To hold your branches

I used to love the coming

together of us all by the sea

to love you, to celebrate you

and how much you matter to us.

You are old now and can no longer

go to the sea.

You sleep amongst the trees

instead, watching squirrels,

bushy-tailed and quick witted,

play in the evergreen branches.

We still come together though,

under your trees to love you,

to hold your branches and to

celebrate those squirrels

you love so much dancing

all over us to make you

smile.

You don’t have to do it alone

Walking through the dark

basement with all those closed

doors is not something

you have to do on your own.

Yes, you are the one

who has to open the doors

and confront whatever

is lurking inside.

But it is perfectly okay

to have someone walking

next to you, holding your hand

and carrying the flashlight.

Loss

He reached for the light in the window,

you said, and went on his way onwards.

It made you pray, it made you cry,

it made you think onwards.

When it was you turn I felt you

walk through me.

I was sitting by the sea like always,

and there was no emptiness.

You simply walked into the light

onwards where I could still

reach you.

It was your time to reach for the light,

like him that went before you.

Him that you loved,

him that you prayed for.

I cried, of course, but there was no

emptiness.

You didn’t walk away from me,

you walked through me

and the light-tracks you left in me

remained like sparks reminding me

of how much you loved me,

how much you still love me

from somewhere

onwards.

Devastation and beginnings

I skip in your hop-scotch of shadows

one-two-three split

seconds before I fail and

land in the sun where you

cannot find me.

I am not a darkling dodging

dangers like balls of burning

meteors.

I let them set me on fire

arising phoenix-like to the

occasion.

I do not fear the ashes of

dreams, as long as there are no

gilded cages or sugarcane

bars.

We are all born for

destruction and beauty,

devastation and

beginnings.

Self-Love

The way your parents loved you is the way you learn to love yourself. A part of growing up is learning to take care of yourself like your parents took care of you when you were little. Unfortunately not everyone was cared for and loved they way they needed to, and this is often reflected in the way they later take care of and love themselves.

The Darling buds of May

May has been, to be honest, quite a challenging month. A mad world has gone madder, and what we all thought was just a turbulent phase in our history seems to really have turned into the dreaded “New Normal”, where fear, avoidance and suspicion dictate much of our daily behavior towards each other.

It has me worried. Worried about what this will mean for our individual mental health and our world view as well as the collective human psyche. I am worried about how this will reflect in our political decisions and international relations.

But no matter how worried I am, the world goes on, life goes on, following its natural course, and May is the month of blossoming of new life, brighter colors and warmer days (at least in the part of the world where I live).

It is a comfort to see the beauty in new buds and in the greening of leaves and birds returning happily from their winter vacation. It feels so normal. Not “New Normal”, just normal. And that is what I need now.

To see and to feel and to experience life the way I’m used to, the way I know and that makes me feel safe, secure and hopeful. And that is why I am dedicating this post to: “The Darling Buds of May”.

As an Empath

As an Empath I can merge

with any life form,

becoming life itself manifested

in flight, gills, earthlings and heart.

I lose my grip on my individuality and

float on your humming strings,

expand on your wings and dive

into your dark.

I even get lost in conflicting

tones unable to decipher your cadence

from my own.

That is why I need my art.

Art becomes: another you, another life,

my own heart, gills, wings.

I merge with the life form we call

the soul. My soul.

I drown in this depth only to re-emerge

on another surface having become myself

fully, wholly, holy, fulfillingly

myself.

Borrowed History

We borrowed our history,

collaging it together to create

a more appropriate narrative

where the building blocks

were cut from books we read

and movies we watched together.

We pretended to exist on a plane

where we cast no shadows,

existing only in fragments of time

skipping like a dreamscape

from narrative to narrative.