You asked me if I have been very hurt

Well no. Not in the sense that people have done me wrong or given me something bad.

Mostly people have liked me really and given me what they could.

But it is that I am disappointed very.

People gave me what they had and what they had wasn’t very much.

I needed the world, I depended on it and it left me unnourished.

Until I stopped depending on it at all.

But really I was mostly sad.

I see the world impoverished, and people with nothing to give.

I am hurt for me, but I am hurt for them.

I am sad for them.

I grieve for the people I have loved.

But I am happy.

I look to the sky and I see the sun

I open my heart and I see God

And the waters of that spring are ever flowing

And the nourishment is there.

Slowly I get up

Slowly I grow

Slowly I can turn around,

And give something back

To the people who loved me with everything that they had!

For that I am grateful.

I left because I was hungry, but as soon as I can

I will come back. 

A poet's poem

A poet’s poem cannot be put onto a blog, I tell you!

It is a wonderful day out

It is a game

It is a park in heaven where I can freely play.

There are pictures involved, and sheets of paper

And ink, and movement, and space

There are colors and sounds

And together we play

Oh can you imagine it?

I cannot show you my real work, o people across the world.

But if you want to see such a thing come alive

I urge you

Write a poet’s poem yourself.

Slow down,

And in the space of a dot, you can fit all of infinity.

I promise!

A note to the reader regarding Picasso and the abstract form

I could write in the abstract, and would you ever know?

Reader you would never know.

But I will stand up for what I say

I will support what I give to you

I will prefer to tell you outright.

Reader my form is not abstract.

There is symbolism abound, but take that as a gift.

Take it and unwrap it as you will.

Take it as a bulb and plant it.

I will not tell you lies and hide what I really feel.

Half a poem about a man

or,
 a rocking roll song
or,
Like every morning

White is the color of my sheets.

White is the color of the light from my lamp.

Transparent is the color of my sentiments.

Happy is the color of my heart!

A pinch on the bum by a bee

A hint of love in the room

A smell of a game in the space

A knock on my door!

A knock on my door

A pebble on my window

I run to open

I open the door, I see no one but the front lawn.

Did someone just run around the corner?

I leave the door open,

I linger about.

The sun’s light comes in

The crunch frosty white air

The feeling of laughter

The feeling of joy.

The silent sound of footsteps

The morning time.

The morning unfolds its time

It lays it before me

Like an apron spread on the heath at the front.

Like a feast is laid out,

the morning lays out its time

and I pick up a cherry to eat.

I am in a pile of death but I want to live

I am in a pile of death but I want to live.

I need to get out of here

And first thing, I need to take a shower.

I walk through black holes

I walk through black holes and dark tunnels.

I don’t just stand at the brink and look and turn around.

Those who just turn around and go home

are scared of every hole

and they keep their kitchen doors locked

and the shutters down

They think the world has ends

where one might fall off

and they hold fast to what they know.

I walk through black holes so I know

The world is not small

The life is not intimidated by death

The life is not kept in check by the big bad dead man

Life wins and love flourishes

In dark alleys there is soil

And under the train tracks there is earth.

God is, and where He is, there is life.

But you need to know the difference between a tunnel that is dark –

Because it is deep or it goes out of the way.

Or a tunnel that is dark –

Because the death is thick

the corruption is dense,

the decay is preferred,

and it keeps out the light.

Those buckets of dark

are but buckets of death, like tar

and don’t touch them.

Decay

Decay has a texture

It is an absolute lack of love

And the force that keeps together the parts is turned off

And what was living becomes a thousand pieces.

Cancer has a texture that is sick

It is when cells grow out of proportion

When they grow for themselves: and not as a part of the organism as a whole.

When every little cell grows out of its place

And the system comes apart.

Despite the stench

But God forgives

And Love does not leave this place of death despite the stench

And so the earth is still solid

upon which we stand.

butterfly

Ah! Pretty butterfly of spring

on a beautiful winter morning

I won’t clasp you! Don’t worry.

