Tag Archives: writing

Dark Healer

Everybody wants a piece of her,
A smile, a glance, a word, a touch.
But in reserve she doesn’t hold that much.
An absence of darkness, transformed by her light,
This is her gift, so precious tonight.

To know her is to love her,
Because we are not all that blessed,
With truly knowing what lies in her chest.
A heart full of gold… a soul surely old?
An innocent luminance… glitters of fairy dust?

Lost on the way to finding oneself,
Pulled piece by piece by claimants of help,
But she is hers, not no-one else’s.
Try to own her and you’re surely senseless.
What are you seeking to hold?

A flickering candle in the darkest of nights,
Has a warmth and a brightness,
But it’s not to be held nor swallowed up,
It is what it is, enjoy it as such.

Don’t try to chain her,
Don’t try to blame her,
She is the light,
Holds off the night,
Eyes are so bright,
Love of my life.

Time melts away,
In the warmth of an embrace,
Epic journeys mere stepping stones,
When your hand finds it’s place
In the palm of a beautiful being.

She’s finding her way,
A new way for a new day,
Her right and her privilege.
Life’s now a game we both lust to play.

Don’t try to chain her,
Don’t try to blame her,
She is the light,
Holds off the night,
Eyes are so bright,
Lost love of my life.

The Love That Time Forgot

Under the twisted, knot-riddled arms of this hundred year old cypress, two young lovers used to convene everyday for lunch, a habitual pastime that lasted about ten years. During this glorious decade they became as much a part of life in the park as the great tree itself. They were in tune with the rhythm of that small, square oasis of green, and when they sat together on the shiny wood panelled bench, enjoying cool relief in the shade from the dazzling sub-tropical sun, it was as if the encroaching noise and hubbub from the undulating streets of Lisbon evaporated. Príncipe Real became their personal garden of Eden where everything was just as it should be.

Ancient Cypress at Principe Real

While Maria knitted blankets and weaved garments for long, hot hours in the co-op at the bottom of the hill, José worked as a pastry chef at a small café on the corner by the park, and each morning he would prepare something new and enticing for their lunch date. José was a gifted baker to say the least, but the food he prepared for Maria was created with an unparalleled level of passion that brought his talent to new heights.

A new masterpiece was conceived at the dawn of each new day – such as folded petals of pastry formed into a natural looking rose as delicate as Maria’s elegant hands, or a saucy filling of candied berries that oozed with gloss once the crisp shell was broken – so many marvels, never to be repeated, a unique art inspired wholly by and dedicated to his one true love and muse, Maria.

On the other hand, Maria thought of her work as a bore, a neverending repetition of the same stitches, the same patterns and the same styles, year in, year out, effortlessly dictated by tradition, something the old donas at the co-op just couldn’t seem to see beyond. She envied the free expression that José could enjoy from his work.

“But Maria”, he would remind, “I still have to bake ten dozen of each and every pastry in the shop, piles and piles of croissants and custard tarts, before I can even practice making something new, which I can only do for you”.

Maria wouldn’t feed his foolishness though, for she too loved him with every fibre of her being, even if he were to become deaf and mute and couldn’t manage to break an egg let alone concoct some intricate work of culinary art. She loved his person, not his performance. “You shouldn’t do it just for me José, you must bake for yourself, simply because it’s your passion”.

In José’s mind though, Maria was the singular catalyst of his artistic expression and as his love for her grew and grew, so did the ferocity with which he applied himself to his baking, expecting more and more from himself until his customers became quite astounded at his unrivalled workmanship, doubtful that one man could produce so much in just a few short hours.

But José had a magic secret that nobody knew, a special talent he had discovered only when he first fell in love with Maria. In a small kitchen at the back of the pastelaria where he worked, he suddenly found that he was able to slow down time, simply by wishing it so, and once he had finished his work in time for the café to open, he could easily whip up a compact triage of sponge cakes, arranged in three tiers and topped with a different flavoured cream and an assortment of exotic fruit, in a matter of mere seconds.

It wasn’t until Maria and José’s ten year anniversary, when they were to meet, as they usually did, under that old cypress at Príncipe Real Garden that time actually ceased to exist for José, but on this occasion without the effect of his mysterious mental influence.

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