snow

calling out the cacoon once again

a loud silence

except for some distant music

once shared, to be held onto

once again

white storks carrying hope

from west to east

and vice versa

and me

to be remembered

by myself

once again

Marie has gone

Everytime I called her Marie
like her longgone love used to
she laughed and advised me to have a baby
also made me promise to tell her first
when I have someone to marry

now
her vase in the living room, flowerzgone
her smiling face, laughters
countless ditties linger
in the waters of our minds
grandmazgone

Bergamot

dream within a dream
flying delicate images
in an ever-flowing stream
humming birds on the shore
bossa nova scented air
approaching laughters
light clouds wrapped in blue cream
we watch ever-green smiles
of the woods and the fairies

when dreams put reals in sleep
are you the one to give me a hand
to carry the secret, sshhh
I can read your lips
as well as
you see my dreams

stories to sing

they

so much to say
yet so fond of
silence
fragile

like crocus flowers
undersized
but glowing
with some sacred news

a small , skinny boat
loading, off loading
or a dizzy pendulum
ebbs and flows
with burning limits
yet happy lives
leaking laughters
of the skies


http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=things%20in%20life%20dennis%20brown

AN EPIPHANY OR JUST REMEMBERING LIFE

It has been thirty years, at least the part that could be tracked down by our man-made time machines, and life never seized to surprise me, amaze me. Perhaps that’s what polishes my smile every now and then.

In seconds, you can get in touch with a person who you did not even know existed in this world. Do you say ‘random’? Well quantum physicists suggest that there are no objects but relationships. There is no locality, no time. Electron or any elementary particle exists only in relationship to other things. Energetically we are all linked, everything is interconnected. Then, might individuality really be an illusion?

I guess we shape our subjective reality with our own choices, the things we choose to see/experience in life constitute ourselves, our beings. Even the songs I choose to listen now, while writing these, give shape to my mood. Music mashes together with my thoughts and feelings, enters into my material world with harmonized steps, just like a new spring approaching slowly to northern hemisphere and bringing about a fresh medium for our ability to love to nourish again. Although there may be countless souls splashed with the waters of love in winter, the air we breathe getting warmer little by little for sure has great impact on humans in such a way that it stimulates our sub-atomic particles cunningly, shakes them, tickles them, and we choose to fall, to stumble, to wade or just to run towards loving another soul. Afterwards, raising the question “who fired the gun” or “why did we fire that gun” would be meaningless. Past disappointments, supposedly wrong choices would not stop one getting bedazzled by the beauty of a blue-eyed grey cat or a red-eyed white rabbit. This delirium just like that of young horses with happy roars would rise up fluttering and manifest: we are all interconnected!, and cool breezes would play with hair of humans of all shades, all colors who choose to open up their chests to let the spring in. Stolen suns of those with bitter smiles would be brought back. Smiles would be polished by morning dews.

Then we all would have the right to choose what is real and what is not.

I still hear them, some faded laughter from my old springs, some fingerprints all over my spirit. I still remember those who departed at some intersections, who still carry my grace with. Alas, I have got a path to walk on, I have got a reality of my own in the making, and thanks to Lord springs bring along more hope, epiphanic moments and rememberance.

Spring lets love rule

I missed being here..was just taking a break from words, they never wanted to leave me though, were dancing altogether, sometimes noisily sometimes gently and quitely, in my mind...

Yes. Mrs. Spring has showed her face again and I am feeling sleazily romantic these days:) This must be contagious and I am tagging you people, you're it!

Lets listen from Cat Power: Lived in Bars & Where is my love

(I will be here again, soon..)

who is to fire the gun?

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=WHY%20DID%20WE%20FIRE%20THE%20GUN%20WALDECK

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=memories%20WALDECK

A brilliant director: Jim Jarmusch

soundtrack:

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=broken%20flowers



http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=screaming%20jay%20put%20spell%20on%20you

those days

those days we were
ready to be fired,
like blind panthers
chasing their own tales
no one told us actual life
was more fantastic
than any utopia
we did not know
postponed lives were
not to be redeemed either

masses are cruel in nature,
those days they felt safe to us
we were so busy judging everything
and forgot to smile back to flowers
we were so busy saving the planet and
the humanity,
forgot to greet the postman and
water the canary

music music!

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=lady%20in%20the%20lake%20elysian%20fields


http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=someone%20like%20me%20royksopp

like a sin

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=bir%20gunah%20gibi

The Set

no matter what life yours is,
feature, short or documentary,
feels like a few scenes are missing
from your days, right?,
as if someone destroyed
some rolls underhand

feels like you stay at some place
more than required,
you speak longer than the time
your listeners have
for your words

feels like you walk some roads
faster than you should and
take some stairs slower than
you would

dizzy between action
and cut
right?
you feel like having another look
at the script and the crew, right?
well, why not

Emir's Mediterranean Cafe - Part 2

" Wait! Where is Elma?" Emir's eyes scanned the whole place in two seconds. Elma had just finished selecting songs and listing them to play for the afternoon customers, and now was busy helping one of the regular customers who had spilt half a bottle of sparkling water onto his laptop. That guy was an internet addict, couldn't even go to toilet without his mac, he would probably keep it between him and his woman, if he had one, in bed. She noticed the silence in the kitchen and suddenly knew that Emir was there up to something. She rushed to join the others after handing another napkin to the mac-guy and putting on her lipgloss which she always had ready in the right-hand side pocket of her green half apron. By the time she got to the kitchen and took her place next to Calcutta song#4 from her list, Ooo Baby Baby by Smokey Robinson , started to play...

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=smokey%20robinson%20baby%20baby

She's getting itchy feet

I feel like turning into a plant for a while, blue, green doesn't matter, or a cloud, black, white doesn't matter, or just an old book laying in a library quitely, brown, yellow doesn't matter,

I feel like waking up Lewis Carroll and kidnapping him from his grave so that he would put me in a wonderland and show me a caterpillar smoking hookah, apple, mint doesn't matter, or Mark Twain to put me in huckleberry's boat in Mississippi and send me to a distant land, desert , rain forest doesn't matter...

Alpha Beta Gamma

Like a friend said years ago: "If you can't forgive yourself you can't forgive others". Maybe we should add 'life' also in the second part of the statement...you can't forgive life...although it did not do anything to be forgiven. We're well capable of forming accusations. Cursing at life will not do more than putting vicious spells on us, on our feet, fingers, lips, nerves, senses..

I'm missing daisies, bees, fireflies, sea salt, people having picnic, laughters, missing stars and constellations...missing being missed...

I guess missing is as beautiful as having...

http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/search/songs/?query=secret%20chiefs%203%20barakiel

we're all in it

big fish small fish

not so clear who is who
all in the queue, all fall slowly,
everytime the globe shakes,
like delicate snow flakes

Insincere Interactions

taste of ash
smell of something burnt
an almost aching stomach
indigestable smoke and dust
of some aimlessly uttered words
an almost choking pollution

A sticky stain left that is

some exchange of verbal
sort of this and that,
swiftly constructed,
with some so and so,
unintended even undesired filling
in gaps of some time that is
compulsory to share
charging one another excessive pretending

Can frogs unjump
Can we unsay, unstart
or un-bump into each other