Twenty four hours and more;

once again, she stood there

eyes wide and slippery.

Hands on keys

scrolling down

up, down,

DAMN!

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

Seventy seven years ago.
Young and naive.
Thirsty.

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

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

“Two”

was the new beginning.

– S

Toronto – May 15, 2012

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.
Unwelcome.
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

I remember that night.
Crystal clear.
In rage.
Still.

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.

BASTARDS.

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

BANG.

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

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;
fondly;
with big hopes.

– S
Toronto – March 4, 2012

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

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.

Silence.

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

punishment.

Why?

Silence.

I only started to forget

the scratches in your voice,

the structure of your lips,

the smell of your hands.

I now smell betrayal.

Shhh.

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