The blessed

Would you rather be a sperm whale
suddenly called into existence
several miles above the surface of an alien planet
or an equally blessed bowl of petunias?
I guess either would work, considering
they don’t have to contemplate
the sound of ice being scraped off car windows
early in the morning to realise everything
needs to be done again tomorrow.

The shadows

The shadows outside my bedroom wear names other than mine,
but at least we still share the sentiment of having one.
Also, we all measure time, although I’m not particularly fond
of manipulating it, even if only twice a year.

The shadows outside my bedroom are keen on collecting proverbs,
as they look good pinned in a display box on the wall.
Well, as long as guests don’t mind the smell of naphthalene
and glossy reddish-brown stains on the pinning stage.

The shadows outside my bedroom preach kinship with the sun
yet practice fluttering around the glowing, coiled filament of tungsten
I come from. Sometimes I wonder if, behind closed curtains,
they simply cease to exist.

Existence

To be is the act of acts,
if the philosopher is to be believed,
but despite the active voice
of the copulative verb,
it nevertheless makes my existence a thing,
if you trust the poet who once said
that feeling and faith speak stronger
than the glass and eye of a sage.
It is fun to watch quarrels between two sides
of the same coin.