Boomerang

writing a poem is very easy when you let it come to you, and you open the little door to that "room of changes", somewhere between the mind and the heart,
a word , a sentence or even a moment from a dream would not go away,
till i spend time to solve the puzzel put to me, - structure and rithme, the right words to a certain feeling, and then, very often the surprise towards
the end, something totaly unforeseen which comes out of nowhere, as
if to say, "you see now why all this needed to happen"?
needless to say, lots of it landed in the bin, - what i was left with, the little that stayed, needed getting used to, it often took time to understand what
my unconscious was trying to tell me...
yet with some very few things this would not work.
that is what happened with one small "set of words" written some years
ago, - i could'nt find one reason to why this came-up when it did...
sometime ago that little poem came back, boomeranging like a stone off
David's sling and strait to my heart...
unbeliveable as it sounds, poetry can be a dangerous thing sometimes.
should we believe in magic?
Federico Garcia Lorca did, and he forsaw things that happened...
i would'nt go too far with it. the advanture to me is not knowing what is
to come.


Neon

Pink hotel, angels sleep, dog looks for a tree,
man leaps out of window, hovers like a bee -
the air is dense with rain and it takes almost
one minute befor he hits the sidewalk - they
never told me his blood was blue, yet he is
royalty to me - for it's him who dared, not me.

by Nomi Ben-David