The Maiden

Reflections

Sometimes I think of the past and I see myself happy. But let us not hurry: I was also very sad at times. Was I mostly sad, or mostly happy? I think only those truly disappointed with their lives can answer this question. And I am not. So the mystery remains.

Exuberance

I like myself best when I am exuberant – as I think most people do. One tends to be flashy, charismatic, and a magnet to others when they are in the state of exuberance. One feels surrounded by admirers and friends and revels in their jealousy (yes, both are forgivable human flaws); it seems like one will always remain in this state.

Melancholy

It is a sweet thing – melancholy. One chews on it like on a crimson cherry. Hmm…

It can be a sour thing – melancholy. One tries to get rid of it as if it were an annoying fly on one’s plate.

It can be a sad thing – melancholy.

It can be a torturous thing – melancholy. To be trapped in it like a spasmodic fish caught up in a fisherman’s net.

***

Sometimes I think about the time I will die. Maybe then I will be certain I had a sad life. But if, for some reason, I was not disappointed in my life, I would never be able to tell if I was mostly sad or mostly happy. Which leads me to the thought: why cannot one ever be certain that one was mostly happy?

Forlorn in Water

Her eyes, those of the watercolors, beheld his gaze for a brief while,

Her face the shade of alabaster, was sunlit by a red-lipped smile.

“Has she been here, have I seen her, already there in my dreams?” –

He wondered, hearing the whispers of the unsteady blowing winds.

“What is you name?” – she bowed her head ever so slightly –

“Tell me your story, tell me where you’ve been,

Did you decide to stop by flying, on top of those eternal wistful winds?”

“No, but the blowing winds unsteady, have told me you may lay ahead –“

It’s just that what with their fancy, they might have blown away instead.”

“I would have never seen the oceans, that dwell below your lovely brow,

I would have never felt the laughter, that now your wide red lips bestow.”

“Well then,” – she smiled her red-lipped smile, -- “ let’s then together flee,

The winds which carry boredom, the winds of solitude and reverie.

What do you say to that, my one and only blooming tree?”

“To run away together, from all I’ve seen and known? Well, this would be quite awful,

Although it’d feel like Dawn.”

“Would you consider staying, in my world boring, thoughtful, for a while –

“Just hover there for a little, so I could see your lovely smile?”

“Well no,” – she laughed politely, -- “where is the point to that? I thought I’d met salvation, but you’re already dead. Forgive me: I must flee now for someone else instead.”

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The Daffodil

Inclined with so much grace in yellow, it fills the eye in gentle spills,

It smiles through filtered light of light winds, it is the flower daffodil.

Of  hazy cool clouds of the springtime this light and graceful sun foretells,

The promise of the gold of summer, the daffodil calls rains to dwell.

Destructible, crushed by a footstep, the flower disappears in silence,

It cannot spring up through next year, so fragile is the flower’s shyness.

Through spring it lasts and then forever, the summer’s heat destroys its leaves,

The only sign that it was there, are bulbs of roots beneath the trees.

The spring-time’s flower, head inclined, towards the soft brown earth below,

Towards the green of grass just sprouting, foretells a rest from winter’s cold.

It is no wonder then for children, to pick a daffodil or two –

The child is lovely in its sunshine, and it will find there sunshine too.

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The Orange Notebook

Thoughts poured out in ink on paper, in ink so blue and black and red,

This notebook orange told a story, of one life that was seldom read.

The letters blue read times of sorrow, the letters black – a time of dread,

But letters red spoke of times happy, when life seemed like a wonderland.

The lines of read were what was there on the beginning sheets of orange book,

Then lines of blue and black so sadly appeared with a dark cold look.

Sometimes amidst the lines of sorrow appeared lines of blazing red,

They may have come from days so sour, or led for pages red ahead.

They all told stories, poems, essays, of one forgotten single soul,

That all the while lived lives of wonder, a single tail of life bestowed.

A thread of cool and glistening snow, that paved the life of this lone soul,

A thread in blue and black and red, that by no means made that life bad.

At least during the first few pages, when red was all that lay ahead.

When snow was still awaiting future, when snow had not appeared yet.

That was the story of the orange book that told a life never quite read.

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The Instances of Winter

They met in circumstances of winter,

They shared beauty and their hearts,

Their secret was short-lived and tender,

Forever marred by their forbidden love.

He gave her pots of fragrant flowers,

Which she looked after in her home,

They walked in parks and circled lakes,

Their future was already gone.

