Poetry

Poetry is the soul of life itself,
free on its flight,
it takes us to unsuspected corners
of impossible countries
with magic utopia
or to the raw reality
of the Hells we suffer
in agony and silence
and total self-denial;
but always with the elegance
of the one who spill
his own blood
from the inkstand of his very veins
to the desert of the paper,
flowering it
completely.

Pure thougts

We were traveling
beyond time and space:
wing with wing
flight with flight,
in a flock of singing minstrels,
intoning our celestial chorus;
and the light, serenade and throbbing,
was flickering solemn
while guiding our ethereal essences
towards impossible orbs
without boundaries or borders.

The cosmic universes
were dispelling before our astonishment
as soon as they appeared;
and our furtive and mysterious flight
was rapid,
swift and steady,
a lot faster
than light velocity…
We were
¡pure thought!

Unfounded gelosy

Her smile
shreds me with caution,
it hounds me without mercy,
and then, it tears
my will up
perpetually.

Her serenity
is so frightening
that makes the panic spread
into my cowards
and insecure thoughts.

And all the foundations
of an indestructible passion
give their way before the jealousy seism.
Her eyes
are two destroyers,
her hands
are two submarines torpedoing me
with their ill-fated strokes.

Her silence is a guillotine,
how I would like to be telepathist!
or at least a clairvoyant,
maybe an inexistent shadow;
like the sun's shadow
that always passes unnoticed.
Yet, finally
my destine is not the one I want it to be
but…those circumstances force me throw.
Where did stay the free will?

If really there was such thing
I personally
would choose to be a poet,
a singer,
an actor,
a scientist
or an astronaut.

I would choose to be born in Sirius
or in Alpha Centaury
or in Andromeda, even better…
I would even choose
to be born in a super cluster
so far away from this Milky Way
that I would never know about her existence.

Therefore I would not have to forget her
I could not remember her,
nor I must go back
to the inert and sporadic past,
to the voluminous, vacuous
and empty past
that traps me continuously.

My God!
How many nonsense I am writing?
Do not answer me, at all…

Homage to Van Gogh

The shadow is being forging;
shadow by shadow
the light is being creating.
From the indefinable
trough the neat, tidy, clean
and victorious definition
of a pictorial big-bang.

Elemental weft of fractals
in a cosmic dance
over the canvas;
that moves its deformities
towards alchemist paths
of redeeming figures and shapes:

That is the way the work is made;
that is the way the master is forged;
he puts his soul into the canvas
letting it play with lights and shadows,
experiencing life and death;
so that
pictorial art
may transmute
in visual poem.

I am my totality

I am my totality.
If I let see my lights only
I would be a bad painted picture;
if I let see also my shadows
I will acquire poetry,
perspective,
projection,
deepness.
And it is then;
and only then
that I will be all my real truth.

Simply I am

I am just a wounded dog;
curled up
at the edge of the road.

If you come to heal me
I will receive you;
¡suspicious, yes!
but I will receive you…

If you show indifference to me,
I will stay so tame;
because you are neither with me
nor against me.

But if you attack me
I will bite
and I won't loose!

Do I do well?
Do I do badly?
Neither well nor badly:
plainly…
I do.
Am I good?
Am I bad?
Neither good nor bad:
simply…
I am.

Epidermal iron bars

This body that lodges me
-a massive concentration of space-time-
is a jail, is a prison…
of epidermal iron bars.

If I had been made from star dust,
if I am a free spirit and a spreaded soul
how come I have ended so cloistered
among bones and muscles!

How it is possible
that this inexistent time
can be my cruel gaoler?

I will come back into my mother belly,
restarting this torture
when death would reach me
again, and again, and again…

Coeternal time

Today and yesterday
conjugate as tomorrow
right here and right now.

Everything is present:
Time is not lineal at all
but it is relative.

All is coeternal:
only the flower that fades
produces its fruit.

Pearly waterfall

Pearly waterfall

of crystallizable drops.

They're always in love.

Light, distorted realities

Light is a rain
of microscopical jewels
that goes painting
the celestial vault.

Light is; then, a snowfall
of chilly tears,
that comes swirling a blizzard
over the canvas of the planet.

Oh impertinent, riffraff,
and fraudulent light:
Why do you cover the mantle
of the sidereal orb?

My memories about you

Inside
deep inside my skin,
beyond my organs,
beyond my cells,
where the photons
of the soul agglutinates one another
forging my understanding:
there I keep my memories about you!