Open Me

You open me –

Like the unfolding petals

of a Georgia O’Keeffe flower

at the New York Met.

You open me –

like a lace curtain

untied

in a Bruges home.

You open me –

like an origami butterfly

taking flight

in Narita.

You open me –

like the No. 12 tram

snaking through

The curves of a Lisbon street.

 24^th February 2011

Only the Poets

Lisbon is littered with livraria.

Through an alley

under an arch

over cobblestones

I find a Portuguese bookshop.

I ask the nice young man,

“Do you have Portuguese authors in English?”

He answers,

“No authors, only the Poets”.

25^th February 2011

Lisbon’s medieval post modernism

A blood perfect warm sun 

and smooth caressing breeze

rustle the leaves

of the olive and cumquat trees in white cylindrical pots.

The Black sofas under the Lisbon sun

are body warm.

White tables and chairs,

white rectangular tin side tables

and a double shot expresso.

Portuguese ambient pop wafts out through

this outdoor cafe on the expansive flat concrete.

Looking out from this high vantage

to iridescent sparkling waters

and jagged, jumbled dwellings

which are impossibly perched and sandwiched in the hilly terrain

painted greens and clashing but surprisingly pleasing with

the pinks, mustards, siennas and terracottas.

The seabirds are calling to the sound of

the No. 12 tram rattling up and down the alleys of Lisbon,

and to the sounds of kind construction noises

making music with teenagers on excursion laughing.

Modernist and Post-modernist sounds

contrast with medieval bells,

as the Bell tolls 11.

 25^th February 2011