On His Death Bed

At the Death Bed, 1940
On His Death Bed by Mikines

He died…
but not before he said goodbye
to everyone and everything
he knew and loved.
Sadness came and went
perfuming the air
around his final breath,
but there was more….

Was it the color
of the room
or the choice
of music playing
that helped them
all forget that they were
standing at the deathbed
of someone,
who had touched
them to the core?
He was not in pain
not at the end;
in some ways,
he had already left,
his worn-out form
shrinking smaller
and smaller,
while Death…
was in the corner,
holding out her hand.

Later people would talk
of it… of that day
when the sun flared
and everyone felt
a little giddy…
like they knew each other
for at least one lifetime,
much like roots
connecting and interlacing
tying all the trees together
in loose knots.
Not related by blood
but by luck.
The good luck of knowing
that shrinking figure
in a white gown,
slipping away
from the talk
and the tears
the music.

Where was the why of this?

Because everyone
in that sunlight parlor
had loved him
at some time,
in their own way,
long times for years,
or a fleeting moment
for a day…
or in other lives,
perhaps lived before.
Who can say?
At some point,
each of their lives had
a little brighter
tears formed
a little bigger
when they parted…
because he brought passion
to the stage
everyone in this
day and age,
was starving
for some of that.

Say what you may,
no one ever forgot him…
and when it was talked about
months later
what a singular death
in such a beautiful
sun’lit room,
with just the perfect music
so harmonious in vibration
and everyone there was so gentle
and special
as if picked by hand carefully
one by one
and stored in his story…
Some, remarked
as they always did,
“Oh yes,
what a beautiful
death he had,”
But the wiser ones
nodded knowingly…
“On the contrary,
“What a beautiful life he lived”.

Karima Hoisan
January 22, 2022
Costa Rica

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Let It Grow

Seeds-in-love  by Manami Lingerfelt

Let It Grow!

Through the leaves,
the grey sky is filtered
in the early morning light.
It could be a sad feeling,
if I were not so grateful to be alive.
The sky teases the earth below..
with signs that
it just might rain.
The day begins
with pungent flowers,
bird songs and haze…

When the wind begins to tickle,
the palm frond’s dip and wave.

Any day can be a day
when it rains love.

That is the beauty of
accepting what might come..
Any day a miracle
can open up your heart
Why not?
Are you so dead?
Are you so shuttered?

Did you make anything you see
outside your window?
Well… maybe a few flowers planted
came from your hands…
but what about the seeds?
The clouds and trees
have stood long before you…
Can you not feel that someone,
already loves you?

Love has planted its seed
when you were sleeping…
just like a child being formed
it doesn’t need
much help from you.
Whether it evolves or withers
will be told by time;
Sit in the garden ,
talk to the trees…
You do feel what’s coming.
The sun smiles upon you,
making you glow
no need to resist now…
Let it grow… Let it grow.

Karima Hoisan
January 20, 2022
Costa Rica

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Mertim Gokalp            Butterflies In My Stomach by Mertim Gokalp

Intuition, slips into my mind
like fog on the moors.
Sometimes, it sits perched
on my shoulder,
a dreaded messenger,
I don’t want to listen to.
Small pebbles fill my insides,
then bigger and bigger stones.
I’m heavy with intuition,
like carrying a child
I’m not sure I want
to ever get to know.
Proceeding slowly,
everything is a sign
everything pushes me
in one way or the other.
I make a soup from all
of inquietude’s ingredients
and leave the bowl
I sit down instead,
to talk myself
out of it…
Those poor
negative butterflies
and trying to fly.
I count my breaths,
to set them free
to let them go,
but I know
what I know.
My intuition tells me
the next kiss,
is a kiss goodbye..
The next time we meet,
he will say so seriously,
that he needs to talk
with me.
While the fog lifts
intuition shrugs,
as if to say,
“I tried to tell you,
it would go this way.”
Then everything I feared,
did not allow myself
to think or hear…
condenses briefly,
in my eyes,
and slowly falls
in tears.

“I knew it”

Karima Hoisan
January 15, 2022
Costa Rica

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Two Steps Forward…One Step Back


Two Steps Forward…One Step Back

In this dance..
in the age old steps we learn,
about friendship,
but especially
about romance…

We must always
listen to the music.

How awkward
how clumsy
when we dance quicker
than the beat.
When we get ahead
of the rhythm
and must pull
ourselves back
to the start.

I love to dance,
but so rarely
am invited.
I might have
the nuanced rules,
the basic steps
by now.

So please excuse me,
if I trample your toes,
by pulling ahead,
like a horse
with the bit
in his mouth,
unstoppable and
on fire…
just to dance,

the whole day through,
the whole night long.

Grace and measure
are intricate points…
of each style,
of each polished,
slide and glide.
Without it,
we might wind up
sitting in a chair alone,
watching the others
who learned how
to do it,
elegantly and synced
to perfection,
fluidly pass us by.

Karima Hoisan
January 14, 2022
Costa Rica

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im-listening-vikki-reed                                                          “I’m Listening” by Vikki Reed


How is it that just a voice
can bring me tears…
not of sadness but of awe?
That puts me in a forest
and leaves me there to dream
when I close my eyes
and listen how you see me.
I could be blind and yet
I would be snapping photographs
of every monumental scene.
I could have my hands
tied behind my back
but if I still had ears,
and a voice to speak,
there would always be this desire
to reach out and then again… and again.

