Southern Memos, VI - To Be Adaptable

Southern Memos, VI - To Be Adaptable

Her index finger pressed something

dark, with precision, pushing it

gently into the ground

which immediately adjusted it self

to absorb the alien body

with safety and

almost pleasure

one could even think of

mastery within nature's

slowness

much as around ebb

everything felt perfect and dormancy

ruled over

desire

The oval form - metallic blue -

reappeared on the surface, emerging

as a bubble in

water

her index finger

waited

then applying the same

direction and strength

reinforcing her

will

to make the beetle

disappear

from sight

Ideas rolled

unexplored

leaving room for nothing and

I could perfectly see him

cleaning

each drop of water, resting on

the kitchen

sink

again and again

as if a game was

taking place – maybe it was! -

there was a tap

leaking

just above my face -

sweat drops moving

across her fields -

though each single drip

fell on the sink

[ it kept him busy ]

neither the beetle nor

her index finger seemed

frustrated or tired – they both

felt fit for each other

and went on.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, V – Accepting life

Southern Memos, V – Accepting life

There are two sort of people:

the ones were born here and the others

fell in love and stayed

The first are somber, creased

skin and dark eyes, too

The men carry the weight of

seasons through ages of scarcity, believing they

could lower the sun's

trajectory and maybe rise their heads

an instant just enough to watch

Helius curling his hair

Meanwhile

women keep their beauty

in secrecy, not as a matter of shame

but as a sign of distrust only

broken before Selene's veil

The second are blind by the light

or they

wouldn't be in love

Destiny will bring them

together – this is not a question -

and time will sparkle the fuse in their

hearts.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, IV - Taking decisions

Southern Memos, IV - Choices

Somewhere in the hills about

the village, heading south

a rock has been growing every morning

for the past 16 years

developing a sense of direction

a notion

of memory and the will to

make irrelevant but regular

decisions

become refined

actions

With

a pit at the center where one

would expect centuries of wind

deposits ending their vulnerable

existence

this rock cages

an elegant womb – inside

which flowers prepare their

birth

and bloom during dreams

So often I walked through

failing to see how

different

this rock was.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, III – Survival

Southern Memos, III – Survival

“Any love that might exist

here, now

is pure fantasy”

As I was reading her

speech

church bells tolled

and I wasn't sure where

the sound came from – the film

or reality

So I took the camera

and started looking more

carefully, penetrating worlds

in small steps

uncovering possibilities

correcting the spelling in my

thoughts

the angle of my senses

getting familiar with unusual

behaviors – exotic

maybe just detached from

a certain expectation -

which, after all, are a question of

color, keenness of

light and

humidity

“ Are you sure you want to part

forever?”, the voice

went on

There was a long silence

before the room's view was

revealed -

long enough to hear

the shutter button performing

its pragmatic

opening

Then, their bodies came closer

touching, their hands

rubbing between

their legs

tanned from age and always

the sun

burning beyond

bareness

Meanwhile, outside

a noise

of cans and plastic

being raven, made me stand up -

a dog

concentrating on survival.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, I

Southern Memos, I

Night falls

there is no wind, the salt

quiets the body;

as I gather the leftovers

and blow away

the sand between

my fingers

I notice, some grains remain

stubbornly smug -

conversations sticking

to the surface becoming slender

marks in one´s future

There's so much I still must

know!

© 2016, José Coelho

Idea of South

Idea of South

Today, the idea of South rests

near me

like a single-hearted memory

born long before

my time

I wake up to its smell, my ever

lasting lover, teasing me

with purple flowers

on one hand, the size

of the sky

the depth of white walls

on the other

I hasten for a touch

a plumage quivering my wings

as if today

would mean the first -

or the last -

of migrations.

© 2016, José Coelho