My Roots Strangely

I belong only to you, my dreams.
I do not belong to my place that left as a child.
I do not belong to my family since it is all dead and gone,
with a few bones scattered in a churchyard long ago and far away,
I do not belong to the place where I grew up,
Beside the river green,
Where it was always fun to be playing in water,
Yet too scary to belong,
For there were rightful inheritors,
More rightful than me.

Nor do I belong to a family which calls me my own,
Though the blood that runs through my veins is hardly theirs,
Nor do I belong to some who call me by a sweet name,
They do not know me at all, am a familiar stranger,
Who nods and smiles and passes them by.

Its only you who know me, my crests and troughs,
My feminine spirit and tenderness,
My occasional clownishness in trying to belong,
To some name, some family, some tribe,
Where I do not belong.

You are where I belong, in the terrible silences
and the all engulfing tenderness that follows,
That is the space where I see myself,
As yours having a name and being
other than all these illusions.

Your Memory

Primitive, strong and wild,
This love flickers and burns,
In your eyes, near my beating heart.

Your name is my treasure,
I would never utter aloud,
And spoil it with too much use.

Your name brings blushes,
Your memory smiles as I walk,
Through the same paths.

Your smile, so innocent and fleeting,
Your face buried in my bosom,
In a season of silence.

Style is the man or is it the woman?

What is the importance of having a simple style in writing? 
A simple style signifies clarity of thought and is easy to understand. Yet every day lots of books are published that are written in an incomprehensible style. 
Do they have a reader in mind? Or are they meant exclusively for experts? 
Do people really know what they are talking about? How can a book alter the way a person thinks if the reader is not all able to understand it? 

Intermittent rain

I wish I could undo that turn in history,
I wish I could tell you how much this story means to me,
Of you being always near me and me being so blind,
Though I was always there,
Always with you in all your ramblings.

I have never called you by your name,
Or never dared to utter your name aloud,
Though this was where my mind ended,
Like a chorus in a song.

Now it’s no more I believe,
But who knows it more than us,
Who have only dreamt and believed
And did nothing else,
But remained silent.

Silence was such a crime,
Against you and me,
And the world of our possibilities, 
And this now extends across,
Not just miles, but ages as well.

Your face

Your face flashes in my mind, my love,
When I try hard day and night to erase
Erase its impression and give me
Freedom from your haunting thoughts
Yet you come back in the rain
And in the bright sunshine
In the soft peach light of the sunset
Your voice, trailing across the miles,
The distance and forgotten times
To find a chink in my coldness
Built strong to keep you out,
Out of my life to keep me free.
Yet I am a slave to your thoughts
And bound than really free.

Spring Song Sung on a Swing

Needs

What do I need from you, my love?
A little understanding for thoughtless words,
A lot of shaking laughter for my clownish deeds,
And absolute peace about old scars, yours and mine, 
The past, where I've known neither cares nor care,
When shook, can stir only poison in the stillness.
So lets only drink love wild from being us,
Let all the ghosts rest in dead silence,
While we rest in wordless bliss.

Sweet Nothings

Look my dearest,
See how the morning wears
The jewels of glittering rain,
See my love, my life,
How your tender eyes
Speaks in tongues myriad,

Singing of the words
Your tender eyes spoke,
Of blazing fires that lit,
Wet rainy mornings,
Eyes opening to delights,
Of you beside me,

Now flying away,
From bustling crowds,
Interfering noises,
Lonely hours,
Finally we have come,
Become, living stories.

Love

I never say I bring you only bouquets of joy,
Yellow flowers of sunshine and love.
Hidden beneath them may be flaws in me
Which may wound you and pierce your heart
Yet with the broken, tattered, torn, scarred flowers , 
Which call my soul, I bring you dreams
From the unknown land, where in the grass,
Little toes will step towards you with delight.

Merry Christmas!