Pieces
By
Susana Lorenzo
Soledad Lorena
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Pieces
Copyright © 2013 by Susana Lorenzo
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Soledad Lorena has been my pseudonym since I was a teenager.
Many people still prefer to call me like that.
Susana Lorenzo is my actual name so you may choose the one you like most. And if you want to read my blogs you can use either of them.
PIECES
According to Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary
piece /piːs/ noun [ C ] PART
1. a part of something
2. in one piece
as a single thing and not divided into smaller pieces
3. come/fall to pieces
to break apart into smaller parts
piece /piːs/ noun [ C ] THING
4. a single object of a particular type
a piece of furniture/clothing/equipment
5. something which has been created by an artist, musician or writer
6. a single thing which forms part of a set
a chess piece
7. a coin with a stated value
Could you swap me a 20p piece for two tens?
come to pieces UK
If something comes to pieces, it has been designed so that it can be divided into smaller parts.
give sb a piece of your mind informal
to speak angrily to someone about something they have done wrong
go/fall to pieces
1. If someone goes/falls to pieces, they become unable to think clearly and control their emotions because of something unpleasant or difficult that they have experienced
2. If an organization or system goes/falls to pieces, it fails
(all) in one piece
not damaged
pick/pull sb/sth to pieces informal
to criticize someone or something severely
piece of ass US offensive
used to refer to a woman as a sexually attractive object
piece of cake informal
something which is very easy to do
take sth to pieces UK
to separate something into smaller parts
We are born in one piece, just a tiny piece in a huge jigsaw-puzzle in the Universe. The way it works out is far beyond our grasp. And we ourselves are doers of our own jigsaw, although the pieces are not always at hand. We have to seek for the missing ones trying to understand very complex shapes.
We can spend our childhood and our youth working on our own jigsaw. Once we are adults, there is a moment when we think we have all the pieces but then we wake up one morning and the jigsaw is gone. Instead, we have a pile of thousand pieces on our table.
Dreams sometimes give us clues of missing pieces though they do not always match the jigsaw we are working on, they may be part of a different one which we have not yet started.
We fall to pieces when the jigsaw is not what we expected.
We are a chess piece and we never see the player’s face.
We are one piece of a kind.
We are a unique piece of art.
Susana
January 2013
Thoughts
It looks like if you grow too much, if you think too much, an army of ghostly bodies will try to empty your heart and mind until no traces are left of the original soul, which lives beyond your shadows.
Afterthoughts
Some people are just compulsive word gamblers.
Story
Once upon a time, I saw a man who looked lonely and empty of true love. I thought he was handsome and I felt that if we met we could love each other.
It was not love at first sight; it was not a shock of energy and seduction. It was just a quiet sense of belonging, the view of his heart across his eyes.
He was not always on my mind but I would pay attention every time I heard his name. I wanted to know about him. He would not see me; he would not realize I was around. May be, I was not beautiful enough for him, then his heart was not worth the effort.
I had the idea that if I kept thinking about him, one day, he would talk to me.
But one day, he moved to another city, very far away. It was said that he went there to meet the woman he loved. I felt sad, not only because he was going to be out of reach, but because I was sure he was not in love and he was meeting the wrong person.
How could I be so sure? How could I expect him to come back sooner or later?
He never caused me sorrow or pain, he does not right now.
Nevertheless I was surprised indeed when I kept hearing about him and I was amazed by my thoughts when he was in town for a while. I felt I had to tell him that he was wasting his time, and I felt disappointed because he could not see me yet. I did not talk to him, neither looked into his eyes.
It's been a long time and now after some months, he is back again.
Work has been the perfect excuse and it has given us the chance to meet and talk.
It seems he has noticed me, he has even asked me out and he has said it would be good to talk and get to know each other better. After we talked on the phone I smiled, I laughed. I told myself: "Hey girl, you did it"; "You were right from the very beginning":
I'm not going out; I'm not talking to him face to face. I'm writing these lines, instead.
