From the lighthouse tower

from here, on top of the lighthouse tower
I oversee what I thought was the meaning of life:
the importance of neat houses and clean sidewalks,
trees trimmed as not to be too full in leaves because of storms,

the graves with names and loving words forever engraved,
the school and the blond hair of running children, their laughter
and I know the insides of the houses and all that is there,
all the precious books and artifacts, clothes, kittens and puppies

and it all means nothing to the yellow stones of the lighthouse tower
(whose builders died centuries ago), the tower that might
survive the rising sea for a bit longer than the village,
but not really that long

as one day all will be deep under water,
as from up here, the meaning of life does not exist,
as from up here and higher, time is of no matter
and oceans have secrets that we all forgot.

climate change… the lighthouse tower here, by far the highest point on the island, is 52 meters, and when all the ice of Antarctica is melted, the sea level will have risen 70 meters. this island has no chance to survive.

Organic waste

many hours of staring at horizons on paper
and behind you the world takes place
in it’s own pace, you don’t see it,
people die, others get born,
such a jungle at the railroad station
where no one knows anyone

you stand still in the big hall
trying to know all
thinking of it as one big organ
breathing and moving
in the many hours of staring
at the mustard of walls

trains spider themselves out of the centre
you have nothing to write about
and the paper sheets blow over the tracks
empty and filled with your tears
no one hears the last pigeon
dropping dead in the crowd

 

Gallery cat

In the gallery the sleepy alley cat at day
does his rounds at night, a tiger in the grass of masters
sneaks in after hours but no one knows how.

Here he comes to parade in darkness
without setting off the alarm.
Lean are the shadows of his corpulence.

Framed faces on walls
send him messages he understands,
his fur is touched by painted hands.

He leaves at dawn to go elsewhere.
Sometimes you, paying visitor, will hear a sneeze
while no one else but you is there.