Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
sonata for the flute and piano
adding
some slices
of a sunrise tasted with the friends
and a calm sleep on the sand
for the brioche with bilberries
I cut the almonds
I break the nuts
in this August evening
the sky releases the colours- like the agate
on the seashore
at the "Seamagic"
torrents of musical phantasies
against the seediness
the Benedich eggs
excited
a handshake
a dreamy smile
broken peers in white wine
who wouldn't give the marchal stick for a marengo chicken?
when the woodcock’s eyes
start fading away
it is a sign that it can taste quiet
this dusk of the day or life
as ISSA can say
tiny summer rain
a romance in the ice bucket
for later on
between graces and muses
only Seneca’s hen
together with the poetess Kozne Uzawa
it a milk coffee
the autumn is near-
some drops in a caress
may cure the heart
(translated by Margareta Mioc )
Living memories
phantasies of silent desire
winds of golden hope
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