A day came when amidst the flowers,

The walks in parks and circled lakes,

He bent his head towards her slightly,

And gently asked to kiss her hand.

Why not? She told him in a whisper,

Her palm already in his hand,

He touched her lips with his long finger,

And poured passion in his breath.

She laughed, amused, stroking him gently,

Do you believe in your own kiss?

I do, he said, his brown eyes swimming,

In depths of sorrow that stole bliss.

Do you remember, he asked shyly,

The day that I first saw your face?

Did it not mean to you that maybe,

I could forever love you then?

I don’t remember, she said smiling,

The way I felt for you that time –

I just remember you were beautiful,

With black hair and those shiny eyes.

He turned away, embarrassed, angry,

Too crushed to let his anger show,

He asked her: was there nothing,

That shot a feeling through your soul?

There was no feeling, she said sadly –

Only the joy of being loved,

The flattery of holding onto,

This innocent, young beating heart.

How could you hurt me, he was crying,

In this most cruel, thoughtless way –

When I adored all that touched you,

The ground that led your feet the way.

I’m sorry, she replied so sadly,

Forgive me, please, if so you can –

It’s just that I will never know,

What pots of flowers mean to men.

Release me then, tell me to leave you,

And I’ll forever go in peace;

But order me to stay and I will,

Forever be unable to resist.

I’m sorry, I cannot release you,

The woman said with her sad smile,

I love you – I just can’t fulfill you,

In what you dream I could become.

I will not dream of you tonight.

He sighed, his head hung to the ground,

He kissed her beautiful white hand,

He said: I’ll never stay with one,

Who doesn’t dream of me instead.

And so, proud and offended as he was,

He walked away into the winter landscape,

Her whole world sank, stealing her dreams,

Of loving, pain not creeping in.

  

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The Fire of Brown

A whiplash of a scarlet sparkle ran pouring to the ground,

Her head a-spun with rapid anger, her bare feet in mud.

Ambers of brown foretelling treason beheld her weary head,

She swayed aside, and then – again;  – he caught her fall instead.

Her mind as that of the possessed spun down a rapid hole,

Escape she did not seek for fires in brown had told her all.

And yet, that scarlet sparkle she gave him with both hands,

He knew – it spoke of treason – and yet he loved again.

The fire of the brown and thunder he knew and loved so well –

Thoughts of escape and treason foretold, beheld, but never stayed.

“Lean on my shoulder,” – he said – “and rest your weary head:

The scarlet sparkle speaks of dawns and not of fires instead.”

Of words so simple, words so kind, the fires of amber shied away; -

The whiplash of a scarlet sparkle blushed shyly, like a maiden’s gaze.

She felt the sky, her feet in mud, she felt the soothing rain –

She let her weary hair down, she gave him all her pain.

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Father

As clouds descend a leaden sky, and seagulls hide between their wings,

He walks the sands with bare feet, in solitude and darkness.

The gloomy mornings of his dreams are but a haze in laughter.

He dips a hand into the pastel water, and presses sea-shells to his ear –

The sounds of seas far gone and, after, forever lost and – oh, so near.

He walks the sands with bare feet, and I, with screams: “Don’t cry, don’t cry,”

Follow his steps in blue and yellow, in hopes of purple dawns and sun.

If only I could be a-one, with his lone grey and purple after.

I dip a hand into the pastel water, and press a sea-shell to my ear –

All I can hear are the sounds of laughter, forever gone and – oh, so near.

Beware, they say, of love too strong – it hurts and often goes unjust –

But walks with him along the pastel, in steps of silvery and grey,

In filial love that I so trust, in bondage that withstands the past,

It seems that fish in leaden seas, that live forever in the cold of water,

Will live unlike the silly gulls, that hide from moons and always totter.

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A Photo Come Alive

So slight, her breathing like the light patter of a fairies' feet,

Her silver sparkles swimming in little ponds of black.

After a moment's curiosity her shy smile disappeared

Into the shadow of her mother's black sweater.

It was like she hid in her favorite nest.

How odd it was to hear the beats of her small heart, to feel her human warmth and see her small feet and hands. She looked so breakable.

The thought of touching her was a scary thought -- It was just that I had only touched her in photographs before. And, suddenly, she was transformed into a little creature I could now hold if found the courage to.

What a happy thought.

But it might take a while, I added to that.

She saw me stroking, kissing her mother -- maybe she thought I was more than a stranger? She has never known me before, and how was she to know that I even existed?  It is not a surprise that she had not given me a single thought...

I wish she’d stay a little longer, so that I knew she was a niece to me. So that at times she thought of me.

