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Saturday, November 28, 2020

Lua Cheia

 

De vez em quando, na lua cheia, eu encontro meu lugar no mundo; como se meu GPS estivesse em procura e me encontrasse: meus paralelos precisos, coordenadas, latitude e longitude apontando para agora; e eu sinto que não há nada além de mim.

Eu me sinto como uma árvore ou uma montanha sentiria se pudesse sentir, presente em tempo, lugar e propósito. Eu me pergunto se uma árvore ou montanha se sentiria menos, se desejaria mais, se desejaria, como nós, estar em outro lugar, pra fazer o que pode fazer perfeitamente aqui.



Apesar de todas as analogias que temos para voar, é na quietude desses momentos que me encontro totalmente com os pés no chão, paradoxalmente um com a vastidão de nosso universo.

Voar é buscar a si mesmo descontroladamente, fora de si mesmo.

Um monge sentado quieto em meditação e gratidão não precisa de asas para voar mais longe do que um pássaro de qualquer espécie; nada material pode conectar a vastidão da alma a si mesmo.


O invisível não é apenas essencial, como o Pequeno Príncipe nos ensinou, mas também o único portal para nós mesmos, pois não podemos ser encontrados em outro lugar senão em nós mesmos.

De vez em quando, na lua cheia, não refletimos luz; a luz é a fonte interior, e brilha até que mais uma vez nos esquecemos de ignorar nosso lugar e tempo. Sem nossa luz interior, tudo que nos resta é nossa ascensão social.



                                                    






Elis Regina & Tom Jobim - "Aguas de Março" - 1974

 


Marisa Monte & Paulinho da Viola - " Carinhoso "

 



Friday, November 6, 2020

Now





I dream of today,
today only
and nothing more...

A whisper -
not a sound -
moving the day
and nothing more...

Half-a-thought
I shall tend to,
gratefully,
regardless of a theory forming.

Deep in my heart,
a strange feeling
pervades,
that nothing more,
is nothing more than now,
a single moment
paradoxically eternal.


                                                                         


Monday, September 7, 2020

The Muse


There is always a song to be sung 

and I surround the one on the stage 

crowding him, reminding him 

to sing, to dance, to pretend...


There is always a road 

not crossed by anyone:

speeding trucks, weaving cars 

blocking the golden fortunes 

that are only found on the other side.


I like the fearful, 

the devotees... 

I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile,

as they beg the Lord: for forgiveness,

for inspiration for clemency;

if he listens, if he cares,

if he inspires, 

itʼs well beyond my care. 


Clemency he has none to give, 

for I am, forever inspiring and certain.


There is always a thing or two

that one can daily do to forget;

and as they do, religiously,

time takes them by the hand

and delivers them all to me.


The soulful,

I take away

in majestic strides, 

as the courageous 

I sit beside, 

as they drive their cars 

hundreds of miles an hour

over a cliff, against a tree.


The uninspired 

I arrive late to collect,

in their forever muted state 

they go peacefully, 

in their sleep. 

There will be people there, 

crying. 

I come, collect them and move on. 


As I walk away with them 

I see a building, 

an unfinished fence, a nice garden 

that reminds me of someone. 

Step by step, in my lead shoes, 

I tip toe on the others: 

the passionate, 

the inspired, 

as they put the final touches 

on their latest creations, 

as they begin their opus.


We walk away together 

and I hear their passionate tales

of their unfinished masterpieces: 

a beautiful painting, 

a beautiful score,

a perfect quilt, 

the first typed pages

of a new novel

that would inspire millions.


A late afternoon, 

an early morning stroll,

is always better 

accompanied by someone 

whose time has run out. 


I watch them 

passionately describing 

how grandiose it would have been: 

they are still focused, 

strangely connected, 

eternally unaware, 

forever dreaming, 

and I am the one destined 

to exist only in their stories, 

and the wondrous promises held 

in their unfinished work.                 

On rare occasions, 

I read over their shoulders 

and find absolute beauty, 

and I wait, teary eyed, 

ignoring the clock, 

until the lead marks the paper 

one final time,

one final note: 

the end.


They see me 

and acquiesce; 

I take them away 

into the night 

quietly, 

I know I should feel betrayed 

but genius is rare indeed 

and mediocrity makes me forgotten.



                                                    





Tuesday, September 1, 2020

SELFIE

                        
 










Perhaps you should walk                         
In the woods
The narrow path
No one meets

Only then you will see
that you should let me be
It is you right to be
and my right to be
that will save you and me,
that will set us free.

Somewhere down the path
art will meet death
Mark the words, songs, a sonnet 
and colors on a canvas
adding nothing to the banality of a moment.

Perhaps if you build something:
a house, a hotel, an entire row of Floridian homes
monstrosities,
to the altar of Gods  

A path you encounter death
standing there
Do I see pity in your eyes, miss?
Do you see something I don't see?
Generations and generations
of Shakespeare's
desperately trying to be?

Why are you so cruel,
do you see the broken ones,
can you let them be?
Can you carry them free?

A smile, a hug, a gesture, a gentle nudge
are perhaps the only things that can
link us all.

Our eyes are lost in a virtual space,
thumbs moving from place to place
trying to win: the race, the game, the prize, 
trying to get to the end of the line

Where we feel, where we collect the surreal

A posting here, a “like” there
is enough to fill a day
and for life to fade away.

We look online
for what is here
within you and me

poke a man long enough
and he will join the machine 
and take the path to anyplace
he can feel something
fast, something cheap
something that won’t last

A pastime,
and while we pass the time
life 
pass us by.

A Shangri-la
a digital net
where we can join in the world to profess
we are lonely in this mess:
a smile, a hug, a gesture, a gentle nudge 
on the remote
and men can now be a winner at last

He can thrive

For  $19.95