poem and photo (Great Mosque, Cordoba, Spain) - © Jesús Montero
And here I am.
In this miserable void,
Sunk in the quick sands
Of this hour.
The pulse of this city
Feeding my soul no more.
Charmed by the dialogue of her past,
Burdened by the fastidious monologue of her present.
And here I am.
Like a stranded Conquistador
Waiting for new conquests.
poem and photo (Great Mosque, Cordoba, Spain) - © Jesús Montero
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GROUND ZERO + 4
London greets me
With an immaculate
White blanket of hope.
White.
White,
Like a blank canvas.
Her streets,
Inviting
Like the unread chapter
Of a favourite book.
London greets me
With the merry tickle
Of snow flakes
On my face.
Unexpected,
Refreshing,
Sudden.
London greets me
With the pleasant
Air of a new dawn.
poem and photo - © Jesús Montero
I, like a flower, start to wither.
Gone are the days when youth
Cried out loud:
Come, come hither!
I, like a flower, start to wither.
All that I’m left with
Leaves in the Fall,
And the snows of Winter.
I, like a flower, start to wither.
Gone are the days when youth
Cried out loud:
Come, come hither!
poem and photo - © Jesús Montero
How do you mend a broken heart?
How do you begin a brand new start?
How do you commence to heal the scars?
When you’ve just said that enough is just enough.
How do you face the empty nights?
How do you get used to the dimming lights?
How do you outswim a wave of tears?
When all you’re sailing through is a sea of fears.
How do you survive being in the limelight?
How do you get through the sleepless nights?
How do you come to terms with the fact,
That your life’s journey, calls for a major rewrite.
Buzzing streets of London,
In the early hours of a Monday.
Crowded buses.
Hizzing kettles.
And the soothing taste
Of a morning coffee.
Fingers pointed
At the empty taxis
As the drizzle tickles
The cheeks
Of Londoners.
photos and text - © Jesús Montero
It is not by sheer accident that we associate CHOCOLATE with decadence and luxury.
It is a luxurious dust of decadence that rubs off the golden cups and saucers they use to serve their delicious hot chocolate in. Drinking from those cups you feel pampered like a present day Moctezuma.
The drop scones with cream and jam were light like puffy clouds and its size – which many may find petite – was, I found, most pertinent. Their small, almost bite size pastries, were delicious and perfect as an accompaniment.
It was also the Spaniards who first noted, back in the XVI century, that water doesn’t taste better than when drunk after a good cup of hot chocolate.
The jug of water we were treated to by Jane, at COCOMAYA’s discretion, was truly a sublime way to complete my visit. Flower petals, mint leaves, fresh raspberries and citron slices turned a simple jug of H2O into a drink of Perignon proportions.
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photos and text - © Jesús Montero
Marilyn on silk fabric
photo and poem - © Jesús Montero
SOLACE
Solace is a back-stabber.
It tells this,
But does so.
Solace is a back-stabber.
It tells you yes
When it means nope.
Solace is a back-stabber.
It says hope
But does woe.
Solace is a back-stabber.
Comes in rushing
And leaves on tip-toe.
Solace is a back-stabber.
It gives you wings
Then comes a blow.
Solace is a back-stabber.
Looks like Marilyn
Leaves like Monroe.
Poor shouting Pumpkins
Standing on a shelf.
Greedy for a customer,
Someone to take of them
Good care.
But a cheeky little one
Loudly, as only she could dare
Shouted HALLOWEEN!
And the poor shouting Pumpkin
Ended up, chopped up by a Chef.
For poor shouting Pumpkins
Think, they cannot be heard.
But in the streets of London,
Where all sorts of things can be heard
If you are a bright shouting Pumpkin
Standing on a shelf,
You’d better watch out
For all those, not-so-grown-up Chefs.
Sing, sing shouting Pumpkins,
For late October is here, not there.
What is happiness
But a little oasis
In the desert sands of sorrow.
What is happiness
But that genuine spark
That needs not to be borrowed.
What is happiness
But the glimpse that beyond today,
There could be a tomorrow.
photo and poem - © Jesús Montero
photo and poem - © Jesús Montero
GROUND ZERO + 21
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What is life?
But a bag of mixed emotions.
Some,
Will bring you a smile.
Some,
Will bring you sorrow.
What is life?
But a mass of impeccable winds.
Some,
Will make you sail fast.
Some,
Will make time remain still.
What is life?
But the summit of a volcanic peak.
One that will make you roar.
One, that at times, will remain asleep.
photo and poem - © Jesús Montero
' I let my thoughts flow...'
(Acrylic on oil can) artwork, photo and poem by
© Jesús Montero
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GROUND ZERO + 18
I let my thoughts flow.
I catch them.
At random.
Like if I’m fly-fishing.
Artwork, photo and poem - © Jesús Montero
Photo and poem © Jesús Montero
WHY DO THEY SAY THAT WE SHOULD LISTEN TO OUR HEARTS...
Why do they say that we should listen to our hearts?
Who did what wrong, can we figure how or when?
Why must our journey reach this very sudden end?
Who did what wrong, is there anyone to blame?
Why do they say that we should listen to our hearts?
When all that it’s brought is unhappiness and pain?
Why don’t we get glorious sunshine, instead of rain?
Who did what wrong, is there anyone to blame?
Why is there gloom where there used to be champagne?
Why is there loss where there used to be much gain?
Why do they say that we should listen to our hearts?
It brought us so near.
It brought us miles apart.
Photo and poem © Jesús Montero
Poem & photo - © Jesús Montero
THE RHYMING DICTIONARY
On a rainy day in February,
The post arrived,
As customary.
Through the letter box, came
A Rhyming dictionary!
The perfect home for many a word.
Truly,
A sanctuary.
My search for words,
No longer arbitrary.
The flow of my pen,
No longer stationary.
Poor of the tongue, no more!
And such possibilities
To enrich my vocabulary!
But who could it be,
The sender of such gift?
Of which, I obviously am,
The beneficiary?
It could only be that Huckleberry Finn,
Whose friendship I can only term,
As legendary.
Thanks Annikki.
Indeed.
For you truly are,
EXTRAORDINARY!
Poem & photo - © Jesús Montero
The City sleeps,
Shedding
Unwanted nightmares.
The City sleeps,
Nurturing
Thousands of dreams.
The City sleeps,
Traffic lights
Yawning,
Absent,
Timid.
The City sleeps,
Longing
For a new day,
Dawning.
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