I’ll walk alongside you

And on laughter,

Like fluttering,

I’ll bounce about.

Oh pretty creature

Kind sensitive soul

Are you lost and in my garden?

Are you flustered?

I have a serious steady side

A reliable stride

So you can trust in that.

But I have a playful side

And I fly like you

But my wings have bones.

Let me play with you fine creature

Don’t be in fear

Come out into the winter’s sun.

I will respect you

And see you as an equal

But love you as more than myself.

So if I now play a little,

don’t think you will be crushed. 

Little butterfly

Sweet gentle soul

You are welcome in my yard,

You are welcome

I like

(a note to Brian)

I like the sun’s light,

and winter frost,

and everything.

I like everything when it is good,

And when it is in God’s service.

But I don’t like anything for its own sake.

I enjoy music so very much.

But joy has its place,

and its place is not everywhere.

I like truth.

I love to seek it.

I love to know it.

I love to know. 

I like to look at Truth in the face.

I like to bask in Its Light.

I like to learn.

I like to know.

I like it that when I am wrong (and I am often wrong),

I feel an itch that won’t go away.

I like it that my mind won’t rest

and it won’t sleep

until I am right.

I dream.

I like to dream

of a good world.

I like to dream of a Good moment,

at every moment.

And I like to stick my fingers in this reality

and to organize it,

and to rename it,

and to remake it,

and to remold it,

and to make it good,

like the Good that is in my heart and appeases it.

I like to read Plato

and I like to be in company with Socrates.

Likewise, I like to read all people who were good

And who loved communion and who cared.

I like to read them, because I feel the warmth of their love, across time, across the pages – and it feeds my brain.

I like to lift my face to the sky.

I like to look at other people who lived with righteousness,

Because their beauty makes me laugh and be glad

And their scent in the air makes me happy.

I like the Truth and everything that is in Its service.

As beautiful as nature is,

as satisfying as beauty is,

as exciting as music is,

as ecstatic as colors are,

they are all only as holy as the Holy Spirit that flows in them, and gives them life.

I like life!

I like the sun’s light,

I like the winter frost.

I like the leaves at fall,

the hard soil at winter,

and the smell of joy in spring.

I like light in all its natural shades.

I like hope and peace

I like communication and friendship,

pomegranates and love.

I like to write.

I like it that you have put this dictionary onto my laptop and that it is useful.

I like the good, the efficient, the real, the genuine.

I like to concentrate.

I like it that there is no ceiling and that the world is large enough.

And greatness is infinite enough.

That death is restricted, and that life is possible.

I like it that I can write.


And don't forget the joy of dancing!
You know Brian, I am sure, that this list is not comprehensive.

The Eucharistic act

But God is not a minimalist, he allows for so many sorts of beauty

There are so many layers of beauty.

Look at a beautiful landscape,

And even there

One day the wind blows, and the feeling is so

And on another day the sun shines and the feeling is such

And if that is not art

And if that is not rhythm

Then you don’t know about art at all.

A wind blows

A wind blows

And it brings its music to my landscape

And like the leaves I dance.

And my only wish, is that I had more wings,

and I had more branches, and I could dance some more.

Listen now, let me put down the poetic form and tell you something.

God is not a minimalist

And the beauty that is out there is enough for every being.

Open your eyes and open your ears and let you hear.

And what is artistic skill?

What is the ability to play an instrument or to draw forms

To paint

To mould clay and stone

To mould words?

The artistic skill is only your wings, your leaves, the colorful flaps of your dress

For when God’s wind blows, you can dance bigger

You can be extended further

You can reach higher

Your pot is a little bigger and the water you will carry from the river to spill into the sea will be a little more

And your joy more complete.

Do, do develop your skill

Develop your voice, your hand, your feet.

Not because you can ever make art that way.

But because when God’s wind blows,

Your dance will be more.

Poetry is the rhythm of the wind as it blows

And looking at it

And laughing at it

Enjoying it, and writing it down here for you

Is just the Eucharistic act.  

do you understand the artist's problem?

