Notes trickling from a tenor saxophone, drop by drop

I hardly breath

The keys of the piano tingle
as they run down my spine
 What, where, when........ why?

Oh, the globe... that globalistic, spherable, round blue spot..
Nah,
I think I missed it
- perhaps I'll catch the next ride but for now
I'll just wait.

Here in a side-room next to the universe
where time stands still, Time after Time after Time after Time
and after

  (words written to a Ben Webster recording accompanied by many silences.. sweet and otherwize )

Silence

to be mentally silent..
- driving out polution that encumbers all thought and recollection

can at times be more strenuous than climbing the highest pole with lubricated hands,

but when it finally comes (even for a fleeting moment..) I am almost returnéd.













Perhaps someday I'll know the soothing comfort of watching the sun set next to a loved one in utter silence..

perhaps (even though I no longer believe in "silence" - but perhaps)

 
































He
 (or she)
 who knows the future knows nothing.

Lucro

O “Lucro” é algo que se define consoante os padrões (ética, estética, moralidade e/ou ausência da mesma.. )
de quem o deseja.

Há lucros que pouco ou “nada” são.
Outros que são faces fragmentais da destruição e/ou do empobrecimento do Ser que os cobiça.
Há lucro que é e/ou conduz às coisas da Morte
(“Morte” no seu sentido mais lato e múltiplo)

- e há o outro tipo de lucro.
Aquele lucro que se tem ao ver nascer o dia seguinte, ou, aquele que se recebe ao ir ao encontro do Outro.
Pelo menos para alguns, a vida é uma dádiva, por isso mesmo “lucro”.

Há milhares de tipos de lucro conforme o acto e a vontade por de trás do mesmo.

Agora se é para o “Bem” ou para o “Mal”.. isso já é outra história (parece-me)

where there is a WILL there is a WAY..

Yes - a handful of us in any given place can be rotten to the core..

 will profit from the death of babies and laugh as one’s own mother’s back is broken.. 

but most are not so.

It takes a coward to succumb to Averice, Greed and Fear
(all foods of Hatred and Destruction, that awful couple that fathers “Doom”)

- but the noble heart shall shine through the darkness of those who would do him/her ill or attempt to cheat.

The cheating of the Other into becoming as they, a small worthless empty shell from whence 

no sound escapes nor light for they are “Naught”, 

 where all is but deception;
- is as vile an act as the destruction a few desire to perpetrate for the lucre of “false” gold, 

for a “profit” they hysterically believe thay can take with them..

 to that small black hole they’ll inevitably end up in…

Long life to those whom are free of such flaws that would imprison their Humanity, who are invigorated through the beauty of coming to the rescue of the Other
(and themselves),
- through LOVE.


May they prosper and multiply.

- to all i wish a nice day

From beaches of absolution...

"..das praias de Fukushima - III "
(summer/fall 2011 - G. Almeida, acrylics on canvas)

From beaches of absolution
a horrid stench..

an odour

a protrusive bulge of havoc


Death and misguided Humanity
poisons the air in a thicket-like array
of fumes
more and more impenetrable
with each sorrowful step inconspicuously taken.


Ancient sands that care not
nor notice Man's misgivings,

bleached, broiled and barren
in lachrymose desolation 
sickley they stare back at the face of their maker
in innocence.
(In innocence?)


There they sit upon the living bed  (,)
dead to one's lamentations
simply caressing our soles (souls)
step by step.

- and all the while Petty Theft and Larsony of the heftiest degree
dance upon our graves..

heavily.







.

d'outros..

• A human being is a being who is constantly 'under construction,' but also, in a parallel fashion, always in a state of constant destruction. - José Saramago

"[...] Somos estrangeiros
Onde quer que moremos. [...]

(Ricardo Reis, Poesia, 127, p. 125)"

A piano duet

An Involuntary Redemption

"Kafka - © Guida Almeida "

An Involuntary Redemption

Hope,that solitary mistress...

somehow abandons me, yet the sun doth shine somewhere

even though babies cry under bullets perhaps sold by my treasonous hand.

The air on the other side seems stale.

I dare not open the door for I fear the rumble of rats..

Persistently stalk, spread disease and invade my lost innocence,

they are are no friends of mine.

If they screech out my name I know them not.

Given no heed, at times the battle seems lost forever

by acts treacherous as they are involuntary.

Eyes not withstanding, a heart incapable of grasping a vision's full compass,

The Lord thus eases my pain through an apparent blindness.

Still, in a myriad of fragmental imagery I am brought to my knees torn by tearful doubt.

