The Painting

I wish to paint magnificent,

convoluted image

of billions of stars inside 

the canopy of rampant sky.

So I could marvel

their light, reflected, gleaming

in ancient town 

where little chapel white still stands.

Inside it I have cried

when you were missing -

my tears heavy, burning 

welled up.

I have no canvas,

nor I have palette.

My brush so rough

is made of wounded words.

Inside the clear

nightly sky

I'm  gently reaching,  

catching stardust with my bare hand.

And then I’m mixing it

with breeze that murmurs, 

and gently is caressing

shy, tall grass.

I use my mind 

to paint enchantments

onto the wings 

of little butterfly.

Tomorrow, 

early in the evening,

my painting 

can be seen by anyone.

But only those will see it 

who are looking, 

for a little magic 

on the gentle moon.

Love and Other Natural Disasters

How one could recognize 

the true, magnificent, one only love, 

that we experience once

only in our life time?

Is such love mighty like the wind 

that gushes trough crowns 

of thousand years old, majestic oaks

to steal their leaves with greedy hands?  

Is it like tsunami, 

born into the violet ocean's belly, 

that crushes with uneven wrath 

with fists of greasy waters on a little yellow island?

Is it the lion's roar 

or is it in the falcons eyes 

that searches for a game to feed 

the hunger of its youth?

Or is it where we would never search it,

somewhere buried inside us, 

deep between the reason of the mind 

and the sub-rational of our weary hearths? 

Is the true love a pearl, 
embellishing a woman's neck 
or could we find it in the smile of 
the mysterious Gioconda?

Or is it a memento -
a spark of light, divine, 
when little baby smiles at butterflies 
that graciously are dancing in the wind...?