I put my pen down

And I looked up at the Writer of everything

But then I worried

What can I write from now on

Why would I ever write, and not lock my eyes on You?

I put my ball down

And I looked up at the creator of all laws

But then I thought how can I ever play again

When I could just sit in your shade?

But I won't worry.

And like a baby I get back up

And without knowing, from the start I learn to walk.

I am in Your world now, like a baby.

A new life starts. I am excited.

I don’t know in Your world if the rhythm of art will flow in my blood again

But maybe it will.

The beat, of art, it bounces around.

The poetry,

The music,

That bounces about. And anyone who will see it will laugh from their heart.

I don’t know if I will find that again in Your shade

If I will touch it again

If I will laugh at it from my heart.

But like a baby, I am learning again

This time for real.

in April

I am contaminated

with the pain and sorrow of this world.

I cannot be amongst the pure, and happy birds

except as an imposter.

An ocean of sin enclaved in my heart

would pour out and ruin their party.

the sins that I have seen

the sins that I have done

what I did

and to me what was done, are all the same.

One same ocean of sin,

contained in my heart

and I can’t fly.  

i write

I write again because I don’t dare to speak. There is a person across me, perhaps he is a man but I cannot speak. I cannot say I do not trust. I do not trust the look in your eyes when you look at me, when you touch me. I have no faith in your eyes. Sex is about trust. You need to trust and you need to be allowed to communicate, and trust that that love and care which you show with your body is real. I don’t trust.

I don’t want to have just sex anymore. Sex without trust: I am distant, and it is only good in a narcissistic way, in a fantastical way. You communicate only with your fantasy and not another person. This is damaging and harmful. I don’t want to hurt myself and the man any more. I don’t want to do that anymore. When I touch you I want to open up my heart and my mind and let you in, and let you get around and claim the space. I want to mean what I say.

I need to trust you. Would you say I am ethical, and tight, and that I miss the point of pleasure? I say I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. I don’t want to scrape my soul with a pocket knife anymore.

I want to ask you if you understand; and if you know; and if you can love; but I cannot speak. I write because you sit across me and I don’t trust you even to ask you. I don’t trust that you will not say I am prude and scared, and a waste of your time. So, I write to myself. I talk to my self. I have this dilemma. Should I speak and see if you hear me and treat you accordingly. Should I not. I feel I should not. I feel that it is embarrassing to say what I want and what I need. I feel it is uncool and oldschool to ask for love and trust and care and openness from you. To keep the sexual as an extension of communication. To have sex with you, in the best case would mean to me to be so open I could die from you. And I cannot trust you, nor your eyes nor and the way you look at me and touch me.

I know what I don’t want anymore. I know I don’t want to have bad hurtful sex anymore. I know I don’t want to add to the world’s pain anymore. But I don’t know how to seek a lover, how to reach the love in a man. How to ask for it. I don’t know how to find it. I know only how to withdraw and be distant and watch from afar and not be involved.

I don’t want to run away anymore. I don’t want to be here and not be here anymore, just to stay cool and keep safe. Why is it so frightening and embarrassing to ask for something real and good? Why is it so wrong, to seek something better in this pornorific culture of ours. Why am I ashamed to ask you for what I know we both need, what would be really joy. Why do I feel alone and rejected by this society when I seek love and sexual communication, when I wish to stop the masochism that pretends to be so liberating and modern, free and fun?

I don’t think this is fun. To hurt your self and a man you might love. Why do men accept that? Why do they seek it? How many times have I been disappointed, and hurt, by a man because he did not even realize when I withdrew from sex and was absent emotionally. How many times have I been let down that way? And hurt. I knew then that I had to leave this person. That they did not love me. and I stayed until I could leave.

