In his eyes – rivers,
of hidden knowledge;
no axioms, two fronts and
the beautiful insanity
that blossoms on his rugged skin.
In his eyes – watered flowers,
for nymphs, for satyrs’ bliss.
No sonnets or rhymes,
just the beautiful vitality
of movement and the soft
touch of his hands.
In her lyrics she knew it was impossible,
but she kept wishing for a different face,
for thinner fingers that can write velvet melodies,
for a greater hand to lead her voice to waves unknown.
The frog was lonely, that she knew,
a somebody who she met only in a song,
so she kept playing for seeds tears have watered
– into fruits –
for a scent that has lifted the spirits of an entire town
– into light –
Anticipation brushes sunflower landscapes
with variations of poisonous sweetness,
and the sand of thought trenscends –
a Stills Song commences.
“So begins the task,” he sings,
and the white dress addresses
a deeper sense with pen and paper,
with the flow of a slow train
and European essence.
I don’t need to wait for the sun,
it has settled in past days of family
and it moves me through scenery
of metal, concrete and green.
Endless thoughts on the page,
and a plan to race the graceful;
time has no place in such space,
and the playlist remains.
[Ramat Gan present]
Now the song is played again in bus stops,
where people check their watches
between chimney-smelling streets,
and I must learn to live without it now
“I must learn to give only part, somehow.”
Softly, an echo from a height he’s never known,
sparkling whispers from a hidden place,
and the tantalizing promise of the sea breeze –
all is inside her angelic voice and she’s invisible.
Only in dream did he find her, and in death
she blinded all senses of earth and water.
Ostensible hope rendered him alive for one last word,
so his siren’s ode will be sung by the watchman –
onto the wind, into the waves, under the skin.
A soul with a strength of titans will overcome all obstacles,
and shadows won’t darken her weary eyes,
for her heavy life led her to love, and love has learned
what beautiful survival can brew.
She’ll keep rowing beneath the sunny sides of Holland,
with modest fruits in weekends & melancholy milked by gods of music.
She’ll watch the wide-opened moon kiss the sea once again,
and chocolate marks will bring her back to brigher times.
His eyes sang a melody of an unfettered bird,
They have flattered her figure no matter what light,
no matter what smile has embraced the lines on her face
– and on that day – besotted, he gazed- a sight through
exhilirated tears – and all senses joined the lingering seconds.
Thick branches of orange juice and the smell of pure summer,
of hands picking sweetness from trees of twilight,
and no colour can ever depict the happiness inside the nostrils.
The isle seemed fresh, and seeds of affection were replanted
so other weeds can grow, and other odours may fill his lungs
with the extinct feeling of adoration – of love transpired.
Through her lenses – a collage of ideals –
pictures depicting false heroes & foes –
and the written word is just one-dimensional,
an ascensional tensional translation of woes.
The eyes get picked up by sepia colors,
they hang on the wall for curious pauses –
and the written word knows no surprises,
no appluase for the causes of old-fashioned laws – and
Music grants the second dimension –
but hers is the effort, hers – image of gold –
hers – the thin beauty in nautre – her tunes –
she hope – she out – her name in the mold –
– she knows – no break – just take –
her pictures, her Scriptures, a trick of a flash
and you’re hers.
And the written word is just one-dimensional