I touch you like the sightless,
my finger tips ride
your oscillating sounds…
Your silences have tears,
your tears come encased in poetry.
One thing is very true,
I’ve always been so good
at accepting gifts
The Artist leaves for me.

so heavenly and human
Gratefulness …
so humbling,
It joins our higher selves
to our chambers less aware.
Where there’s grace
we glow with gratitude,,
It’s really all that we can do.
Undeserving and unbelieving…
How can we think our next breath
It begs us to remember that all is given
Such a gift to hear a voice,
who speaks in tongues
that make me dream

and reminds me,
that grace is always gifted
especially when it’s
not anticipated, not expected.
not justified, not merited.

Karima Hoisan
January 12, 2022
Costa Rica

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“Pale Veiled Memory on MasticadoesUSA


Pale Veiled Memory

Pale specter in the mind of nighttime’s sheer illusions,
You no longer glide through my blowing veiled halls.
Hard reality, sometimes known as truth, has snatched you up
And turned you into boring commonness, so cold and colorless….

Please continue reading the rest on MasticadoresUSA
I would like to thank Gabriela Marie Milton
for her encouragement and support of my writing and for publishing this poem,
I m honored to appear on  MasticadoresUSA. Thank you to all!



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Green Screen

Continue reading

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I lay down in soft meadows
counting the beats
of a hummingbird’s wings,
watching the clouds dance
to the song of spring robins
and distant thunder,
music that moves my
birth sign’s numbered soul.

Symphonies that a poet hears and knows…

I cry for falling leaves,
and smile at flowers
that yell at me in loud colors
as I tickle their heads,
walking through their random fields,
watching them bend and bow
in low breezes, until their smell
makes me sigh.

Poet’s tears born again and again to live and die.

Your pain hurts me like paper-cuts on baby- soft skin
Your joy sends me higher than you can reach or see

I open my mouth to say “Oh how I love it all “
and just let it take me,
until I lose the words,
my way, my reason.

A poet’s insane empathy for each emotional season.

When sensitive is not the word,
but flailing, falling,
freeing into feeling,
wild-eyed and open to Life
in it’s unjust beauty
its perfect cruelty,
its moaning patterns
of sweet compassion,
surprising on blind curves,
with death or love .

The poet’s flag of surrender, this vulnerable ascending dove.

My crystal skin can shatter and I bleed the words on paper…
My sobs fling themselves over the railing for a sunset’s flushing hue…

Oh! so far from the parlors
of recitals, tea and egos
where some wait for recognition
to impress and show they know it.
I stand apart ,
just a madly blessed,
innately breathing poet.

Karima Hoisan
Feb.22, 2010
Finca La Generosa SL

*Dragging out some old ones in the new year:)




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Crude Oil

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Celebrating my rebirth in the Virtual World of Second Life..14 years ago this month of December….
This is one of the first poems I ever wrote there:)

Crude Oil

Underneath the desert floor,
she was born with kicks, her heart out-poured,
pumping gallons, never ceasing,
her life’s blood was crude oil and it burned.

Worn to smooth by blasts of sand
then molded on the burning lands,
she gulped a breath and tried to stand;
her life’s blood was crude oil and it burned

Whirling moons and suns were spun,
Time marked the pace, a bullet’s gun,
that whizzed her to a second life,
then dropped her on her head,
but far from dead, she thrived… wide eyed.

Her engine roared ,
accelerator to the floor,
“Watch out world she’ll run right over you!”
Liquid thrust, to live Life’s lust
catapulted,  self propelled; she moved.
Always churning, heart on fire
always seeking , always finding,
snatching gems from foreign tables
safe inside her pockets,
she would polish them (her treasures)
and honor them with poems and
keep them close forever.

Underneath the desert floor.
she was born with kicks, her heart out-poured,
pumping gallons, never ceasing,
her life’s blood was crude oil and it burned.

Worn to smooth by blasts of sand
molded once again on this new land,
she gulps a breath and tries to stand,
Pumping gallons, never ceasing,
her life’s blood is crude oil….how it burns!!

Karima Hoisan
March 12, 2008
Finca La Generosa Second Life

*footnote: this poem was inspired by a subconscious thought upon waking
This line repeatedly ran through my head

“pumping gallons, never ceasing, her life’s blood is crude oil….. how it burns!!! “

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Like a gunshot that scatters a flock of birds,
your explosion of anger scatters my peace.
It’s like those big dark clouds start moving in
the moment you react to something I say.

and here we go again…

The negative charge threads through this room
static electricity makes my hair stand on end.
We’ve done this before, and before that once more…
Each time we reach the gentle plateau…we fall below.

and here we go again

I have a phone-book- thick list of all your triggers
I study them at night like a script I must avoid
But then the lights go on and we are center stage,
feeling pressured, I’ve been known to flub my lines.

and here we go again

Luckily for me this theater has been closed.
Years ago, I walked off in the middle of my scene…
No more 16+ dramas for language and violence
No more caught in a thunderstorm inside my own home.

Karima Hoisan
Dec. 30, 2021
Costa Rica

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