.PP

MORNING AT THE WINDOW (for the students killed in Bucharest in the 1989 revolution)

Along the streets

lamps died out in a row

The trees

green twigs and leaves

smell May fresh.

In the shade of a van

a girl’s thin body is becoming a bow

in the arms of her man.

Tall gables and dust

Gardens

one, two, three —

Memories and rust

camps of dispair

The Royal Palace

Must

Be

Ours!

In the shade of a tree

a girl’s body grows flowers

in the arms of her man.

Kiwi and French pie

Pieces of exotic dreams

still lie

on stone market stalls

A beggar falls

under the hymns

of the journalist’s pen.

In the garden of whims

a girl’s body is buddying

in the arms of her man.

Our Father will pardon

(Candles: one, two, three)

The cupola covers

an innocent statement

the quick men’s debates

the air vibrates

from bullets

PPfheeee….

In the Botanic garden

the howl of a dog intonates

an old Byzantine lament.

White lamps are dead in the sky.

In the dim halls of fears

a girl’s body drops petals

like tears.

SONG OF THE BRIDE

And you see

The rains of June were my bridal veil,

A spray of lightening diamonds

The rains of June when they came with the odor of lime-tree

and moss,

a breeze and a sail,

on the ocean of loss,

raindrops burning the roof of the haunted houses

for me,

and a spray of lightening – diamonds

as my clothes…

How many times did you see

the wedding of ice and heat?

the rains of June through an open window?

How many times in one life

did your heart beat?

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In preparation for publishing are my 2 volumes of illustrated spiritual poems and children’s tales and of several classical poems that I translated.

First 2 stanzas of “Watercolor” by Ion Minulescu (Bucharest, 1920), and the 1st stanza of “Echo-free romanza” by Minulescu

translation from Romanian by Gabriela Anderson

copyright protected

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“In the city where the rains fall

three times every week or so

City dwellers on the sidewalks

Hand in hand will gently stroll.

And in this most rainy city where three times a week it showers,

City dwellers on the sidewalks

with old wet moaning umbrellas,

overwhelmed by so much pouring,

Look like mannequins in motion

exiting stores at high hours. (…)”

“În oraşu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână

Orăşenii, pe trotuare,

Merg ţinându-se de mână,

Şi-n oraşu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână,

De sub vechile umbrele, ce suspină

Şi se-ndoaie,

Umede de-atâta ploaie,

Orăşenii pe trotuare

Par păpuşi automate, date jos din galantare.(…)”

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Love, home-décor of porcelain, dear,

An ephemeral existential self,

Once more I find you on the same high shelf

On which I left you no less than last year.

(…)

“Iubire, bibelou de porţelan,

Obiect cu existenţa efemeră,

Te regăsesc pe aceeaşi etajeră

Pe care te-am lăsat acum un an…”

copyright protected

 “Tales and Poems for Light in the 21st century” by Gabriela Anderson; in preparation for publishing

Flame at the Gate

(2023)

Wrapped in her veil of light and stars,

The girl turned on her heels

And spoke as she walked out of mesh:

~

“The emeralds of forests fresh,

The wild glade of my dreams,

You cannot buy with all your cash,

Nor can you win on paths of flesh

The palace of my whims…

For, far from lush intent, it mars

The thieving hands beyond the pale.

For God is Father to the nymphs

Who took upon His veil.”

~

The beauty of the light divine,

From centuries within,

Has reached the steam, the trains, the might

Of irons, silicones, and steels,

And bent the routes of glossy flight.

~

The gentleness of mighty hymn

Spread blessings on fast meals

And mingled with the daily right

Of gentle hearts to peace.

~

It was a day of sunshine bright

When the frail girl said “No”

Wrapped in her veil. A modest flight

While God beheld her in His sight

Sheltered from what is foul.

But at the gate a flame arose

Protective like a wall, though thin,

From strengths of centuries within,

To guard the temple of the soul,

To keep it clean in ardor still

To keep it tall like the green hill,

Immutable in an old pose,

Unbending like a silver spine,

Brave and alive while it beholds

The beauty of the light divine.

