Monsoon, my son, whom do you weep for?

You know I’m happy, don’t you, where I am?

You breathe out gusts of wind so wild and lethal,

They scream that you remember who I am


I am the tree that stands alone inside your anger

A ghostly shape inside your ghastly storm

I am the river flowing through the mountains

Your clouds can’t reach – a kingdom of my own


I am a peasant in the field and god of nature

I am in every thing you water with your rains

I’m happy and I’m proud that you weep for me

It tells me you remember who I am

The Hangman Game

Is this, today – tomorrow?

Or just another day of yesterday?

My coffee smells no different,

The cloud outside is not a different shade of gray


It hasn’t moved, it hasn’t changed

As if someone played hangman in the sky

And left the puzzle hanging, partly solved,

Giving me food for thought and an excuse to cry


I cannot feel I’m growing older

The numbing high of similarities again invades my veins,

Convincing me that I’ll exist like this forever

And I believe, and I don’t care – and it is all the same


Can I make this, today – into tomorrow?

And not another version of a thousand days I’ve known

If I endeavour to resolve the hangman’s puzzle

Will I escape his heavy cloud that wouldn’t let me grow?

The Ship in the Distance

Are you the mirror image of me?

Or a just a rusty ship lost at sea?

Do you follow the horizon around

The globe, like me, for nowhere bound?

Do you still remember the feel

Of shallow water under your heavy keel?

Or have you left your past at the port,

Wanting nothing, fearing no one and naught?

What are you  hiding under your decks?

Is it gold? Oil? Voices of the ghosts of dead wrecks?

Will your secrets, like those I keep,

Scream inside you while you drown in the deep?

Stages of Grief

Was that truly the last that

I’d see of you?

Was your last smile

That smile that I forgot?


Was your last word that one

I can’t remember?

Was your last gift to me

That something that I lost?


Is this a joke, this box

In which they put you?

Is your heart

Teasing me? It doesn’t beat!


This has to be a dream,

With dreamers mourning,

Saying good-bye…

You never said good-bye to me!


Please, wake me up! I do not

Want to dream this!

All that I see here

Looks like empty shells and toys


You must come back – I live

To see you smiling,

You must because

I breathe to hear you voice


You won’t. I’ve seen the last of me

This morning:

Laughed my last laugh,

Said all I’ll ever have to say


I cannot go with you, it’s not

My time yet;

Good I don’t have to

Stay alive – all I can do is stay

Matadora (The Bullfighter)

The afternoon sun, the thirsty gray sand
The bullring is ready, it’s time to begin
My suit’s made of fire, my sword’s made of steel
I’m fearless, I’m heartless, I know how to kill

I soak in applause and thick smoke from cigars
As the giant I’m fighting obeys my commands
My silky muleta* hovers over its wounds
I bare my estoque**, and we both know we’re doomed

We both lower our necks and prepare for the blow
As we aim at each other; it will miss, but I won’t
In a second – one movement of my merciless hand
It’s aorta is cut and my conscience is dead

My pray rests at my feet while I look in its eyes:
It’s not often one sees how their human heart dies
Black and gold, it and me, we’ve both paid our price
For this fight with no winners which so resembles life

When my suit is peeled off, my estoque washed clean
I will look in the mirror at the scars from my ‘win’
They don’t bleed anymore; they’re as soft as the dusk,
Which won’t pour its warm light into my bullfighter’s arms

They are covered in blood which I couldn’t wash off
I am one blow too late – that cannot be undone
Thus, tomorrow once more I will cross the same ring
To be where I belong – where I kill, where I’m killed

* a muleta is a piece of red fabric used by the bullfighter to attract and keep the bull’s attention

** an estoque is a sword