I wonder what the trick is.
At this very moment I'm being stupid and I don't trust myself.
No doubt, I'm afraid of being hurt again.
Soledad Lorena / Susana
I know,
one should keep the law of giving
and not care about taking,
but what?
If one has been like endless spring
giving off, giving away…
the most sacred waters,
secrets yet to reveal,
the passion and the courage
the prayers and the path
the steps and the struggle.
If I am not to wish, not even to desire
why have you given me this heart
which longs for human feelings?
I don’t want to be a Saint
holly pain to explain all suffering,
I don’t want to be a name
sacred land to teach to others.
I just want to be myself
and have a living among them.
My wings are already torn
my fire is almost gone,
have mercy God of this soul
and let the angels work out
the fading of my colours.
I have no more to give
I can no longer face the pain.
I still live within these walls
which have memories of roses,
underground waters do flow,
no matter how deeply
my name may sleep.
A bundle of keys
which no longer open doors,
a bunch of dead jasmines
which no longer smell like me…
a ticket to nowhere…
I used to travel so fast
on a train that would never stop,
now the cabins have vanished
and the railway is a memory
that hurts so badly
inside the echo of my wounds.
I missed you so much.
I longed for your kisses
&
nbsp; and cried for your cruelty,
but now that your words
are dancing masquerades
at the door of my grave,
your presence is arctic wind
which does not wake up
forgotten feelings.
I wonder…
where all love has gone,
if pain has become
a silent invader,
turning into stone
even the warmest leaves.
No season, no taint,
just vague memories,
still lie the sands
along the river beds.
In dreams your lips
still kiss my heart.
In daylight mirages fade away,
autumn dries every petal
winter wears off the skin,
an ancient voice mumbles
wandering through emptiness,
hopeless thoughts
endless shadows,
were your name to say the right verse
would my soul find
its own way.
Once in a blue moon
Under the shade of your eyes
my steps soothe the blisters
gained through endless deserts.
Fire burning in your heart
gives warm shelter to winter ghosts
invading gardens for ever gone.
Your name moves like a tide,
once in a blue moon,
the right word, the helpful hand,
your naked sadness,
your windows showing
landscapes from longed lands
which we do not know yet.
I know,
if the trembling silence
would let the water flow,
the mane of your horses
would speak to the wind
and bring me memories
from moments yet to live.
But yours is a different world
and the truth is out of reach.
No matter how wide the ocean is
your eyes always touch my shore
and make me love you in dreams,
thoughts evading your mind’s breath.
There is yet so much to do,
There is yet so much to reach.
But I do know now
They will not come for me.
There is no longing, no waiting,
Just being for the sake of being
No true living
No daring steps.
It’s not the death in the grave
But the one of those
Who are not allowed to be.
An artist
Who can sing my name
With his heart,
Who can touch my skin
With his voice,
Who can reach my soul
With his eyes.
A man
Who can simply hold
My silence with his hand,
Who can find my way
Along his path.
Across the bridge of music
I dreamt I could dance
And wander around
The shape of your heart.
Encrypted poem
Frontier borders
Words unspoken
Unknown languages,
Borderlines which threaten
The governing rules,
And hide in a circle
What comes into square.
Down in the village
Foreigners are guests
And peasants
Become passengers
For adventures to live.
Spices and pleasures
Flowers and illusions
Magicians and hopes;
In the market of life
No coin is needed
Just a little piece
Of naked heart
Showing the paths
Yet to walk.
Up in the castles
Fear makes the deals
And then go the battles
Which destroy simple moments,
Victories which vanish
The shoop shoop sound
Of the exhaling spirit.
Old buried poem (Building the grave)
Without yet opening the door
Without even telling you my names,
Not even after my lips touching your heart,
There is a farewell building
Endless walls of unknown heights.
How can something be over
Without yet starting?
How can it hurt so bad
What it hasn’t been lived?
Faked mirrors,
Mirages to be discovered
Truth not to be said
Eyes not to be opened,
Unveiled masks
Destroyed disguises.
