High hopes

Up above
far and away
from solid ground,
high hopes
overcome me
making me soar
like a graceful bird
amidst a solemn infinity of blue...

but also -
for all I love and cannot touch
for all I see and will not be
for all I want and mustn't do -


feeling just a little bit sore
too.

Loneliness

People all around.
Indifferent, unknown,
Loving and loved ones,
Like little ducklings,
fighting sweetly
for the breadcrumbs
I've thrown.

I smile and feel a kind of pang
a distant woe, inside.
«How can you be lonely?», you ask.
Just because, who knows?
All that matters is
that instead of wanting them around
I want to run away and hide.


Loneliness
Is such a possessive friend, you know?
She wants the whole of me
at all times
by her side.

Madness

To doubt yourself and others

No more

To an extent

That you accept all that is

And is not

Good and bad

No matter

To never regret or repent.

To treat children, adults

Dogs or trees

In the same detached manner

As if they were dolls, a priest

God himself, or fleas.

To be here or there

As if you were in no place

And also everywhere

Incredibly far and near.

To be sure, to feel safe,

To be absurdly brave

To know no boundaries,

no fear.

To be unaware of the rules

And think of the wise

As fools.

Lightness

Photo by Nuno Pavão

Bright and light

saving the savour of day

when the wind

is just right,

setting a glow of beauty

against the background,

defying the very concept

of a beautiful sight.

Grudge

Yes, I bear a grudge.
It's big. It's huge
and it's making me grind my teeth
as I try to get some sleep
late at night.

No, I'm not all right.
There's a smudge in our lives
A stain on my cloth,
as, for sure,
on those of many - countless - other wives.

True, I am not certain
How much of the mess I created
What part of the fault
is my own.
Still, at night,
when I feel weighed down
by this burden
it is you I envisage
when I inadvertedly frown


as if you were a cruel
little mischievous child
and I
a poor, professional clown.

Worthless words

These are words I put together,
words I could not say.
Words made of my imperfection
like almost visible stuff
I try to protect
from the light of day.

But it is useless
both to hide and to reveal them.

Who the hell reads poetry anyway?