Now I want to seek love, I want to open my self and have good sex. And I take my time to know you and see you and trust you. And I feel like the world is telling me I am frigid and weird and unacceptable, and I act like I have a learning disability. I don’t have the self-esteem to support myself in this attempt for something better because I feel alone. Because I feel you, the man, will reject me if I speak of love and if I reject this cold cruel sex that is laid out for us by this pornorific culture. Will you reject me because I deny you the gifts of free sex that patriarchy promised you? Will you look at me with disgust and withdraw on the inside and reject me, and turn your face downwards ever so slightly, and will I know in that second that you spat at me, that you saw me as a dirty outsider, an insolent anarchist who blasphemised against nature. Will you reject me the way a man rejects his son who is born disabled?

Will you hate me for making you reject me?

Why am I afraid to seek love and to stand up for myself? Who will support me. in that soft weak moment when I stop while we kiss. That moment when I want more and I feel ashamed to say it.

Though I know, I know in my heart that I am right, even if my heart is alone outside in the cold. I know deep in my heart that this here land is sick and dying. I know in my heart that I seek joy and love. Will I find a man who can love, who will support me and speak to me with his heart? Can that be you? Or are you bound to the beast and kissing his feet? Sucking on his toes.

You look at me and you say we need to take risks. And I would. I would jump off of this cliff with you if you thought you could fly. But I would not join a group on a burning boat. There is risk and there is stupidity. Time and experience can show. I am not prude. I just want to take the time to have good love with you, or if it is not you, then with someone else. But I don’t want to waste my soul and my body, or yours for that matter, not anymore, for some fantasy and a little physical mixed-pleasure. Just because we think this is all there is and think thus that we want it.

I know there is more and I told myself I will seek it. So now, since I feel so alone against the Porn, I will stand for myself and support myself and if you choose to support me I will be glad to see that. And if you don’t, you don’t. Man.

dolphin

You are an open window

You are a breath of fresh air

You are a hope for happiness

A hope for fulfillment.

If you are lost

And if the hope dies

My home with its people will feel like noise.

I will have to bear.

I will have to endure.

I know that you might be lost,

I know that hope may die.

I stand at the edge of a cliff,

And I will watch it falling.

If it does, I will endure, I will bear.

Elena, Helen and Eleni

‘You’

‘Me?’

‘You’

‘What? Me?’

‘You’

Frossa put down the shirt she was holding – she had taken it off together with the scarf because it had gotten rather warm – and went over to the young woman that was calling her. The woman sat on a tree branch, almost three meters off the ground, and was half hidden by the leaves around her. Her face was in full view though, and she looked strait over at Frossa. Frossa stood near the base of the tree and looked up. The sunlight blinded her a little and she squinted to see, but what was clear was the full broad teasing smile across the woman’s face. A smile that looked like a laugh.

‘Hey you’, the woman said more kindly this time. She wasn’t meaning to stop Frossa in her tracks and pull her over, as she had before. Since Frossa had come over, the woman’s voice became now rather welcoming. And you might say she sounded a bit cheery that her call had actually worked out.

‘Hello’, Frossa returned the friendly intent. In the young woman’s voice Frossa could hear, toned down, the happy surprise of a child, when an uncle does agree to their plea to go for icecream. Also, in her nibble movements, and in the playful way her gaze engaged you immediately into a personal engagement, Frossa thought she saw evidence of lineage from the Goat People. She stood a bit back to see better.

The woman swiftly switched her position and came over to the right of the tree, where the sun would not be behind her, and on to a branch that was about a meter lower. She dropped her self into a sitting position in the middle of the branch, just about at the point after which it wouldn’t have held up her weight. Her feet hung down and swung freely. She had a big scruffy head of hair, some blue trousers that looked as if they lived on her, and a white top.

Noticing that the woman had no intention of coming down Frossa looked at the tree to figure how easy it would be to climb up. It wouldn’t be easy. Feeling uncertain about if it was worth hanging about, Frossa looked up at the woman – whom as you looked at looked more and more like a girl – and with a slight tilt of the head gestured that she had her attention, and that she ought to say whatever it was that she wanted.

