* * *
once again through words that walk slowly
I cleared the mines from the dandelion field
like a child I looked for a tree on the hilltop
that once, in time of war, had extended me its hand
Commander and winner
all soldiers have put a lock on their rifles
which no one can open, except for an old commander
who can't remember where he mistakenly has put the key
as the war game now has no meaning
all soldiers have gathered and kill plans with cards
and from uniform pieces build a fabric rifle
- - -
the commander found the key! - and war started again
this time for who could first open his rifle
based on the quality of the card on his hand
among the general confusion only one soldier
built a key from his card and opened the fabric rifle
and went back to his home a winner - and commander!
The Market of Earthenware
I am the maker of earthenware
It's a profession - or just a hobby
And it's confusing - who shall decide
me or the market - its real status
I learned by practice - went to no school
So, no support from academia -
No BSc-s - no MSc-s - no PhD-s
Yet, all of these - without diplomas
I saw much ugliness - and looked for beauty
I saw no thinking - philosophized
I saw much darkness - and looked for light
I saw greyscale - and painted colors
And worked and worked - until 'twas perfect
Until I thought that I was ready
Until I reached the goal I set
And time had come to make it public
So I reserved a market place -
And found a sea of earthenware
Sitting unused, sitting unbought
But I was not a bit discouraged
For I thought that somewhere, someone
Surely would look for things of beauty
Surely would like to look for depth
Surely would like the style and colors
But there were none - or very few
And I began to doubt statistics
Or blame poor marketing efforts
Or blame the plastics industry
The dust then covered through the months
All shapes, all colors, all designs
And there was ugliness - and no thinking
And there was darkness - and greyscale
But when I polished all my work
It brightly shone and made me happy
And made me sad it wasn't valued
And made me think what I could do
Therefore I thought it might be useful
An earthen monument to effort
As sculpture, art - or literature -
In one of the crossroads of the world
Not that there wasn't all the same
A sea of earthenware - not only
But iron, plastics - and what not
Filling up all important places
But I thought I should try - regardless
Of me doubting most statistics
Or the poor marketing effort
Or the blame on the plastics industry
So now it's sitting in some place
In some half-forgotten road - I guess -
Unless they moved it somewhere else -
One more monument to effort
And I am sitting in the market
Of earthenware - but also others -
Some days in one - some days elsewhere -
And some days in half-forgotten roads -
And what to do - I fill the vases
With flowers - decorate the places -
They brightly shine and make me happy
They make me sad - and inspire my work
And what to do - I am still inspired
Even in these deserted places -
O traveler, if by chance you ever
Come here and read this inscription...
The Return
I returned to that place of memories
Although, in truth, I had never left -
For that place had never left me -
And the colors had not faded
Neither had dust settled on furniture
And how can one call it a memory
What is still real and present
And living?
But still I returned -
Back to that place of gentleness
Where the song of the water still went on
Under the orchestra of the poplar trees
And the sunflower turned towards my song
And the dandelion flower watered the grass
And the firefly lights danced in the night
As if welcoming me again
Though I had traveled far -
And it may look like a contradiction
Or like a daydream of beautiful feelings
Of childhood days that are gone
With the paper airplane and the paper boat
To chase travels of grown ups
And a million other things to remember
Except this one thing -
This one true feeling that is here
Once more today -
To tell you, the friend whom I've never met
And yet, that I knew all along so well,
That today I returned, though I never left,
To tell you -
To return
The Bouquet of Poems
We, who are still at our first session,
You, as the unaware model - and I
As the photographer of words,
Should both be a bit more patient
Till the inspiration studio
Processes the ideas -
Till the main editor decides
The overall concept -
Till the emotion stylist
Decides on the makeup and dress -
Till the light director
Decides on the mood and time -
Together with all the support crew
And the various assistants -
You know - and do not know -
These people being present, and yet
You know - and do not know -
That it is only me here -
I, the editor, and the stylist
The light director, and mood maker,
And self-assistant to my own art trade,
Have prepared the concept and the execution,
Have found the location and the dress
And the props, makeup and light -
To make you a princess if I wish so,
To put a crown of jewels on you -
Of an inestimable value -
Sitting on a throne of simplicity -
Or make you poor, and dressed in rags
At the shore of a sea that bears your name
And the colors of your hair and eyes -
But, we should be a little bit more patient -
We, who are still at our first session -
Till we can break the ice - and rigidity,
Of this kinda random and by-chance relationship,
And you can be more natural when you smile -
When you pose - yet, are unaware of posing -
For I prefer it this way, natural and free -
Yes, I say - we should be a little bit more patient -
Till the product is satisfying - to be presented
In a bouquet of photographs of words -
For, one single flower, is only a flower -
And two, though technically a bouquet,
Wouldn't make it so to me - or you -
But when there are at least three or four -
Or ten - I will tell you - the unaware model -
So that you can keep it, and perhaps remember -
On your wedding day - or when you'll cry in silence -
Or when you grow old, and perhaps are lonely -
And reflect back on these times, and perhaps smile -
When you are reminded of that photographer
Who took portraits of words for fun -
And gave them as a gift to you
In a bouquet of poems -
The Floral Motif
I, who wanted you so much
To come and visit my cafe,
Placed outside - as a special invitation
A bouquet of flowers for you -
-
Having the same initials
As the letters of your name,
In the language of feelings
They smiled at me -
But you had not noticed it
Perhaps -
Or you didn't know the language
Perhaps -
-
And I looked at them with sadness -
At that simple arrangement of flowers
Inside the plain white porcelain vase
On that early autumn afternoon -
Then the leaves had started to fall
Together with the rays of the sun
When I tried to write your name on the vase
With the remaining coffee in my cup -
-
But oh, it didn't last long
And your name was quickly erased
By the rain of my tears
Through the nostalgia of the days -