skin,
last layers of warmth that
had never been hers
peeled and forgotten.
Shadow of the never finished
movement surrounds her
like fallen soldiers sleep.
Still.
Mellow sun trickles between
her fingers poking towards it.
By restless muscles
arms are bending.
And she raises her legs and
dances, dances in the light!
Journey
To R.W.
You wonder
the days,
yester:
jester and jitter
of giggles.
In whispers
of sun,
mellow marrow
tomorrow
yonder years
you wander.
Anniversary
You have always been certain
like the windows leak
the warmth of a family,
of children plodding
with askew open arms
to embrace anyone
during locked out
winter nights...
You have always been sure
that your light would
attract someone
in each second
chewing away that chord
you had bequeathed
from the ancient pastures
where ewes admire their
penultimate stumbles.
Those glassy eyes,
dripping, overflowing
with yearn would
yield to anyone, now,
who bends over
with the careless spine
of a candle.
Afternoon at St John's
As if nothing has happened.
The light bulbs flicker,
Grains of sugar sink
in the cup, bitter as ever.
The waitress bends over
behind the counter.
Cars hooted as they passed.
I have already paid.
Floating
Rattle of blades has quieted.
"Check canopy!" uttered one.
Just whisper of low clouds.
Light rolled on mushy lips.
Rays pronounced slowly.