Flame Writing

Image: pexels.com

Flame Writing

Write.
Write like your fingers are on fire.
Like your brain is a bursting scorching lake.
Like your heart is a blazing kiln, pumping in your chest.

Let it burn.

When all left is a pile of fuming ashes,
blow it all away,
until you find that remaining tiny ember, burning alive.

Blow it.
Blow it and throw it everything you've got,
'til the flames arise once more.

Then you write.
Write like your fingers are on fire...

Morpho

Morpho

Image by Vera Kratochvil

Colours flapping in the sun, it came.
Lightly, as just brought by the wind,
as an idyllic and improbable idea.

It alighted right where the tree bark split
and opened its wings in blossom.

The wind stood still in awe
while bright and beauty tainted life in blue.

Bittersweetly, the creek whispered:
such hues live briefly,
not enough to paint a second december.

And yet, fair creek,
it did.

With beauty and poems,
with tomorrows
bathed in the reminiscences of bright blue wings
in a summer afternoon.

The birth of a poet

The birth of a poet.

Imagem de curiosityneverkilledthewriter.com

 A poet was born in the woods
(otherwise, a poet he wouldn't be).
He cried the shout of the streams,
he wept the twirls of the creeks.

He crawled amongst beasts over leaves,
rose grasping on roots.
Grew under the canopy,
dreamed under stars.

And dared.

To walk on unstepped paths,
to fall in the depths of ravines,
to gaze into where darkness dwells.

He flew with birds
and sang their songs.
He howled with wolves
and told their tales.
He ran with the stampede.

Then left it's trail.

A poet was born in the woods.

The first rain of autumn

The first rain of autumn

The first rain of autumn
in a wet gray monday.
Sadness and beauty compressed in tiny droplets.

So much held inside.

But every season has,
someday, to let go.

So a drop rolls over my window
as monday morning mourns
on the first day of autumn.

20/03/2017

The humming bird

The humming bird

A humming bird came through my open window.
It flew to every corner of the living room
and landed on the back of an old rocking chair.
There, it stood still.
But somehow it looked
impacient
unbalanced
and awkward.
The tiny talons moving nervously, uncertainly.
The keen eyes reflecting my own.
Then suddenly it took flight.
Raised to the ceiling, dived close the carpet
and zigzagged like a spark fled from a bonfire.
And like a dart, it dashed to the door,
blasting through the wood leaving behind no more
than a tiny hole
in the shape of brave wings of unpleasantry.

By the road I walk

By the road I walk

Image by Wallpaperscraft

there's a path nearby
the road I walk.

of the creek I hear the sound
    but 'have no sight.

it's a call that crawls
beneath the woods.
lurking wild, beastly
preying upon
    the road I walk.

there's a path nearby,
beside that creek.
I see no sight
I feel it deep.

beyond the trees it rests
             uneasy.

    Oh, creek beyond the trees!
    Oh, path beneath the leaves!

I keep walking the road I walk.

but I'll always know
there's a path nearby

with no footsteps but fallen leaves
    by branches guided
    by roots sustained
    by a stream followed; just
    by the road I walk.