I still cannot transform those photos, into a tiny creature of emotions,

But I'm on my way -- and that's another happy thought.

It’s just so difficult to touch, someone who's always been a perfect little photo. A child I love so much, and yet, a child I that’s always been as far away as I could reach.

***

I almost wish I'd never seen a photo, of her before we even ever met.

But then again, of course I do not wish that.

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My Little Moments of the Blissful

The little moments of my bliss, these slight and eerie timeless fractions,
Come at unexpected turns and twists, of my moods' tiniest distractions.

I catch them -- like a butterfly they land, into my open, eager hands.
Poised on my finger's tip so lightly, the butterfly is perfect, lovely.
It's just that bliss is thin, what with the butterfly's whimsical whim.

A trifle of a second later, another butterfly lands into my hair.
What is this with these butterflies today, I shake my head in brief dismay?
But I do not dwell on that one thought, for fear I might shake her off.

So stand I there, in the midst of sun, two butterflies at random mine.
I sigh in pleasure with the marvel of their colours,
But worry how destructible they're in their prowess.
And how they brave the tides of winds, on their spotted sonorous wings.

The butterfly poised on my finger, did not for longer moments linger:
Although I'd wished she'd stay for longer, her little flutters made a melody of wonder.
The butterfly entangled in my hair, took in my scent, and left me for a flower.
But that did not cause me the sadness,
One would expect from farewells to gladness.

My little moments of the blissful would come my way again in whispers,
They'd land on top my hair, around my fingers they would flare.
It's funny that these thoughts of bliss, at times are so easy to miss.



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A Rider Needs to Listen to her Horse

This poem is a poem of Love, a love whose love is not enough.

A love that always to all happens, a sheer, useless, subtle madness.

It seems so trite, so old and torn, to write of something that’s so worn.

What but for me it’s just a first, that streaming numbness of no words.

That feel of someone who’s forbidden, to keep away and always hidden—

A horse that sees a gate ahead, and knows the gate was never meant.

A horse that keeps on riding forward, towards that gate that’ll never open.

A horse that sometimes comes to stops and halts, almost about to give up hope.

And then, almost as surely, just to continue cruelly.

Sometimes it stops, sometimes it trots, in hopes the gate is far ahead,

For when it’s at the gate, it’ll know that all the hope’s already gone:

Its hopes will be forever gone, although it never held the one.

Sometimes the horse just wishes, the gate never existed.

To see the fields wide open, the pastures wild and green,

To graze on grass and run the wind.

Isn’t it what all horses do, what they are made for, when they’re true?

Perhaps chasing a gate up a deserted alley, was just being nature’s cruel folly?

Perhaps it’s best that there’s no rider, atop the horse to give him orders?

Orders to find what’s been there, given, to run after a senseless, empty riddle?

Perhaps the rider is, by nature, sadistic, obstinate, and reckless?

Perhaps she doesn’t even know, her poor horse can trip and fall?

And isn’t it so idiotic, that she might die for something useless though hypnotic?

Let us just hope, that she looks for an instant at her horse,

And that that one brief little instance, will make her understand,

That it’s so good for woman, to gently stroke her horse,

Not having her reigns pulling at his nose,

And let him lead the way, to grass and waterfalls.

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The Smell of the Lily

The stream flew gently over, a deep-blue rock where chorals live,

The sun above glowed from a tower, the chorals, they were suns beneath.

The orange and the red of starfish, covered the grains of yellow sand,

A lone fish hid within a crevice, that steamed with algae’s salty scent.

A baby whale lay on the shore, washed by the tides onto the land,

I wondered how it lost its mother, whose hand of murder left him dead.

A lonely seagull caught a fish, the fish so silvery in skies of blue,

So strong and full of life it was,

It was a pleasure looking at its spurts.

So healthy, full, so muscular and true,

The fish was like a vision in the blue.

The white skies shone above its head,

The seagull knew it would be dead.

But did the fish?

You know it’s true, that she had not the faintest clue.

For why else would the fish be writhing,

Fighting for life, secure of winning?

We leave the scene, we leave the actors,

We turn onto the baby-seal,

And our heart clenches with pity,

For this wild beauty, for this kill.

He doesn’t have the hope to live.

And then – we stepped into the shallow water,

We looked down at the deep-blue rock,

Imagined all the life around it,

And smiled with happiness and thought.

And our thought was one:

Life’s beauty was so sweet,

So poignant with the smell,

That lilies caught when left to rot.

                                     

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