Pictures are memories:

The passage creaking with your footsteps,
Rosaries trickling down your papery thin fingers,
Your papery hands dissolving over oily food,
The passage creaking with your footsteps.
Garlic over everything you made!
Your papery hands dissolving over oily food,
Your drawer in the secret room, secret boxes…
Garlic over everything you made!
Your exit, a knife to my heart, my soul.
Your drawer in the secret room, secret boxes…
Pray the rosary everyday, everyday!
Your exit, a knife to my heart, my soul.
Rosaries trickling down your papery thin fingers,
Pray the rosary everyday, everyday!
Pictures are memories.

Author: Charlene Yared-West

A story to disguise the truth
On the outside I love you, on the inside, I don’t
Wild imaginings of my secret heart

Looking into the distance bewildered
Far faraway at the simple vision of stars
The sound of no sound

There, the organic space where artful stumbling occurs
And landing sure-footed in just the right place
Undaunted and tenacious

The lens of your inner eye shuts out half the truth
Visual and fluid

Author: Charlene Yared-West

On the edge of my soaring spirit,
I look down to a field.
Over there, I am a mother with four sons.
Over there, I am a son to an Indian tribesman.

Over there, I am a murderer in a cold cell.
Over there, I am an old woman, crystals in my hands.

I slip down the slope towards them.
They do not speak, but their eyes are knowing.

All encircle me, I know them,
I recognise their faces.

The ground beneath us begins to swirl.
Slowly, our bodies meld

Where have they gone?
Inside you, a voice says.

I stand, arms wide open,
I hear a beautiful name,

I cannot see my face.