Calling to a moon
Running away on a chariot of green horses.

Judenrein; a love affair.
Ahead and above: deceased.
Sepulchral monument;
And hot afternoon.
Blue cobwebs spin:
Perfection, fecundity.
Green slugs – no broken hard spiral.
I move I move!
No song of rhythm.

Moulding defragmentation.
Time drops- grain and grain.
Robbed of language;
Raw shrieking beings whirl.
Round and round.
Siphon sanity.

Hot lava for leisure.
Insulate.
I touch I touch!
No doors close!
Wings soar:
A sun of harvest,
Sweet on a purple field.

I sing I sing!
Crescendo notes rise.
Harmony collapse.
The woman escaped!
She runs She runs.
Typhoons and insignificant
Beasts whip away.

In my place!
In my place.
Winged siren shuts and opens
Rare blue pearl
And a view wets and mists.
The wind shrieks!
Terra firma,
And an open arm.

I am walking by the shore. Ahead and above me are the seagulls. They fly, they circle beneath the sky. They cry, for they are waiting to greet the sailors returning home. I hear them. I listen. Beside me, a crab ambles along. It is black and its shell is hard. You know how crabs walk? They scramble on their many feet in a sideways manner. So his walk forms a trajectory that moves towards me and beyond, onto the sea. It laps up the waters. The waves push him back onto the sand, and then pull him along to their midst. The sea covers up my feet and the waters wrench away the spaces: between my toes and the sand on my skin.
The sea is with me everyday. I put a shell to my ear and the waves rush and the wind blows. I don’t see the crab any more. Perhaps, it has gone on to another beach; beside many beings of its kind. I see them. From a distance, they look like black spots moving on the sand, playing with the waves. They have a nest somewhere.
I look up at the night sky. I’ve been told he is there.

The bird has landed.
High on a barren tree it sits.
It looks around.
The view, the gaze, of a bird
On a treetop.
It blinks.
Ruffles its feathers.
Looks around.
Blinks again.

A wet and broken strip
On a road of desires
Past the drifting coast
Foreign, with a glow unknown
Where a sage old fire burns
And a father's daughter
Is not the prodigal one
Anymore, she shall not weep.

But she shall not weep
Anymore on a day of brown salt.
The waters will break
And a dervish will whirl
He will call to the cosmos
And a songbird shall sing.

My first blog post!
Finally, after months of hesitation, doubt, dilly-dallying, procrastinating, it has finally risen from the ashes to which it was assigned to be born a phoenix. My little baby, thou shall embrace to your warm breast the creations of thy mothers' strange soul.
The songbird shall sing once again, and the sky shall be an orange and a blue of a morning in March.
To celebrate this moment of rapture, I shall quote Christina Rossetti

"My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot:
My heart is like an apple tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me."