Whistle sounds, alarm beeps
Battle drums, my heart beats
Rising sun, crowing ****
It is here, riddle me

Silent bath, floating thoughts
Towel dry, connected dots
Tucked in shirt, shiny shoes
One quick prayer, banished blues

Speeding cars, crowded trains
Changing lights, fast paced lanes
Blaring horns, jamming doors
Quiet rides, bone-face walks

Smell the air, raise your chin
**** in chair, eye on screen
A sip of coffee and you know you'll win
Welcome to Monday, you can get through

She sends her scarf which she wore for a couple of days.
It has her scent.
She sends hers  favorite earrings, You’ll return them when You see each other.
Carefully'll put them back on her ears.
She will send you a book, a tea, favorite comic or a medicine.
Even if she sends money, don’t always make a fuss.
Don’t be difficult.
Burn her a DVD with her favorite movies.
Tuck her in. Cover her feet.
Be thoughtful.
Be strong, also.
Embrace her in the Batmanish way.
She will get a haircut  the way You want it.
And a new haircut will be godlike.
Whisper that to her ear.
And kiss her ear, face, lips, everything.
Get drunk together.
Talk.
Skip breakfast at the Hostel.
She’s  Your breakfast when You kiss her back .
And you're hers  when she says she wants to once again.
She’ll tremble with pleasure, at the end.
Give her your valuable knick-knackery,  your boy's treasures.
Give her your nape and your heart.
Watch her sleep.
Save her poems.
Put them in Your pocket when You go alone for a walk.
Make her smile.
Listen to the beats of her heart.
Make her being happy.
Let her inhale You.
And don’t let her dissolve.
Keep her essence thick.
Inside.

Hypnotic days
hypnotic nights
our bodies have burnt
all clothes
and several lives

we are
as hungry as the world
as old
as young

our bodies
two motionless stones
in a mountain river

Ioana Ieronim, from *The Lens of a Flame

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted ****,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent.
    For as the sun is daily new and old,
    So is my love still telling what is told.

The birds are all a-building,
They say the world’s a-flower,
And still I linger lonely
Within a barren bower.

I weave a web of fancies
Of tears and darkness spun.
How shall I sing of sunlight
Who never saw the sun?

I hear the pipes a-blowing,
But yet I may not dance,
I know that Love is passing,
I cannot catch his glance.

And if his voice should call me
And I with groping dim
Should reach his place of calling
And stretch my arms to him,

The wind would blow between my hands
For Joy that I shall miss,
The rain would fall upon my mouth
That his will never kiss.

I miss the excitement of liquor
The bite before the burn
Before the heat
Echoing up from my core
Like the refrain of a cannon's fire.
I miss the tiny suns in my cheeks
and the need to love and be loved
As the magic swam through my veins.
I miss the thickness of words
The gentle barrier between thought and speech
That made it impossible for me to tell him
That his eyes were like Spanish moss
And he smelled like the Northern wind.

Borderline, borderlands
Of shifting, whipping, changing sands
Around the ankles, grain by grain
You're buried once, then twice again.
The grains are hot, the earth is cold
Your failing stance will never hold
The North wind blows, then South returns
The nights are freezing, Sunshine burns.

A mile forth, and rain will fall
A suffocating summer squall
Another mile, and the snow
Will freeze you solid, keep you cold.