People Who Make Art!

People who make art.

They stop in the middle of the day

to pay attention to the mundane.

It becomes sparks of inspiration:

a scene, a poem, a song, a moment in between.

A soap opera kiss,

a far away memory,

a thought of what could have been

a rhythm

an "unrhymed" heartbeat.

The moving-static view from the window.

A feeling.

A feeling in a messy room.

Ideas of what could be transformed.

Infinite holidays; rolling in bed in a loud summer day.

People who make art

look inside to make the outside as their astonishing minds,

as they stare at the ceiling and listen to that song.

People who make art dive in and shake off the sand of an imagined beach.

90's Music

From here, I see little windows.

lit by Christmas lights, Christmas trees.

Far away, I travel in time with music.

and get lost in right now, looking for sense.

We used to dance till our hair got wet in sweat.

Yell in concerts till we had no more voice.

We used to worry:

how to get in with our fake IDs;

how to go back home at the end of the night.

We were free. from worry. from responsibility. from fulfilling future dreams.

Until the future "arrived" suddenly.

Get up. Go to work. Rush hour.

Office politics. Pray for the weekend.

Behave. Be nice. Be what's expected. Don't be.

Don't say. Stay in the box.

Go to bed. Close your eyes. Be elsewhere.

Anything could happen,

but now is the future.

Do we still have time? to be "us"? even when the alarm goes on;

and the world calls on us to be adults?

Can we still go out in the middle of the night,

with the little windows watching us,

after so many Christmases?

Will the pressure of now explode in the windy rain,

and glitter fall upon us,

in a big dance, outside, like before?

About a Song

A bit like Bossa Nova,

the Brazilian rhythm -

with magic.

A bit like us,

like your eyes

your voice,

poetry in the middle of the night.

A bit like our kisses -

short and infinite.

A bit like all places we've been -

the touch of our hands,

for the first time and always.

Good byes at the station.

A bit like a dream,

so old I thought it had died.

Boats and tends.

Stories, reality.

A swimming pool in the blue.

A bit like your long arms,

reaching out to catch me,

as I fall.

A bit like the skies, watching us.

Several bottles of wine,

dancing in Glasgow,

stealing the sun.

A bit like a garden,

the city lights,

endless mid-weeks.

A bit like our bed -

where we get lost.

I was lost.

A bit like finding each other in the universe.

Words that Don't Exist as Words

She wishes to leave the "desencontro" behind.

And find truth, infinity, intensity and "foreverness."

That their souls meet once and for all,

and recognize each other.

No past, no future -

Just now - in their eyes.

That their secrets, their weaknesses, their regrets

become complicity -

when they communicate through their eyes,

and their words overcome all the barriers of "desencontro."

And their touch becomes the cure to "their hurt" -

when they meet in the velvet night,

and float in the music,

along the stars,

over the ocean,

carrying their dreams,

their faithfulness,

their oneness,

the balance they can only find in one another,

the truth

the "belongness,"

the certainty,

the peace and understanding,

the companionship,

the love.

The "imperfectioness" that makes it real.

The meaning they had been looking for all along -

They find now.

Parallel World

There is a parallel world where dreams survive.

Dear past moments are eternal.

The music never stops.

The sun and the moon shine in paradox.

The heart never stops beating in supreme feelings.

Where we ARE, and find the ones who ARE like us -

Drinking wine in a secret stony garden.

Where smiles are contagious,

and the dance flows

in colours never seen, in lights never seen

to the sound of unheard instruments. 

And poetry is everywhere, touching our souls.

Everywhere But Here

We had wine outside, organic food.

The wind in my hair. Warm and chilly.

I pretended to laugh at his conventional jokes and comments.

While my mind traveled back and forth, everywhere.

Another sip, and another, and another.

He's still talking.

It's ok, I guess. My aloof look.

While people watching.

Imagining vampires among us.

My plate is almost empty.

I don't know what he's saying anymore.

Bankers can be self-absorbed.

Life coincidences steal my thoughts.

And the world seems minuscule.

And we don't know

whether we're living the wrong life.

One that wasn't meant for us.

For what we didn't say 100 years ago.

The talks we were meant to have.

I'm here but I'm not.

Concentrating on the wine.

Organic grapes in a sunny vineyard.

Debris to an enchanted  chateau.

on a sunny day such as today.

And I apologize for being everywhere

except with you.

I love this song.

From 1998. University Campus life.

When you were in High School.

I took surfing lessons in Pacific Beach,

bungee-jumped in L.A.,

went to dorm parties,

Sober. Completely sober.

I even knew how to dance.

I look up, blue skies, half twilight...

You're still talking...

Soap Bubbles of Memories

It's all coming back to me.

The scent of the trees

that warm feeling in the cold -

when I looked around,

and the scenery was a masterpiece - frozen in my mind.

A deaf moment when I can only see us together back then.

But I can't hear anything.

A scene from the past that became silent -

brought to a lonely present dance.

A present cut into pieces

that don't make sense when put together -

with recent pool parties, laughter and tears.

A far away trip, castles, wine, cheese and sunshine.

Friendly strangers killing cockroaches on the street,

a pub nearby.

Floating soap bubbles that steal my heart.

I finally hear your voice in my head - your accent.

Remember that long bus ride in the middle of the night?

My living room so empty right now,

our disgraceful song:

"boom boom boom lets go back to my room..."

How did we go from Pablo Neruda to that?

Or from dreams to reality?

Or from knowing each other the way we used to,

to almost strangers?

From infinite possibilities

to accepting life as it comes?

From being young,

and waking up old one day -

full of half stories -

of what could have been.