Poetry
Velvet Thunder
Maryline has been writing poems over the recent past years. She believes that poetry is an art to not lose. Writing words together and creating stanzas feels close to performing a dance that each reader can interpret differently, similarly to admiring paintings.
The pandemic has been a time of self-introspection and allowed her to dig deep into her soul.
Provisional Book CoverGrief is a companion
On days like that, I wonder
how the last breath feels
—inside—
In this big orchestra, some call Life,
I wonder even more
if preludes, our days in between,
promise more substantial hours
—later—
Long frail fingers plays the notes
on one old piano’s keys,
a fugue,
where voices flee,
chasing each other in an intricate dance.
Grief is a companion.
It strips you from loved ones
in Death,
but sometimes also in Life
Darkness spills in the daylight,
no sorrows are the same
—ever—
and for those dispirited,
hatched too soon or too late,
for lack of heat
Know that . . .
Grief is a companion.
Histoire d’Amour
Mother Earth knows
unfeasible
love stories
by heart
So i sat by the river
and i listened . . .
Drawn by your depths
i travelled the distance
to witness
the ondulation of your moves,
nudging each stone further
like a breast gently brushed.
River-beds too often long
for rains that never fall
or snow that never melts,
till it happens again
—a rush—
a natural flow guided to lowest points, almost hiding
behind
this promise of Eternity
At first glance i met
with my reflection
but it was you underneath,
the teacher,
in all its splendor
dwelling in the abyss
of its own core.
No secrets are the same
and yet as you flow across the land you nurture all living things you come across
—a natural gesture—
unconditionally given
softly.
You’re the teacher
You’re the lover
You’re the master
You’re the compass
You’re the giver
You’re everything
and nothing,
always moving away.
At the sound of your lips
tiptoeing toward me
I turned my head
and you reached
with your hand
that I can fall in,
inviting me to sink in.
No obstacle is too big
or too strong
for you;
this journey never ends
and stories flourish at your touch,
reflecting the truth,
calm and undisturbed,
of love not yet lived.
Insipid
There’s a taste in her mouth
lingering around;
It could be a cloud
never full enough
to cry some rain
I imagine that the buds
of her tongue have ceased
to read flavors
the way encrusted diamonds
have renounced
to shine . . .
she lets the breeze
enters
her mouth
to revive a touching moment
of nonchalance
while the wind, an old friend,
she encounters
through the seasons
of her life,
rips her skin into shreds
to never lose her
completely.
He knows much
more than most
about the madness
of such existence
—a scene—
lost in the horizon
melting in the dust
and rising through the sky.
There’s no time for anything,
dawn and dusk are chimeras
and the in-betweens
mere
lost and found
SENSES’ DANCE
We are multitudes
If only we had eyes to see
beyond the surface
of an ocean too wide
to hold all our sorrows
encrusted in the depth of the sea
We are multitudes
If only we had hearts to beat
at the rhythm of our feelings,
raw and fragile—often untouched,
invisible particles floating
We are multitudes
If only we had mouths to speak
the Truth of our buried dreams
lingering in an open soil
where Deaths and Births await
We are multitudes
If only we had ears to sense
the music of the Wild calling
for us to pause
long enough to become part of this dance
Just Because
It’s not your death anniversary
nor your birth day in Heaven.
I share your Presence
when I miss It the most.
The hole in my heart
is bigger and deeper
than the Grand Canyon
I know you’re near though.
Yesterday I found
a black feather;
I love that you care
from afar
I can’t hear you
the way I wished
I could—
Whispering in my ear
sweet loving words;
Feeling your embrace
until it cuts my breath
Those black and white photos take me back in time
where we had each other
where the promise of Love
could be lived.
I think you look like James Dean here—
In your own way.
Salt … PEPPER … BLOND(E) …
Jesus is laughing in his little corner of Paradise
when He hears voices of men and women
fighting over
the complexion of his skin.
