Category Archives: Poetry


Twenty four hours and more;

once again, she stood there

eyes wide and slippery.

Hands on keys

scrolling down

up, down,


Feeling the miracle

of those words;

heart taking over

her entire body.

Back to the red plant

with desperate eyes,

she regrets the word “charm.”

– S

Toronto – July 23, 2012

Against The World

Seventy seven years ago.
Young and naive.

Capturing the beauty within their bodies.
The innocence of their spirits.
Such elegance.

Butterflies were free.
Love affairs on fire.
One plus one.


was the new beginning.

– S

Toronto – May 15, 2012

Second Attempt | Version 2

That night.
In rage.
Mid June of twenty eleven.
The moon at its lowest.

I searched for the lost pieces
in empty carafes;
neglecting the thousands
crushed by the hands of cruelty
and the sound of ruthless whips.

In dream,
grapes feud with pomegranate seeds.
Saints hung on a wall.

Under a media storm.
I wake up against the morning sky.

The kindest of us all slain.
The victim of ink and paper.
His unspoken mind.

I buried myself
in asylum, in the swamp of
sympathy notes.

Bloody cliché.
Each word bleats its
desire in silence.

And when, when
will the trees flower?
And the smiles glow and the little fish waltz?
Will we ever soak in the lake
where flesh and blood glitter in freedom?

– S
Toronto – March 4, 2012

Second Attempt | Version 1

I remember that night.
Crystal clear.
In rage.

It was a starry night.
Not the one Vincent painted,
but in mid June of twenty eleven.

And the moon?
At its lowest.

I played my pleasant game;
searching for the lost pieces in empty carafes.
Counting down the countless stars.

Neglecting the heart beats behind the rusty bars,
where thousands of gentle souls are being
crushed by the hands of cruelty
and the sound of ruthless whips.


I had an odd dream.
Grapes in feud with pomegranate seeds.
Saints hanging on the wall.
Unlike any fairytale.
Even ours.


Alas that “tomorrow” arrived.
Under the media storm.

I woke up to the horrified headline;
against the morning sky and
its forthcoming light.

The kindest of us all
flew miles and miles away
to the starry night.

Yes, he was gone.
He, the victim of the ink and paper;
of his unspoken mind.

And I,
I mourned that massive loss.
Buried myself
in asylum, in the swamp of
sympathy notes.

Bloody cliché.
Every word beat the desire in silence.

And when, when
will the trees flower?
And the smiles glow and the little fish waltz?
Will we ever soak in the lake
where flesh and blood glitter in freedom?

I await;
with big hopes.

– S
Toronto – March 4, 2012

Something Like That | Version 1

On gentle hills and golden grass,
the wind and the moon played an orchestra.
Her reflection and his, made
contact in the glass.
His arms pinned at his sides,
in her close embrace.
Wildflowers were their only friends.

Let us break the heart of the air, she whispered.
And paint the leaves in green and red,
or colors that don’t exist.
Let us walk barefoot through the years.

One recent morning,
resting against their pillows – floral.
Drinking coffee in bed – black.
Looking good – not great.
No screaming in pain. Quiet as in church.
She wrote a note:
“The butterflies are flying away.”

– S
Toronto – April 22, 2012

in.vul.ner.a.ble | Version 1

My old friend,

hidden behind the city lights;

under the dusty pages of a paper from

October two thousand and four;

veiled in velvet covers;

beneath the memories of

rubber ducks floating in

the bathtub;

ice in your single malt;

inside the box of past tense.


And you decided to invade

my dreams.

Why punished me with

news on the misery of your

loved ones and

their breathless existence?

What terrible




I only started to forget

the scratches in your voice,

the structure of your lips,

the smell of your hands.

I now smell betrayal.


Don’t take me back to my agonies,

as I refuse to separate;

to ache;

to lose.

Leave me with

my sips on my

Sauvigonon blanc,

dripping down my throat.

I long for a hand-in-hand;

and a smell of hyacinth

to raise paradise.

Full stop.

– S

Toronto – March 25, 2012

First Night | Version 1

In the wandering hallways
full of memories of a gray era,
all she sees is the old man’s face
in a rustic frame.

She smells the dust.
Feels his age; his fatigue.

She puts dark burgundy lipstick on.
Gets lost in the smoke of the shisha.
Closes her eyes to the mirror
and greets the horizon
of the candle lights.

She tastes the battle.
Mirror and candles.

Clawing through her hair,
getting back to the conversation,
she fights the migraine attacks
and dedicates a smile to
human nature.

They all exist;
in different moments.

– S
Montreal – February 17, 2012

A Tragedy | Version 1

Whence to commence?
From where the memory serves
or from an unborn chapter?

Still in a hazy state of mind,
she is shattered from the intoxication
of the final night.
Screams a big smile
at an unclaimed despair.

Drip, drip, drip.
Bursting into tears.
Jiving wraithlike
under the midnight blue.
By the sparkling lakes.
In wine-breath but with sober hopes.

Bleeding from seduction.
Where her little soul
got crushed by the
hands of destiny.
Escaping the dreams.
Nightmares of disconnection.

No colors, no words, not the world
could paint those sad, sad eyes.
The gaze of the fire
in red and black.
In pure denial.

The sweet taste of the nectar;
would she ever forget the pleasure?

See through her.
Wrapped in the shower curtain,
covered by the cold rain.
In nudity.

And then the end.

Something just died
in a tragedy

– S
Toronto – February 11, 2012

In Between

In utter darkness,

around it all;

above all times,

the bluebirds are chanting the same old songs.

The dragging days;

the drunken dawns.

I witnessed the race of the alarm clock

with the secret nights;

then begged for nothing but the tricks of the light,

waiting for the red rose to reveal.

I sensed the truth of your lips.



A thousand sips of 1997,

not event the slightest glance,

will turn us back to last December.


The Chateau Harware

Happy first blog post of twelve twelve.

… So tonight we read this brilliant poem, The Chateau Harware, by John Ashbery in our workshop and I thought to share it with my lovely readers, to whom I’ve been unfaithful:

It was always November there. The farms
Were a kind of precinct; a certain control
Had been exercised. The little birds
Used to collect along the fence.
It was the great “as though,” the how the day went,
The excursions of the police
As I pursued my bodily functions, wanting
Neither fire nor water,
Vibrating to the distant pinch
And turning out the way I am, turning out to greet you.

Stay tuned for more (and even more).