Lights on the Hill

Little lights scattered on the hill,
Pulsing slightly in the distance
Little diamonds in green velvet
Shining on the cadence of electric waves
A simple switch can kill.

Dog Life

In my next life I want to be a dog.
In Marin County.
No work, no degree,
Food, house, care, love!
And I will still be able to love too,
The pure love of the dogs.
No social rules, no restrains.
I will follow my interests,
And sometimes be scorned;
But I’ve been scorned as a human anyway…
As a dog, no fashion clothes to wear,
No languages to speak…
The tail will show my feelings
And that will be enough:
no Valentine’s Day gifts needed!
Teeth won’t have braces,
No nails to manicure or pedicure.
No mascara, no lipstick
No liposuction! No flab!
I will run in manicured backyards,
Jump in sparkling blue pools,
And have health insurance paid!
Sleep in soft brand name beds,
With a sparky Coach collar on my neck.
In my next life I want to be a dog.
In Marin County.
And barking, smile to my owner,
Ready to do each day all over again.

Oil Paint

Inexplicable pleasure
From the smell of wet oil paint.
Turpentine, pigments,
This is scent of art.
A sense of accomplishment
Follows the beauty.
The brush strokes spreading the colors
Of all colors,
Trespassing the expression of beauty
Reserved only to Gods.
And artists.

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Mundo Animal

Tenho o mau hábito de ficar prestando atenção às caras das pessoas. Sempre tive.
Na minha infância, tinha uma senhora portuguesa que tinha cara de galinha. O animal galinha, não galinha no sentido bíblico da palavra. Ela tinha um nariz aquilino, que era muito fino para ser só aquilino e era mais fino ainda na ponta, com formato de bico de galinha. Coitada, ela morreu super cedo. Será que porque eu achava ela com cara de galinha e galinhas morrem cedo?
Ontem, vi um homem no ônibus com cara de pardal. Tinha o cabelinho penteado para trás, muito bem arrumadinho, como a cabecinha do pardal, o animal. Ele possuía feições delicadas e de novo aquele nariz em formato de bico, dessa vez bico de passarinho. E ele estava vestido com um terno cinza, bem da cor das penas dos pardais. O próprio.
Mas não só de passarinho vive a aparência. Meu tio Carlos dizia que a idade chegava para valer quando a pessoa começava a ter cara de cachorro. Mas o que é cara de cachorro, tio? É quando aquele vinco que vai do canto do nariz até o queixo começa a se aprofundar e a pessoa fica com bochechas de buldogue. Mas não é que parece mesmo? Por isso eu encho meu rosto de creme todo dia, colágeno, vitaminas C e E, e o que mais disserem que é bom pra pele.
Tem também aqueles com olhinhos miúdos que parecem porcos. Em geral, essas pessoas também não estão nem aí para nada, como os porcos. Ou orelhas de dumbo, grandes, enormes e de abano. E tem aqueles outros com dentes que parecem roedores.
Existem umas pessoas que não só têm cara de animal, como têm maneirismos animais. Não estou falando dos que comem como um cavalo ou roncam como um porco, falo, por exemplo, daquelas moças que correm com longas pernas e passadas como gazelas. Outras que andam como camundongos, passinhos curtos, rápidos, em todos os lugares. Tem certas pessoas que têm braços longuíssimos, que parecem símios e andam balançando esses braços como os tais. Outras, têm braços curtos que lembram focas batendo palmas. Exitem ainda certas pessoas que, ao menor entusiasmo, parecem avestruzes, com asas abertas, flanando para todos os lados, uma coisa.
Tem ainda aquela estória de que os donos dos animais domésticos acabam se parecendo com eles. E dá pra ver isso claramente nos parques de cachorro. Sou dona de animal e ficarei também parecida com o meu. A única coisa boa é que ela é linda, loura, de olhos azuis, com peito grande, encanta todo mundo. Pensando bem, essa transformação podia era começar logo: acho que essa é minha última chance de ser linda.

Precariously Going On

And so was the sea eternally breaking on the beach, incomplete as well, dismissing waves in a spread of incomprehensive white surf, coming and going without a reason, incompletely leaving the thoughts and ideas still inside the brain.
This was her state of mind as the sun was going down that afternoon. The sea had always been able to heal and sustain her, even in the darkest moments, but now all she could see was the same incompletion that she was carrying inside. The sun was not so warm, the breeze was not pleasant, a little too cold, the seagulls and albatrosses were weird and noisy. Simply, she felt she didn’t fit in any of that. Maine and its shore wasn’t a place, a destination, a style of life any more. Changing had always arrived like that for her, a rushing need, an urgent desperation of solving everything and everybody, even what later would appear solved and done. The problem always were the memories, which could not be erased with wite-out or backspace. Memories can’t be erased.
Sitting on the rocks above the beach, the multi-colored sky by the last rays of lights was breathtaking, but this was a painter’s feeling which also didn’t leave her after all of that. No, not now, she thought of her feeling of beauty. She couldn’t help that either, it invaded her spreading goose bumps on her arms.
Why such a duality, why see ugliness and beauty at the same time? Why be practical and problematic? The world is going on, precariously maybe, but still going on. Suffer less the stupid, the ignorant. Is there a way back to not to think or not to learn? Is there a way back on time? Say yes, please…

