poem for my birthday

as i was told to celebrate,
though i am not in a mood to write at all,
and though i sit when writing next to me in many ways
when i feel i have already  moved out  of words,
i am alive, in full.
words are nothing,they move restlessly between us,
and as they are nothing but carry meaning there is inborn
tension of misunderstanding each syllable,
causing tumult, disturbing all the time,
a noise worse than cars hooting
and volleys of shots.
birds do better. or dolphins.

poem for my birthday

i stepped aside
to let you move
and to give me
space, following

the choreography
of life, of freedom,
non-waiting, without
and not without

hope, hope as a
knowing of change.
all moves, all finds
a way, and i know

that i am still blind.
there are buds
everywhere,
they open

where and when
they open,
not when they want
nor when they

do not want.
the flowering
has its own time
as we have it,

and synchronicity
cannot be performed,
either it happens
or it will not.

we have a time
for flowers,
and each one has
a separate time

for death,
for breathing in
and for breathing out
but we are

all one breath.
sometimes we know,
sometimes we don't.
no reflection,

no avoiding,
no keeping from risk,
no construction of self
will change

anything
really important.
maybe love will,
maybe not.

it is better
to give way
even in touch
and to find

a way walking
than to stand
in a corner
and sulk:

we will die.
until then
we are alive.
I am.

spring comes, moon is up

all stirring, moving, growing and
flowing

cause and effect,Shakespeare's Garden

:-)

As the colors swim in circles
And rhythms shimmer through the chandeliers
As the gods send gifts of balance
And things of distance become things of near

As the sky reaches burnout
And the crowds disappear

In the temple I'll be waiting
For my angel to appear

Where did you get your wings my angel
Where did you get that light within your eyes

Where did you get your wings my angel

Push me up towards the sky
As the stars move around me
And shoot towards the edge of time
As the gods send gifts of penance

To relieve the pain of my things of crime

As Lucy touches diamonds
Repeating number nine
In the temple I'll be waiting

For my angel so sublime

And I'm sitting in Shakespeare's garden underneath a tree
Wishing that my missing angel could come back to me
To help me breathe (come on, lets go)s

Radiohead ,True Love Waits (band version)

not..'waiting'...wrong.

apart from this, is hope not a poison?

an expectation which rests heavily on two or four shoulders?

and this song is not about any of this anyway but  about 'begging'....

so? is love a beggar?



not that i don't like it though, just..within limits.

John Tavener , Song of the Angel