(Looking for perfection)

From sharp to blunt and finally ring shaped,
the square’s trying to kill its angles
to be round,
aaah...that human wish of the perfect circumference
embracing the divine circle.
So smooth, so flawless. Endless.
The hard rule fighting the precise compass, 
four angels pushing the corners.

The mystery of the triangle
both the farthest and nearest the right curvature. 
The egg expanding the body surface,
the virginal arc, the holy sphere,
her womb exploding with new life,
hit, deadly hurt by an icicle.

Oh, Lord, fill me up with your grace,
blow your breath into my soul,
make me your temple.

You shall be light to ascend.
An empty hole.”

...but evil keeps on challenging me 
to ride a quadrangle-wheeled bicycle 

 ✍Quote of the day
 "The world can no more have two summits than a circumference can have two centres."
(Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)


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)