“It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.” 
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

He lays him down so oftentimes
Still thinking of grand paradigms
And look! A rosebush sees him

Its roses blush for it is spring
And naturally start to sing
He, listening to their sweet hymn

The roses speak of love gone by
And revelling, he wonders why
I must be dreaming, o Lord

Such beauty nature brings! Such bliss
The rosebush renders me love’s kiss
A rose to gladden my heart

Soon, when he meets a lovely girl
And butterflies within him whirl
And whole his world is spinning

He’ll climb the holy mount of love
That ecstasy from high above
Be part of his bold winning


Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.
Marie Curie (1867-1934) French Physicist




Audio of the poem you can read as you scroll down


Come, let me just hold you, Fear
You may squeeze me, here here
When you’re sobbing it’s okay
I’m here for you

Life can be hard, I know you know
But look, there in the meadow
For everyone there is a way
Of happiness

Your problems may seem titanic
But I ask you not to panic
His hands can crush all your demons

Sunday Afternoon Dreams

I had some dreams about Christian, my seven year older half brother whom I haven’t seen or heard of in five years or so. In one of these dreams he came into my room with a pamflet in his pocket, one which he had found somewhere.
I braced myself as he had not always been kind to me and I didn’t know what to expect. When I saw that the booklet which he took out of his pocket was called the Strength of the Youth, a pamflet I had prayerfully studied, I wondered if he was going to ridicule me or miraculously express some sincere surprise and respect for this booklet from the Church and why I had become a member.

Then the dream rearranged itself into another one where Chris started talking with me about his artwork. And as we did, I saw his beautiful paintings displayed all over the room.
“Do you ever think about fame, and do you have a plan to sell your artwork sometime soon?”, I asked. I thought he had so much talent and I loved his work.
I didn’t get an answer, but cheekily said, “if not, you might not receive much appreciation, only after your death. Only then you would become famous”.
I did not want to suggest blogging about his artwork or use YouTube because I felt I was not in the position to persuade him.

Also, in one of my dreams this afternoon I saw how Chris loved babies and little children, a love which I had never associated with him before. When a baby came into the gallery shop he would tenderly brush its soft cheek, or hold the baby up before him in admiration and prattle, or when it was a child he would play with it.

I am taken up with these dreams to the point that they make me see my half brother in a different light.

Grateful for a day of rest on which I can relax, take a nap and reflect on the dreams I have had, I leave you with a quote to encourage you to interpret your own dreams.

An uninterpreted dream is like an unopened letter.

Jewish proverb


What is Poetry? Is it a dying
Black ink on amber colored paper?
Or sex at seven pm?

Please, let me know.
I have prayed, immersed myself in meditation,
Sought for answers, writing furiously,
Checked my e-mails, had breakfast,…

My son and I are going to the purple mountain
To listen to the song thrush and the nightingale
And move nearby the dust among the ruins
Like swirling snakes in the yellow sand.

Briskly broom away the clouds
that suffocate the view.
A starry night has stories to fish for,
rains of memories to enter the fire
that wildly sings.

My woolen doll… so long ago… that little man,
My grandma made… when did I outgrow …

Vincent, do you know?
(His picture’s on my bedside table)
Why do you look at me like that?
Boiled egg! Lightbulb! Rhododendron!

I remember sitting as a boy, ‘t was an early Saturday morning,
In the spacious seat of my dad’s white company car,
A bit drowsy, carsick and uncomfortable.
But, I felt honored like a little prince.
He gave me sandwiches and butter cakes.

While managing the wheel he redressed my life.
We sat there side by side rather quietly,
mostly silenced by ourselves.
My papa has never been a talker,
And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But, unlike him, I love poetry.
So, let me softly hand you the poems I’ve made
Like the wind and the creatures that circulate
The pollen of sweet and violated flowers.
Just like that.