What it takes to make a miracle
Makes it easier to double the bet
And bury the heart
Under hidden thoughts
Deeper where the skin
Does not reach any emotion.
Meanwhile
There is no love but the restless stirring
Of weak emotions surrendering to seduction,
Lonesome roads lead to cliffs and mazes.
You know it is just walking on by life,
You feel it is only a meanwhile affair,
A cut and paste collage pretending a heartbeat.
You accept it is not worth the pain,
Yet the game challenges most sensible words
And a mosaic of appealing tunes
Can turn the voice into a crying river.
Hiding
Hidden tears
Forbidden languages
Unknown dreams
Silent beating
Sleeping poems
For just one minute
This sweet pain reminds me
How love can feel.
If it shouldn’t be
Why the hell
Does it feel so real?
Holding
If you could hold my name
When you breathe,
I would then feel
Safe for a while;
Inspiring poems
Would I write
On the very ocean
Of your magic skin.
Nest
Flowing like a river
From my heart to your eyes
Nesting your head
Deep in my thoughts
Longing for those kisses
You would never dare.
Encrypted thoughts
Muse: 1. Greek Mythology - Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus, each of whom presided over a different art or science.
2. muse
a. A guiding spirit.
b. A source of inspiration.
3. muse A poet.
So then, we never know where words come from, we just write. When we read a poem again, it seems written by some strange living muse outside us, and it hard to remember how we were able to do so.
Today, I've found two poems which I would like to share, part of the process of breaking free, of working with buried source codes.
If I could just
Doodle your name
Without fear,
Like a teen heart
Painting graffiti
On downtown walls.
If I could tell you
How deep my love can be
And how close you were
Of unlocking the crypt.
But sure your shields
Prevent you from daring,
From sharing the sparkle
Which unveils the truth.
Soledad Lorena
Tired of faked mirages
Letter
Dear Santa,
Taking into account previous Xmas, I wonder if my wishes are becoming too difficult for you to make real. Therefore I've considered giving you a 50-day notice so that you have enough time to work on my wishes which are not so ma
ny and are quite simple, by the way.
Shall I start writing my letter now?
I still believe in miracles, then if the end of the world is not coming, it might be a good time for an end of my sorrow.
Please let me know your comments and give me a blink of a star if the Post Office is already open in the North Pole.
Yours,
Sue
The Witch and the Wizard
Not very long ago, a woman came to live in this village. It is said she was a witch, a southern blue witch; but it might be she was a fairy, no one can really tell. She said she had come to heal herself, escaping from some dark pain. She was looking for a quiet place, far away from crowds and quite close to the highlands.
She met many people indeed, she had many jobs, and she loved quite a few men. She had no true lover in town but she always loved deeply giving the best out of herself. She did not like talking about herself, not even about her gifts or talents. She felt well just by making other people feel better but there was a deep sorrow down in her heart for she was always longing for someone to love with.
She met this man who was charming, smart and so intelligent that he could follow her most complicated thought maps. He was not handsome neither ugly, just a common man with no ability to dance or move around the grass. But as soon as she looked into his eyes she could see a tiny hidden wizard living behind his shields. And this wizard was always waving at her, trying to call her attention, trying to seduce the witch living in the river under her skin. So, all of sudden she was just considering the fact that this clumsy man could be handsome indeed; but mainly, she had the feeling that there was a kind of strong connection between them. She knew she had to reach him and she heard all the voices of the universe telling her to find the way to his heart. She was sure she could help him and that sooner or later they might be able to help each other. She knew she could help him break the shell, ignore the shields and find the light hidden in his heart. She felt brave enough to help the wizard break free.
She followed the old woman's advice, she listened to the wolf running with her, she paid attention to her intuition, and she kept the message which her mind could not totally grasp. Writing a poem seemed the best way to tell him what she was seeing, to show him the movie which the universe was playing just in front of her eyes, the eyes of the soul.