Hush

There’s more to life than the city. I also enjoy walking through mountains, villages, and I have a special fondness for old stone architecture. Catalunya has monasteries, churches, walls, roads, and prehistoric dolmens, all made of stone. I never tire of it. It’s a beautiful natural material.

This poem was inspired by a visit to the Cistercian monastery of Santes Creus en Poblet. I’ve been there several times and I always enjoy the silence. On this specific visit, however, something about the bars on the windows disturbed me.

 

theway the truth andthelight_pl

 

A window, barred.
 

keepsake_pl

 

Lace made of stone.
 

bridge_pl

 

Rejection of the world.
 

cloister_pl

 

A silent Order lives within.
Their daily walk is curled
around the cloister square.
 

dark domaine_pl

 

Don't bother knocking,
no one comes.
You are not welcome there.

Tattoos

Another poem that started with the glimpse of a leg of a person standing next to me at a stop light. Nothing special, just a tattoo. And that made me think, how sad! Why isn’t a tattoo special? It’s because of the overkill!

If you walk around Barcelona, you will see lots of people with tattoos. Young/ old/ fat/ thin/ male/ female. At the beaches on the Costa Brava, you can probably see more ink on skin than bathing suits! A trip to the Balearic islands isn’t complete unless you come back with a tattoo! For me, the atavistic charm of bodyart disappeared when it became just another form of merchandise, part of the decor of summer beer commercials on TV.

Another Tattoo

The dragon wraps around her leg like Druid art of old. A decision on an island made when she was young and bold.

“Let’s be different!” they all said; so each one did the same. Now time has turned youth’s outré badge to a sagging faded stain.