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copyright protected

Song of the tribal girl

(2025)

Better than that Armani charm

Balenciaga and Dior

I much prefer my tribal skirt

that never set frills in a store.

~

For never was this desert skirt

touched by foe’s hand or ever hurt.

It saw wild winds that raised it high,

and heats like hot soup boiled in pots,

like summer spices burning dry,

and never was it out for trade,

for others’ sightseeing or for sale,

its light was never torn by shade.

~

Its bright hues fabric never rots,

for it was spun with blessed rays

my old kins gathered from the moon,

and washed with magic dew in spoon

of silver blessed by the priests

who worship the One God in caves

wisdom and faith as only feasts…

~

It gathered wheat and rice and rye

from fields unseen by human eye

on wondrous rainbows of the sky.

It gathered shells from rainy slots

of sea-bathed shores after the rain

and flowing light it spreads in dance

unseen by evil eye at noon

under the blessed sun of boon

its gauzy veils causing the trance

just of palm trees of God’s domain.

~

My many-layered thing of old,

now green, now yellow, red and bold,

adorned with dots like skin of fawn

that shine like many coins of gold,

is ever new with freshest dawn.

For sacred charms in all its frills,

like holy beads in hermit’s fist,

have powers that can stir new thrills.

An evil eye would turn and twist

and into goodness will unfold

unable to harm evermore,

as tales of such lore have been told.

~

Under the sliver of new moon,

most divine light has touched a dune

The light embraced a humble tent

A golden prayer seemed to melt,

On hands that weaved, on a sweet tune,

In furtive glow without alert,

a woman sitting on a pelt,

Embroidering a shape, a rune:

my great-great-great-grandmother’s skirt.

~

My tribal skirt is ancient-made,

it kept away the modern beasts,

it carries charms of ancient lore,

it smells of freshest fields of past,

its shining powers always more,

Better than that Armani fast,

Balenciaga and Dior.

~

It dies with me my tribal skirt

It lives with me, always unhurt.

~

copyright protected

Beaming light

(2024)

~

Waves of abundant joy I grasp

from memories like serenades,

from depths of time on ocean’s cusp,

emerging merrymaking boats

of laughter crystalline or rasp…

~

Times of a past with tents and goats,

with sand mirage and cooling palms,

veils on coal braids in golden clasp…

Times of the Truth in sacred glades.

~

All memories like serenades….

~

God shone His Light on moonlit waves,

loud children’s merrymaking shone

to spook the clouds of every morn’…

Candles were bright on walkers’ roads,

The light of warmth, the light that calms….

~

And brighter times never have been

than days of tents and goats and glades

of shepherds that knew not of sin.

~

I see beyond this dark machine

that holds our clockwork in its arms.

~

God shines His light on quiet waves,

today as yesterday unseen,

for everyone who light still craves.

I have no fear of the Asp

of darkness, of the Serpent’s grin….

~

The times of joy living within

my heart, my inner soul’s last gasp

are times of God’s protective beam.

~

copyright protected

Light on Dawns of Ash

(2025)

~

Wish for God’s light

on dawns of ash

it’s all your soul’s desire

when clouds of terror rise to bash

your joyful new attire.

~

The light of God is all you need.

By wand unseen from the above

into rose gardens it turns weed

and into softest purest love

it sacredly returns the dream,

to purest hearts most winning fight

it rises powers to redeem….

~

That’s all you need

on dawns of ash,

of slavery to sorrow’s morn’

Rise, oh, rose gardens over lash!

In joyful new attire

wish for the bluest softest height,

wish for a new day without thorn….

On weedless fields

blessed by God’s might,

you have one road, entire.

~

Desire love that kindness yields,

a sacred dawn

that sees what’s Right,

under the Hope that always flies,

beyond the tears in your eyes

see the sole road:

wish for God’s light.

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