i am caught
in the throat
of a cloud

will you
drift with me?



i let my hands reach out and speak for me
i let my eyes be the poets of my soul

though when my eyes are shut
my soul does not slumber

there are clamors of the spirit
that can't be expressed
while the eyes allow
the illumination of waking

there are beats of the heart
that can't be realized
while the hands speak
the musings of the mind



he said he saw me in his dreams
and he waited for my reaction
but then looked down in mock-penitence

and oh, really? how curious! i said
because what was i supposed to do
to hide my discomfort at this indiscretion?

should i have stopped and asked
with an affected show of interest
and what was i doing in your dreams?

should i have smiled and accepted
that dreams are but a shooting
of the unconscious rages of the mind?

or should i just have said
and why do you find it so important
to share with me your dreams?

but dreams are unconscious
or is that just an excuse?



memories. they 'happen' at the most unexpected moments, when they are triggered by something: a few bars of music... a string of lyrics... a trail of scent... the taste of mastic... the texture of a pebble between my fingers. when these things happen, memories fall on me... like a warm and gentle shower of rain. they bathe me... like a sensual summer breeze.

this morning: i walked out to my back porch to water my plants. and though the air had the harsh bite of winter, i saw a little red ladybug resting on a lemon tree leaf, taking shelter in the warmth of the plant. a bright red fragile bubble speckled with black dots.

and i remembered... my very first books... as a child... just learning how to read. ladybird books. from which i learned my abc's. a is for apple. b is for book. c is for cat... x is for xylophone. y is for yellow. z is for zebra. and i remembered... graduating from those early books to ladybird nursery rhymes: hey diddle diddle the cat and the fiddle... jack sprat could eat no fat... rub a dub dub. followed by the fairy tale series. which i read. and dreamt. and read. and dreamt: princess and the pea... puss in boots... the frog prince... hansel and grethel. 

so much memory... from an unexpected glance at a small creature. sweet memory. tender thought.

i am grateful for having gone outside to water my plants, this morning.

and i know it's going to be a beautiful day… sun-filled and drenched in the syrup of nostalgia.

there is a brilliant smile on my face that nothing in the world can erase.



in vanishing wisps of winter
in desolate shades of grey
in silent nights at your side
i drift… into private darknesses
that hold me… and speak to me
of things from distant pasts
where once upon a time
you were a stranger to me
and i looked into tomorrow
as i sat alone inside one silent night
inside one desolate shade of grey
in the womb of a dark winter storm
that rattled the darkness inside
and jerked it into light

did you look too?
did you see what i saw?

you were always what was lost
in a swirling mist of grey

close your eyes, i said
and tell me if you see me
do you see me here?

did you see me there?
did you feel me there?
i was trapped inside your heart
hoping you could give me
a body… a soul… to grasp
and you came and stood before me
drenched in midnight blue
disturbing the order of stars and sky
you came and stood
at the base of spiral stairs
that i descended
and you ascended

and we transcended
the darkness of absence

was that us?

was that you
reaching for me
as i reached for you?

are we here, now?

can you hear
my whispers
inside your heart?



last night: as i was writing in my journal. i ran out of space. the pages… ended. and i was left with my pen hanging. my thoughts swinging. my soul in disarray. and i scrambled to get a new journal from the small stack i keep. and when i started to write again, i picked up where i left off… talking to my journal about people, about human emotion, about the darkest secrets that should never be voiced:

… because there is always judgment in people’s minds. we pretend we don’t judge. we pretend understanding… and compassion… and care. but many times, that is not what we truly feel. and the sad part is we don’t even realize it… because we don’t pause to think about what we really feel. we always have another agenda, and that agenda drives everything we do. and even this we vehemently deny.

just how rose-tinted must our world be? sometimes, it’s good to take off those misleading shades and see life in true color. it beats the hell out of the many-hued hues of pink we think we like to see. but, then… truth. what about it? yes… what about it?

i watched, earlier this evening, as a large group of adults, including myself, took a collective gasp at something one man said to another because he felt a “difference” between himself and that man. first… he made a statement. and then… he asked a question. a question that implied a judgment… and a sentence. so the full flow of it was, i am declaring that this is who you are and why is it you’re this way? why can’t you be normal… like me?

normal… he said.
why must we do this to one another?

so i escape… sometimes… to you. something about you feels comfortable… and wholesome… and good. something clean about the parchment beige of your pages… pure and unlined. something elemental and primitive about your leather binding. something cleansing about writing inside you with no end in mind. something truthful and humble and secure. something visceral about extracting untainted thought from my mind… my soul… and delivering it to your pages… your pages that never ask questions… never impose thoughts… but silently… reverently… receive my thoughts stripped of all hues of pink. my thoughts that i should never voice. my judgments that i should never share. because your pages that ruffle with the crispness of freshly-washed linen… hung out to dry in the sun… suffice.

you whisper to me, tell me your darkest thoughts, nevine. feed me your soul.
you promise, i will never breach a confidence.
you promise, i will never scorn… or judge… or ridicule.
and i believe you.
and i give you everything.
i tell without hesitation… because there are things we wish to tell that should never be told.
i tell you.
and you take… without pause.
and i rest… without burden… in breast… or stomach… or mind.



when you fold me
into your heart
and ask me
what’s the matter, princess?
nothing is the matter anymore



this laughter
chimes in the night
like silver spoons
tapping crystal flutes
this laughter
and mine
is laughter

should we hide it?
but… why?

this laughter
these smiles
climax in the dark
this laughter
these smiles
express our joy

may laughter yet ring
in the darkest of hours
may smiles yet sing
in the saddest of hearts



this morning
i stroke my soul with serenity

maybe it is an act of self-delusion
i will think of it as an act of self-preservation

one’s spirit can only coexist with disquiet
for so long