Under the Shade


Under the shade of your beauty I am the spy glass seeking for the star. I am a Brazilian frog, hoping you believe that the home I have created is good enough for you to stay, to choose me, to be my mate, to trust me with the only egg you’ll gift the world this time.

Under the shade of your beauty I am the Teddy bear waiting for four o’clock to come, and tiny feet to break away the silence of the room, round hands lifting me high, embracing me tight, soiling me with chocolate and kisses and kindergarten secrets murmured in the night, as you tuck me in by your side and breathe gently over my head.

Under the shade of your beauty I am the sea captain searching for Polaris, on his way to his beloved. Your beauty is my ambers and my hearth and the thumping song of my beating heart, reminding me that under your shade, I walk and live and love. And when there is no shade, I cry out the loneliness of your absence until the joy of your presence makes everything right, once more.

Under the shade of your beauty I am the happy slave, knowing nothing better but this burning adoration. I surrender to your shadow, knowing that you are bright on the other side, not caring about what I can achieve or be away from your sight. I want to be your air and your bed; the food that nourishes you and the water in which you bathe.

I want to be the earth you walk upon and cloud that makes you dream; the creek that quenches your thirst during one of your unexpected adventures, when you come and go and leave and return, again, to me – I, waiting, always awaiting for your replay. For you to see me in the way that gives meaning to my soul and reflects all that I am.

Under the shade of your beauty I shine, like a candle lantern in the night. I am the blood to your heart and the body to your spirit; the home to your family and the meadow to your flower. I only make sense with you, like a blinking firefly, freeing its light under the shade of the beauty of who you are.


Super Moon


I’m waiting for the super moon, the biggest moon, that moon that will stay in my mind for years to come, to light my old eyes when I can, no more, find moons outside my window, for there are no windows, just cinder blocks from the building next door.

I’m waiting for the super moon, in the hope that it won’t be so. That the moon, with her many shades and shapes, secrets and veils, will always be above me, stars hanging in her lobe like a young bride, her light reflected over a silvery creek that sings lullabies to two pigmy goats, four chickens and a dog.

I’m waiting for the super moon to raise a wish upon her light. To see my face in her face, my fate in her circular dance, my future in her inconstant constancy of waxes and wanes, of comings and goodbyes, of cycles that start, grow and die to start again.

I’m waiting for the super moon, to ask her to tell me that I’m not too old -that I will never be old, no the old that equals obsolete, not the old that means buried dreams, watching the grass grow without the joy of dandelions and butterflies and those tiny ants that climb the stalks of broken sticks and blades of grass to see what’s beyond the under growth.

I’m waiting for the super moon to light up my womb and fill me with new life, new goals, new hopes, new joys, new expectations, new games, new falling downs and getting ups, adventure until the end, adventure to the last breath, zest in my blood, flow in my soul, soaring high above in the evening sky, crossing like an eagle the milky sphere, to the second star to the right.


At The War Museum



So many good things to create and all that genius and inventiveness has gone to creating things of war: things of death and pain and destruction. Weapons of mass regrets. Giant metallic animals of empty eyes, gulping the souls of innocent lives, young spirits who started the dance as a game, as a call to be more, to serve, to give, to live adventures dreamed long ago, when Lego tanks and sky rockets produced no blood, and finger guns only killed for a minute or so and dying was actually fun, as hearts were held with tiny hands, and bodies gracefully fell in a dramatic make-believe slow motion, as the “ohs” and the “ahs” escaped plum, pink lips, and breaths went and came so fast in a silent laugh that there was no way you could be really afraid of death.

I’d like to say there was no beauty at the war museum. But there was. As that of those dried roses found in old books now and then. There was the lingering beauty of all those lives, lost to nothing. The lives lost to ideals and hopes. The lives betrayed by whatever, because war is always a betrayal, that only becomes bearable when you paint it pink with songs, and poems, and letters from the field to a wide-eye fiancé waiting at home. Each of those lives was beautiful, in their own way, even in their own madness and fear and hatred and bravery. Each one was cut short too soon, too harshly, like a daisy brought down by an axe. And all those dreams that never came to pass; the children that never were to be born; the Sunday afternoons in the backyard, sipping tea and eating cakes which were never enjoyed again, grant a lingering, sad beauty to each pistol and plane and Russian tank and Nazi cap and Victoria medal and mannequin standing in a fake trench -a stand in for so much pain, hesitation, anger, courage, slavery and liberation, that one wonders how simple plastic can hold so much humanity without exploding into a thousand pieces.

There was grandeur at the war museum, of course. Planes so big that you had to move your head from side to side to see them all. Trucks which resembled train coaches; tanks that were like monsters -leviathans, objects of awe which, had they been white and at sea, could have inspired a story with a one-legged Ishmael obsessively sailing the seas in search of revenge. There were also tears. A friend finding the image of a dead comrade-in-arms exhibited behind a glass. A limping ex-warrior recognizing this and that, what it felt to jump into the air with massive equipment on his back, and the name of the jeep he once drove, and the silly routine of washing his face at night, to smear it with camouflage paint the next day. And yet, he was there. Wrinkle, twisted, half-beaten, but there. Alive where other were not. Walking with wife, child and friends among the ghosts. Becoming the channel of their songs, of their stories, of the lessons they want -need- all of us to know. Voicing the prayer which lighted in all hearts that day, like flames passed from one candle to the next.

Let the war museum become akin to the dinosaur hall of the natural history home. Something from a past, long gone, so lost in history that only a few remains can explain what can never be lived again. A resting place celebrating the extinction of something for which the world has no longer a hunger, need or place.