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Different Directions

A little twist on your way,
Turning you slightly to the right,
And there you are heading in different direction.
You didn’t want it,
You didn’t foresaw it,
But that’s your direction now
And you are undoubtedly heading differently than planned.

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VAI E VEM

O mar, poesia itinerante,
Visita inconstante,
Portador de segredos
E pensamentos inquietos.
Sonhos incompletos
No lava-pés incessante
A despeito da vontade alheia.
Ou da macia areia.

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Resistant Rose

Resistant rose
Patiently waiting for a sun kiss.
Dust, wind, fog hits the unfaded flower,
Shaking helplessly by the speeding cars,
Looking to the sky above
Searching for something else…
Fragile petals,
Tiny fingers pointing with hope
To another sunny day.

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Refuge

When my world failed on me again, I desperately needed to find peace somewhere else. The feeling of having to be awake and alert all the time is disturbing. I provided relief; I deserve to be relieved too. Amidst the inner turmoil invading my heart with unease feelings and my head with a thin spinning headache, I needed to seek for refuge. And I found that in my books, eternal silent loyal friends, and full of good words and far away lands of magic and devotion, ready to take me in a ride of infinite pleasure and absence from the here and now.

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Minha Sobrinha

O rosto sereno,
sono de anjo
que ainda não se sabe caído na Terra
para exercício de nosso amor.
Essa paz das feições gentis
da pequena menina adormecida,
se transforma em luz,
que ilumina nossos labirintos
das rotinas ordinárias do cotidiano.

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Articulações

Se as palavras me dão asas,

que eu voe bem alto em cada uma delas.

Se os sonhos me dão direção,

Que eu possa gravá-los

Em cada uma de minhas sentenças.

Se a imaginação me leva

Que eu tenha uma jornada boa.

Se meus versos te atingem

Que seja com alegria

E o sabor real

De uma mensagem bem-vinda.

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Emptiness

Emptiness

There is a throbbing emptiness
Caused by things not well done,
Caused by the absences
Of the presences not noticed before.
One nods to the idiocy
Contained in broken dreams,
In broken hearts,
In the pathetic of being,
But what comes after that anyway?
When, then, one finds failure in himself,
Try to escape into big statements
Or faceless empty remarks.
That emptiness,
Caused by the bad choices,
Cause of many causes,
Slowly and completely
Eats out the flesh and soul
Of a good intentions man.

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LORETTE


I never heard about that church before,
Just about its rich cousin on the other side.
I entered, reverencing the years there
Imbibed in every stone with pride.

The usual darkness dominated me
And I felt scared for a moment,
A thousand voices rambling in the void,
Hollow sensation of pain and torment

I never walk through the middle,
But surrounding the benches.
So did I, moving toward the altar
Of this small church in France.

That’s when I noticed the stand
With a small perforated map
It was a bombing model
Hoping the history not to forget.

That night in the Light City
The Germans’ bombing was ferocious
No escape seemed possible,
Their power was atrocious

The church then seemed logical
And three hundred gathered there
Prayer seemed the only hope,
The only way to their lives spare

Then the miracle came:
Amid the disrupting terror
For the Germans, a mistake
For the French, blessing error

Not even one single bomb
Found their way to the temple
And the people, relieved, prayed more
For God to take it as example.

That day, reviving the history again
I felt peace was the most precious good.
And I left the church intrigued:
How come man yet hasn’t understood?

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Revisitando os planos...

Assim, assimilada no mundo dos outros, penso meus dias com o desejo firme de retornar ao meu. Mas meu mundo não me foi generoso da mesma forma e, agora que estou no chegando ao meio de minha existência, não cosidero mais tão importante tantas coisas importantes de antes. Qual a saída então? Pensar no que vem mais naturalmente, escolher menos, deixar a vida me levar mais (vida leva eu...fala Zeca!) já que resistir só causa rugas e olheiras; compilar poesias soltas no ar para me divertir depois, quando elas estiverem em páginas impressas. Esse, sim, o único objeivo palpável, duradouro e firme de hoje.
Então, deixa começar meu dia da forma que mais me apraz: escrevendo. Bom dia para todos nós.

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