Freedom

My painting teacher used to say that the best part about painting is the freedom to tell lies. Each painting is a lie, he would joyfully declare, and where a good lie ends, true art begins. At night I saw the moon, veiled by clouds, rising above a tangled black-of-green. Our tents were swallowed by darkness…

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To my friend

When I miss you, I know a dark warm hole in the center of my chest And rays of me fall back inside Or travel a universe And return. How I miss you, my friend! I miss your laughter, I miss your eyes As we surrender ourselves to the stream of events. But where there…

Nutshell murmur

Occasionally, I am left without words. That is - hundreds of them swirl inside me, connect and reconnect themselves to sentences and inner events that will never be born into this world. But on a surface I call my day - not a single word, nor a fractioned sentence Can profoundly describe this chattering silence.…

The chapter of the Cardinal

One day, when all this ends, and it will one day, for everything ends, I will name it: The chapter of the Cardinal. In a crust of pale indifference its bright feathers were the embodiment of a beating frozen heart. In days to come, a tiny figurine of a red Cardinal will make my spirit…

Equinox

A night and a day did the snow swirl down as wet as the tears of my burdening desires. Equal was light on the threshold of seasons to the soon-to-be-gone dark winterly hours. The children caressed me with morning pure hunger as sun came behind heavy curtains of gray And I searched in the distance…

As children play

The night before the storm, I held the children hands as they fell asleep and looked through the window. One yellow light glowed in the dark. When we moved here, over a year ago, I used to wake up in the middle of the night, still a stranger to time, sit by the kitchen window and…

The day after the snow

It was the day after the snow. Bright blue skies. Fresh dust-like snow rapidly melting as the day advanced. Fluffy snow patches hanged from the twigs, making it all look like a dry and ready to be picked mid-summer cotton field, somewhere in the upper Galilee. The creek stumbled over rocks and ice, rushing away,…

I met you, winter.

I met you, winter, at the end of all seasons. I learned your truthful taste and knew, that all my cold seasons were but sweet colorful patches of Anemone flowers and Cyclamens hiding beneath the mountain rocks. You were real, and I can call you mine, having walked the stormy days and frozen nights of…