Just look at the sole of my feet —he said—
his words bouncing from one cloud to the next
—they are no color;
because this skin never comes into contact with light.
So, what’s the fuss?
Melanin is not in my palms or your palms.
Melanin is not in the sole of my feet or your feet.
Close your eyes and see all the steps you took
and where your feet have been.
Make a fist with your hands and feel all that your hands have touched.
I walked on the surface of the Sea of Galilée to test Peter’s Faith.
The fierce wind, the breath of God left him doubtful —and—he hesitated.
I can save you from the storms if you believe in me, not because I’m the color of salt or pepper.
It’s only a perception of your own importance.
The hues of your humility have far more preeminence.
Look at the Sky and how the Moon and the Sun share the day and the night—they yield to one another—
day after day,
night after night.
We have no excuses—none.
Nature has shown us every day,
from the beginning of time
a multitude of colors, shapes, and textures.
They blend with no prestance, enhancing
the beauty of their neighbors
that love prevails.
I watch you all coloring my hair blond, hazelnut or pitch black
and I laugh even more.
I murmur ‘salt, pepper, blond’
and I rejoice at the sight of my multitudes.
RED LIPSTICK
I turn my head
for just a glimpse
of her
and her lipstick
I wonder
who will lose his gaze
in her timid eyes
after dusk.
Will her lips leave red lines,
like vermillion imprints
on a French red wine glass
or will the pavement tremble
under the walk of her high heels?
She-is-herself—just older
than yesterday;
just bolder—than tomorrow
Old days are gone;
what else is left
beside running away
from what she knew?
a mirror holding lost memories.
I lay there in bed and stare
at her grace and feminine ways
frozen in time . . .
. . . like a statue wanting a kiss
UNTIL THAT DAY
Until that day. . .
when . . .
the World stopped
to touch, to hug, to kiss
I did not know—
Until that day
. . . when . . .
my Dog and I met for
the first-time face to face
I did not know—
Until that day
. . . when . . .
we felt our aloneness
whispering new silences
I did not know—
Until that day
. . . when . . .
a paw became a hand,
a hand became a paw
I did not know
I did not know the depth
I did not know the force
I did not know the vastness,
the amplitude, the magnitude,
the immensity of love and tenderness
my Dog had for me;
until that day.
LOST BRIDGES
Somewhere there must be bridges
away from walls that weigh
us down;
minds cluttered in silenced chats
hinder our breaths from shallow weeps
Some lives are being lived
in between waves
inside moments
caving in
under the strain.
Ancient riddles get solved
to save old stories from being lost.
Perhaps we live
to see
the lost and found of our inheritance.
Unending times in search of open doors
wonder if love secretly holds the key;
we seek you, invisible ones,
for your light—our only hope
Fragile existence
Hold your breath
God is nearby—
a tower in the Sky
with no rooftops to reach
He made you for He’s
A Sculptor.
Contours and lines,
fullness and voids,
He pierced the stone
one beat—one by one
A touch; irreplicable
If at times, in between sobs
land a hand
familiar to my pores
so seldom nudged,
let me believe that I exist;
At the sound of your touch
my Soul returns
to your makings and your presence
like a shadow—
just as it is
DENUDE A ROSE ONE PETAL AT A TIME
Once in summer’s end
a rose garden held
just one rose:
a bud, afraid to bloom
In her anguish to be seen,
petals froze—
afraid of breaking
Can she die before
she lived?
God knows well of ashes’ death
how from dust
life shall return
At the touch of one love
petals tremble and beg
—This hand—
to listen to the Wind;
it stopped shivering,
living no trace
Invisible words never spoken
escaped sealed mouths
full of secrets
There’s a distance
an ocean’s length
silent by years of blinded Sun
How many roses
one hand can hold?
Only one or perhaps
two or three;
but thorns have no mercy
even in dreams they bleed—
Denude a rose one petal at a time.