True Love Story

True Love Story

We met each other one drizzly day, end of summer, under a squatted

sun.

It smelled like fresh

relief, due to the rain, patiently nibbling

the ground as if thirsty;

for love

and trust - eyes' trust, mouth's love and maybe

tenderness, hands' tenderness.

Sex came, not

from the flesh but from the soul. The soul

is the inner inhabitant of the flesh and once touched

can irrigate the moon, soak

the desert in verdigris or whatever color

you dream of, believe

and so it happens we believed, blindly, in an endless

hued summer.

By the end of September, the city

dressed in gray water like suits –

tarry streets sunk

under introverted buses, building's frontages

decayed, trees

whimpered in their loneliness, doves..

no doves were ok and people

were getting closed

as old cellars ready for renewal.

I still keep her letters, in a box

she gave me with a small

green dragon – such was her

nickname – inside. The dragon is gone and so is she

diluted with time and tears.

Before breaking apart we agreed

to meet

unconditionally

in a specific date, of the future.

That day will be

tomorrow!

© José Coelho, 2015

A Never Written Letter

Dear Cristina

I just saw you passing by, through the window, fast, faster, the train was speeding up from the underground station and all of a sudden I'm quite sure it was you walking your way to the exit,

your face didn't change, or maybe it did, but the expression it carried, that gaze in your eyes, your hips, balancing as a dance embodying a particular message, in a perspective, unknown, the shoes tapping in that exotic frequency

all that made me realize I could still be holding your hand, next to you, taking the escalator, inhaling the same air, same speed, time, direction, we could be going out for dinner, say that Chinese would do fine – remember how I licked, your chilli fingers chilled out, so sweet. The sky is blue, the night would be starry, we would go out and drink while the music would invite us for a dance.

But this train is sealed, only moves forward and I am inside, holding a ticket in my pocket and your memory pulsating under my shirt. Your phone changed, so I'm betting on your flat, the one with a view, to the river, where the city vanished each time we made love and more.

Hope this letter makes you dream, of us; and believe me, I do!

Eduardo.

Diego

I

Around now

and here there's no princess

Micomicona, no Sancho

either just me and his name's

stuffing

{the humid tedious of modern life, so daunting into a tilt of nothings worthwhile bothering when not flushing it}

How come I

knew Diego's

- news?

was that his real name, his

real postulate of life's conjectures

skipping through unknown

fingers, female

at home

- absent

the scent of

practicing the read

the fingers' read

verbalizing the

frustration

of pages

turning into

scars, yellow

somehow

pee, people, portable

nightmares

brushing the inside

of any

similarities

between him and the personage of Cervantes;

were there?

{yes, both spoke Castilian and drunk stories and surely wine}

II

There was no princess Micomicona alluring his steep nights, no Sancho with two bicycles waiting downstairs, while leaning against the warmth breath of an hot Adis-Abeba junction, falling like a monument to blandness;

there was a woman, though {no cooking}

my friend drunk

all the time even when

busy with his private

Spanish gatherings

indifferent to appearances

moved by one

or more enigmatic causes, passionate with life, at times eccentric, always wearing

a beard and glasses

ready to clash with

would I recognize him in his underwear hanging from his 2nd floor neighbor's balcony, ready for dispatch or rescue in-between a Mondays to Wednesdays Pandora's box love and a rest-of-the-week Amstel integration tour?

I met him through his woman, so he became my friend.

Last time I saw her, Oporto airport, she was walking another guy, kinda of a weird situation, you know. She told me Diego was dead.

{I could hear the uplands blood circulating in the background of his veins coding the years and distance gone by into minutes of tempered silence,

never said}

Expressed sympathy

for Diego, the one, temporary

as sadness and

memory and

love.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Reminds Me Of Love

Reminds me of Love

on Mondays

the shadows of scattered

clouds cast above me and the earth

reminds me of love

as I wait

on Tuesdays

the water engine fills the weekly

depot, strange birds cross the skies and

leave freely

as always it

reminds me of love

on Wednesdays

a dark sun strolls over the

horizon, heavy rain drenches the fields, our

skin gets all wet, the grass grows over 5 inches on

behalf of

and surely it

reminds me of love

on Thursdays

I travel, which means walking,

buses, trains, pollution, diversity, fulfillment

of sources, sharing of, enjoyment, nuisance,

achievements [...]

on Fridays

I enter zeppelin mode and fly

in reconnaissance spouting pine trees, rocks,

vineyards, farms, creeks, orchards

with my morning vibes

I'm home. The week has slithered by

and no sweet love to die

on Saturdays

we make love

the one

born along milky valleys

mad-tempered

imbued in the sweetest

of nectars

the one

rolling down black holes

bursting supernovas

banned from paradise

on Sundays

we rest our love

in newspapers and coffee,

toasts with jam, eggs

and orange juice

This routine

reminds me of love

Is this love?

© 2014, JC

By that old pathway

By that old pathway we went down

into the valley;

much had changed, the dairy was

gone, with it the intense smell of

cows, manure and milk, that thick
white liquid we collected in the

morning, just before d r i n k i n g it

inviting a suit of aromas to fulfill your

brain with all sort of wishes, deep

into the core of your guts,

blackberries and nettles flanked the track moistened in the coolest

splashing water all summer long

The blanket plant was still waving

walls though abandoned, what a

delight squeezing hands inside the

wool like caressing sheep, grass and

feeling secretly safe within a downy

realm under a massive granitic

frenzy of rain

The chapel, one of the many,

glimmering in green, white and gold

stood proudly by the huge plane

trees, resonating hourly bells, clear

as August scorching skies, reaching

the highest peaks, welcomed us on

our descent to the river, the one yet

finding it's way through the same

rocks;

on its margin, a house was being

brought up, so daring! Confronting

nature's bed and divine

casualties with human privates...

Though much was forever changed

we found the same well and we

bathed rejoicing our naked souls in

the fresh summering water, swam

like little painters, jumped off the

cliff, fell for the smell of mint and got

bitten by hairy flies, just like in good

old days, drenched in sun, belief

and mundane love.

© 2014, JC

Love Lashes

Love Lashes

Intrigued by holistic solutions

they would spend hours

revolving brain mechanisms,

gazing at each others' breast

following their narcotic's

blazed rhythm

Cunning slash lingual,

properties that connect when

you're not dyslexic

Up side down

she would stay there, legs bent over

her head

for what seemed

moments of eternity

in agnostic, mysterious

concentration

I watched alone,

couldn't be neither one or other;

options so tricky

My frame, a private God

(isn't that always the case?)

not high above in the sky

but in the realm of nature,

of all mineral stuff that

transcends our creations

and with whom I,

commune

Spirituality:

endowment given to you

genetically?

so I stayed and smiled

dispersing love lashes

in tender melted

sighs.

© 2014, JC

Stuff to know

[good] Stuff to know when you're gone:

life will go on,
love and hate will still booster humanity,
nature and eternity will be there for you,
the laws of the universe will carry its course unchangeably,
poetry of maths will stubbornly keep playing Cupido.