Pieces

Pieces

  By

  Susana Lorenzo

  Soledad Lorena

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Pieces

  Copyright © 2013 by Susana Lorenzo

  Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

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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.