Irish eyes

 (Inspired by my husband's)

Irish eyes…, Irish eyes…,

shifting colors, showing sorrows,

misty echoes
where I can see a piece of heavens,

distant oceans, saddened shadows

 playing with the morning light,

 autumn meadows…

What’s your mystery?

Irish eyes,

look at mine,

let’s make hues of happy rainbows.

 ✍Quote of the day
 - "The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious but still a faithful interpreter - in the eye."
   (Charlotte BrontĂ«, “Jane Eyre”
- Poets are damned… but see with the eyes of angels.” 
   (Allen Ginsberg)
- Only in the eyes of love you can find infinity.” 
   (Sorin Cerin, “Wisdom Collection: The Book of Wisdom”)
- “His eyes are so intense I want to look away . . . or never look away, I can’t decide.” 
 (Kasie West, “The Distance between Us”)


Cardenio's hallucination

An homage to Cervantes & Shakespeare in their 400 Anniversary

Two very gentle knights riding on the plains,

pens in their hands, dreaming awake,

facing giants and ghosts while holding the reins,

a crazy pair writing rhymes, stories down,

shining brains under the sun, under the rain,

lusty, jealous, angry, witty, brave,

born to be genius in England and Spain,

heroes in love with ladies, pretty maidens

purely sung in precious sonnets, praised in novels.

Two lunatics, too lovers, twin poets,

fighting with words, lances and swords

in impossible dreams, in dangerous plays.

the long shadow of the giant's widely spread

when the dead bard is to shake his peer’s maimed hand…

the sweet swan drowned in the Avon's bed...

To be or not to be right was to thee

for who’s that unknown Willy without me,

the servant’s king?

Now imagine, guess my quest, see what I see,

hallucinate with me - this man mad for love -

ah!, if you only knew what I know,

- my name's Cardenio -

that these two guys were the same

four hundred years ago...

 ✍Quote of the day
"Cardenio's story, based on a section from Cervantes's masterpiece Don Quixote, is a tragicomedy set in the Spanish mountains, populated by goatherds and shepherds, lovers, madmen and nunneries. Of playwrights known to have been writing for the King's Men in the years 1611–14, only three wrote pastoral tragicomedies: Francis Beaumont, John Fletcher and William Shakespeare."
(Gary Taylor, "How I found Cardenio, Shakespeare's lost play")



Once I was in shape…

Now the rack’s here,
be ready to stretch yourself,
in an expanding and contracting existence,
becoming longer and longer up to the limits
when you used to be a shrinking rubber band,
a slinky, a chewing gum stuck to the ground.

Oh, man, it hurts so much...
up and down between two forces
pulling me in opposite directions,
two poles repelling each other.
I'm a headless centaur living in the desert.

 Ah, that very moment 
when the elastic rubber's cut in two halves
by silver sword
broken up under extreme tension.
The stress makes me shudder.
One half goes back to earth
the other’s looking for its origins
to reach resurrection
Dislocated bones,
limbs torn apart,
my spinal cord’s gone,
spikes penetrating my back.
Hotter and hotter,
but my marrow's intact, how come?

Oh, that pure dove tied to the soil
can’t comprehend so much compression.

An anima covered with dust.
Flesh flexibility,
soul solace,
ashes to ashes,

The ecstasy,
the gravity,
spirit and flesh
condemned to fighting.

In the end, measure for measure,
beauty and the beast dancing in the ring.
Both KO, OK.

The spirit finally flying,
returning to its divine origin
after overcoming deformation.

 Down here I must be adaptable, ductile,
malleable, tolerant, resilient,
an obedient chameleon.

 Share this shearing force,
the hyperelasciticy of imagination.

 Once I was in shape...
 ✍Quote of the day
"The willow which bends to the tempest, often escapes better than the oak which resists it; 
and so in great calamities, it sometimes happens that light and frivolous spirits recover their elasticity 
and presence of mind sooner than those of a loftier character." 
(Albert Schweitzer)



Divine dove kissing the withered rose
see the new sun rising at dawn
for death is dead in eternal Life
man is awakening
with the waning moon

✍Quote of the day
“Never let anything so fill you with sorrow as to make you forget the joy of Christ risen.” 
(Mother Teresa)


God is not dead

Laden silence broken by distant drums. Torch flames, 
hidden faces, pointed heads under my sight.
The world has suddenly stopped to contemplate
an uncertain scene: tortured death passing
under the light of candles. No hisses. Only Jesus. 

The noise of long chains scratches the asphalt.
Dragging bare feet, marching slowly in procession,
they look like phantoms, the Nazarenes.
Smell of penitent wax. Sour faith
manifested in silver lanterns and rosaries. 

Pale body made of the finest wood,
bleeding streaks, Love skilfully carved in grief.
Prisoners carry the throne. Thorn crowned.
A little girl let go of her mum. She offers water 
to a penitent in purple robe carrying his cross. 

Church bells have no clappers in this village.
Whipped backs. Auburn cobblestones.
Ravens over the roofs. The sky tears with thunder.
A compassionate rain heals the wound pains,
but the soul sufferings are much deeper. 

Soaked to the bone by divine grace,
an unbeliever prays, repents of his sins.
Through the hood holes, his eyes have seen the Light.
God is not dead! God is not dead!, he cries.
No response. No voices. It's quiet in the cemeteries.

 ✍Quote of the day
It is to the Cross that the Christian is challenged to follow his Master: no path of redemption can make a detour around it.”