Twelve fifty-nine and sixty seconds

Let's not ruin it
with words.

You look me in the eyes,
It's nothing but a second, it won't hurt.

I'll step inside you for that second,
your secret world won't fall apart,

I won't move a thing,
I promise.

But if eventually your eyes
don't leave mine,

or I fall asleep
inside your rib cage,

how bad can it be
to lose control over ourselves

for one leap second?



(The Paris Observatory announced last week that a leap second will be added to the year 2015, on June the 30th. Read about it here)

Prehistory

Ukrainian researchers announce the unearthing
of a six-thousand-year-old temple the same year
a woman I know looks for a calm site to rise.

197 by 66 feet in size and built mostly of wood and clay,
the building, my friend's body, were destroyed and abandoned
after years of regular occupation, for ambiguous reasons.

Found intact inside the temple, there were numerous animal bones
and pottery fragments received with enthusiasm by the archeological
community. My friend, two ribs spared in sacrifice, has only this poem.

(Photo: Nataliya Burdo and Mykhailo Videiko/Institute of Archaeology NAS of Ukraine, Kyiv)

N.B.:

- Trypillia temple gained the news last October after the publication of this paper. 

- Experts theorize Trypillian society was matriarchal.

- According to statistics, every two minutes, five women are victim of aggression in Brazil

At random

They claimed we were a pest,
therefore we had to be eradicated.

They came in the middle of the night
and stole us from our lives like thieves,

burning down the windows we had flagged,
a path of lights showing the way home.

They brought us close to the flames
We had our wings and eyes scorched.

One hundred fearful blind moths,
we fluttered away at random.

(One hundred schoolgirls have been abducted in Nigeria today. I pray they are returned to their families safely and soon.)

The Eve of War

Not an early bird.
10 a.m. Sunday
I skipped church
for extra hours
in a soothing dream.

Up in five minutes -
shave,
shower
brush my teeth,
repeat after me:

I am not
the man in the mirror.
English breakfast.
Call Dad.
Fresh tulips.

The ground under my feet
has already been painted red.
Buy milk and bandage.
Work the night shift.
Watch Ms. Revolution's sleep.

Get on your bike son

Get on your bike son,
this is a fragile time
to be awake in the city,

Carry back home
your collection of bodies
and bombs,

It's enough frolicking
on the burning streets.
you know what they say

of boys who play with fire.
The future won't be written
in the dark, small hours.

Go get some sleep.

(Shared with the Real Toads)

(I had no idea what to write about until I saw this photo TB took on the inflamed streets of Kiev, 25 people were killed yesterday and I find it awfully sad to imagine how many other lives will be lost until the problem is solved. Because I found TB's title quite sarcastic, I wrote on the same tone, from an authority point of view. The poem doesn't represent my opinion on the actions people in the streets of Ukraine should take. People must hold strong.)