The woman just beamed her wide grin and her smiling eyes. You would have thought that she was happy just for her and Frossa to look at one another, as if that was engaging enough. Frossa relaxed and put her little annoyance away. I suppose it was enough, she noticed.

‘Come down from there’, she said, in agreeable response to the woman’s obvious request to be friends, and the woman – the child – hopped to the ground, put her one arm around Frossa in a hug, and they walked like that, side by side, away from the tree.

‘You look rather serious’, she said.

‘I am rather serious’, Frossa answered, ‘what is wrong with that?’

‘What is wrong with playing?’ she answered.

‘I play’, Frossa answered

‘You don’t play’, she said

‘I have fun with serious things’, Frossa answered. ‘I have fun with them’.

‘Do you know what a game is?’, she said

‘I know what a game is’, Frossa answered

‘Do you?’, she responded. ‘Do you know what a game is’, she teased.

‘A game is an activity where the formal outcome has no moral relevance’, Frossa answered.

‘Life is a game’, she said.

‘No its not’, Frosso answered. ‘Life is not a game.’

‘Play a little’, she said

‘I can’t play with my life’, said Frossa

‘Play with me a little’, she said

‘What do you want to play?’ Frossa asked.

Hearing the acceptance of the challenge in Frossa’s tone, the girl yupied around a bit. But she didn’t know yet what it was she wanted to play.     

‘My name is Eleni, but it is Elena too, but it may well be Helen of Troy.’

‘Tell me,’ she said ‘I saw you come, this way from far away. I saw you turn around the bend the way this road is turning. Did you pass by the village that sleeps at the forest’s feet?’

‘I did’.

‘And tell me, who was there and what do they do, did you find them or did they find you?’

‘My memory fades the further I walk, what I have left from there are their gifts, close to my heart, that I hold.’

‘Did you see a river, did you see any fish?’

‘I read about it’, she went on to say. That there is a river and creatures too, and if you speak to them from the bank they will carry messages for you. They can travel to any house, to any person you seek, and that without words, to him, your message they speak.’

Frossa considered this. ‘No,’ she said ‘I really don’t think so.’ ‘But why would I want that? Why would we need such a thing?’. ‘Messages are not secret in our world, they are not hidden. Anyone who wants to know a thing, can look and find it out. If I wanted to say something to any one, why wouldn’t I say it to them myself directly. I lift up my heart, I open my arms, and I speak what I want, where I am. One can lift up their hearts, they can open their arms, they can listen out loud, and can hear it.’

‘And besides’, Frossa added, ‘I don’t seek anyone. I long for them, and I wait. Sometimes I look up and I call to them, I yell out to them, and I wait.’  

Maybe as Frossa spoke, her tone had been antagonistic, because Helen withdrew a bit, and as her happiness had shone on her face as uninhibited as a child’s, now her mood changed to an easy complaint.

‘Why do you speak so quickly,’ she asked, ‘why do you say only so little.’ ‘Why do you tell me what you think, and not what you saw’.

‘My life is my own,’ Frosso said, ‘and only I can live it. Ideas, they are for everyone. As they were given to me, so I also can pass them.’

‘You needn’t be so cryptic’ the girl said. ‘You see those tall cherry trees?’ she asked, ‘I live there.’ ‘From the people who pass by here, who walk, with stories, I walk with them.’

Frossa was silent and she thought. ‘I am sorry, she answered, I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

Dawn

Oh morning light of dawn, how I love the colors you give,

the cold still in my back, the scent of God as clear as the day, the first sounds morning.

Morning light,

you can only be the work of love,

only the kindest embrace. 

strength

God, your hand is so soft, so kind, so steady

that it can only be strong, stronger than the strongest strength.

So certain, so gentle is it, that it can only be Yours.

peace

quiet the noise in my heart that I may hear You pass

silence the noise in my heart that I may hear Your footsteps.

For a moment, my heart will have peace.

The perfect woman is like a lamborghini

If you don't know how to drive it,
then it's just an over-priced car.
But if you do,
it's a lamborghini