harmony

I’ve always done too many things at once.

never a careful combination or

specific precision

always tossing this in

or mixing spices for effect:

usually dark chocolate and orange

or cranberries and sugar

crystalline pops of perfection

crusty flaky and creamy macchiato

espresso and chocolate, nestled together

                – a harmony of Venetian morning

long lemon peels and

thin cheese strands

writing, and painting, and penting

and

travelling and

recording

its a messy beauty I love

and a whirl of places people and things

but also

slowed down to a serene look around

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Athens

Akrópoli

 

Glossy signs in gorgeous Greek-blue, elegant white cuts read “ακρόπολη” as we leisurely ascended one of seven hills that encircle the city of Athens. There’s graffiti sprayed onto the same signage posts, boards, ancient ruins and rugged stone walls.

Deriving from Greek, akro meaning high or elevated,

polis meaning city

 

Technically refers to citadels or temples built on a naturally higher elevation compared to surrounding settlements

a temple so complex

so detailed, so fattening of every pillar to hold up a temple strong enough

to honour a goddess 13 ft. high, made of all glory and honour

presided over the city centuries,

eons

imaginations ago

History and myth hang heavy in the mellow winter air as every step up the hill towards the Parthenon is punctuated with a glimpse of a ruin. The ancient agora, sanctuary of Pan, of Dionysius, temple of Athena Nike, amphitheatre seats in a time-stuck drunken stupor, Greek alphabet carved onto marble at entrances, cascading walls of incredible height and strength; –

an abundance of marble that pulls you down in wonder – how did they move these?

the layers of footsteps beneath your own; thousands of years old and where you stand may be the site of numerous unknown wars and numerous unknown slain

As you walk up the stairs to the gate of the temple that was, the temple that isn’t anymore but is

As you step on each historical crevice of ancient marble, the fresh crisp grass under your shoe; careful, not to crush the beautiful bright yellow daisy

and you can see just how it was, how grand and incredible the Athens behind you

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forest (2)

carved

first thing that comes to mind

and out of nowhere;

rolling back dials and

i can climb

leg swung over and pulled closer

moment to breathe and

    its dizzying and hilarious

crazy  and popping   and wild and thrashing

     

like scratching branches

on snow white’s dress

claiming to run in and through

the forest

tripping but not ending    the purpose

really wasn’t when i felt his soft lips

both saw it coming and still

was an accident   wasn’t*

the curling cannoli in our history

the story

 

fleeting as the falling soft sugar,

sugar?

the intent

its important enough to ask right there

why?

and there’s no answer or why or how or if

but it is and

it has been

and it will be.

again.

or not     it makes me smile

and i can

talk about whites and blacks and dulling grays

the parked cars, black guys and yellow toys

continues… for now

or never   it doesn’t matter because

there’s no answer

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story so far

a riddling of colours and flying

geese in unsuspecting Toronto

there’s a horde of walkers with

maimed crooked gait, walking

towards a shelf of madness

a sheath of unwrinkled manila cards

folded twice into

creamy custard yellow of pastel panjabi

resting on this damp, darkened red duvet

— the embarrassment that forces me!

to wash this out with my own hands

out with the damned spots, like Lady Macbeth

but laughing with love and memories

— I can see the outstretched mirror,

where I stand a foot in, a selfie with him

“for us” only and click

that led us here to this picture

this moment, the giant glittering spotlight and

now

Cancún, Mexico 07.29.15

Cancún, Mexico artwork: @creaberto 07.29.15

two black dots

there’s a wild feeling

a painting of those flying horses

streaming, on a warbled water border

unsettling steady thrum of vacuum

racing all the same; —

falling through shaded layers   staying

bright glows of aerial sand

bottomless, engorged & insatiable

a grasp of a prayer timeless and strong

it weeps —

pillowy blue and rose hues stretching

to miles past my suspended window

a gleaming golden sliver and

dulcet tones of mechanic beeps

hand in hand, hewn rough and carved

knuckles in crinkled circles    — I love!

holding imaginary

a physical thought

two black dots

his finger and my lip

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salmon papillote

minted yellow drops

sweet and douce

I was trying to write a poem about

salmon and lemon papillote recipe.

He loves to eat; eat salmon, cod, tuna and shrimp

shrimp risotto

am I in love with him?

there’s 900+ photos in this whatsapp folder

they’re all gobsmacked

haha, yeah that’s a word. it is!

I said go away and he left and i

he left —!

and

that was sad and stupid and unfair

and I

just couldn’t explain the

empty crackle of a blank bluetooth

i love his face

that glistening emerald green

shirt and blue sea

a warmth that radiates

and undulates

through plastic mirror screens;

if I even try —

am i trying? or should i?

he’s my sun, he makes me shine

my sun and not “my son”

— i always think of that

but i can see through the melting gray gloom

i’m laughing at how lame i am

i can see back the first days and

last days i don’t want to see;

there are some surprises i want to save

in a locked up board of my

pinterest

that tiny gray icon on the corner

minty walls & white pillows in

chevron and damask

Processed with VSCOcam

dada

there’s me

I’m here

I can see his smile, rocking in his

convoluted Bahamian chair

the beige hexagons, lacquered, against his

soft skin      pink back pocked

through a thin summer shirt

he’s there

happy and calm     and peaceful, with her

— I love them like that:    together

in love

its beautiful, they’re beautiful and I

can see them,

can see his soft writer’s hands

— way they always were;

i remember how they felt

to hold; when they held mine

and smiled, the years of

pressed,

pen-flattened

fingers of an indoors man

i can see him cross off lines

with other long lines,

lips: incantation

rhythmic recitation of

arabic and

bubbled & flourished

english alphabets in religious

errors and misnomers

— I’m here

a whirl of wintry wind

in early spring: and

i can see the unkempt

earthen mound,

behind, the mossy lime wall

i know its soft and cold

but nothing so soft of his pale

age-soaked arms,

brown sunspots & beloved little dots

I am here and i can feel

hugging his tropical warm chest

i’m here and it smells of home

his indoor sweat and

soft gray hair

I’m here

and I feel

his smile beneath his beard