Redemption of what I know not brings no solace.

and (to the East) I sigh

as I search.. and find but dark thought.

I thus come to you with my candle,

in an involuntary redemption

(To Libya,
to the human desert,
to gun running warlords as they greedily

murder me...
an utter rage of silence
and opposition)

Small Octave

SMALL OCTAVE

The streets are riddled with the salvation of others, 

those whom I know not but they know me.. 

They beckon with messages full of a cold, crisp VOID.. 

But they can not take what they can not find, 

and that is any of either of two things: 

A) my soul - if it existeth not
 B) my soul - if it existeth and thus not being mine to give or to be taken

 - out of reach, unaprehendable, unattainable.

by Maria MFA Costa

Sovereignty

Eremita / Hermit : © Guida Almeida




Now that I've been fully domesticated, 

just like my owners want me to,

back into a deep sleep..

Now that I've been fully domesticated, 

I go where my masters bid me,

to oblivion..

Now that I've been fully domesticated, 

I comply,

I ly down. 

Eremita / Hermit :  © Guida Almeida

The Barn's Memory - G. Almeida, (circa) 1976

Within Light's Shadow

Bathed in darkness one finds doors to freedom

No clutter, no noise caused by Light's distractions.

Myriads of shadows befalling each step whilst pacing trails of Pain's inner depths .

Pain? A necessary remedy for rising to one's fortitude?

Without it one is but an empty sheet tossing in the night's wind.

No weight to one's loss, no frailty.

Without frailties,

to become non-human, monsterous, lacking shadows or scars inflicted through the pain of Light,

rendered unconscious to one's mortal forms,

to be suprahuman?

( No )

I  thank  Flaw and am returnéd..

Uplifted only upon descent.

Past the visible world.

Past pain, oblivion and vulnerability.

Light thriving,

born from all darkened moments.

In the bosom of Light's Shadow to be soothed, annointed, rubbed.

Thenceforth "becoming" from whence one was not,

or perhaps even was within an unconscious yet visible future self.

We are all constant shadows of our own distant light.

Cast almost randomly upon the streets of Time,

full puzzles revealed fragmentally in an order only known to the grand master who is blind to fractions and only sees

[both, each, either or between] - the "whole/hole"

... within Light's Shadow.

( by: M M F A Costa  aka: Guida Almeida)

Superfluous material

Superfluous, no longer needed and more or less as useless as an oxygen tank on a corpse. I slowly lock myself away. Not that ever significant was the presence or worth of labours, or that it matter they be;  (what care the wind of its direction? )  but to feel them useless now means that to someone, at least one, it had almost been meaningful onetime contrary to her (my) beliefs.  I know not if the door will re-open, nor if it matter that it does but I know that it is for the present time usless information: It means as much as the notion of direction does to the wind.  For now, I'll just blow away the thought and return to my foolishness.. and blow bubbles in the breeze.

(Isto há-de passar. Passa sempre, felizmente ou infelizmente, ou parvamente ou ..  hmfff..)

Resonance Liberation

Originally contained within GFA Post - HERE

Resonance - Liberation

I have walked the walk of millions,
those who had fallen and others not.

I've walked the ages, 

counted each imprisoned breath born from ordinal numbers 

and wept at you feet.

These wings on my back are tattered and worn my darling.
Laced,
they hang with the dust of time
hugging my body,
barely visible.

 Looking back,

Conquered, yet "Un-Conquested",

bedded upon endless gardens

taken

mysteries nearly plundered 

and unveiled...

I weep at your feet.

Legion surrounding the lake 

as Aegle slumbering in grief but in numbers,

a multitude of wooded beings,

sleeping, 

I dreamt of you.

Rivers of time try to erase, start anew

yet 

within the steadfast darkness 

of my silence

I have heard your words in Morphic Resonance 

"Come hither.. the world changes. Quick, hurry.."

And from the shores I return,
we
turn 

and arrive at each new angle 

360 degrees... and back.

poem written by Margarida Costa 

(aka: Guida Almeida, Guida Costa, Maria MFA Costa)

Inner Island

of course it is mine...
that island lodged deep within my breast where longing unspoiled, thoughts fathomless and drunk from utterance,
abide

where the constant wedlock between me
...and that which I think I am
sees you

instantly becoming enamoured, transformed,
forever changing to be the same,
multitudinous

I find sustenance,
ultimate liberty and imprisonment,
"Technologies of Punishment"
holding fast to each and every breath parting from lips
now aquamarine from translating Circe's spell..



...