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Playing Russian Roulette with Aurora by Elizab, Felicia
Russian Dreams by Severo, Aurore
RUSSIAN ROULETTE by van Breda, Kim
russian roulette by Duffy, Alex
Russian Roulette by Callus, Paul
Russian Roulette by Staton, Valerie
RUSSIAN MOUNTAIN by Cosentino, Ivo
Russian Roulette by Ellison, Jack
Russian Women by Pettit, Robert

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The Best Russian Poems

Details | Russian Poem | |

A Small Stain Of Blood

an early morning rise,
up the stairs
walk into the bathroom 
in the sink
a small stain of blood.

less than a measure of yesterday 
pulling a baby out of the womb into my arms.
on the sheets
a small stain of blood.

midwives  wrap
my first born
snug and warm.

when her mother
finally gets her initial fill
she hands me this precious
new life.

i hold her knowing
there is nothing,
better then this moment!,

sweet scented perfection!,
lulls me into a peaceful bliss.

as she grows,
i spend my best times with her 
and later her sister too.

my daughters own me 






 i still see your
baby green eyes
reaching out to me.

i still smell your
childhood scent.

i can still taste
your hopes and dreams.

i can still touch
your youth as if it were now,
hear your tiny voice

 "daddy i love you but you're my best friend too".

there is nothing,
better then this moment!,

you're now twenty two.
in the sink?
a small stain of blood.

in your bedroom 



i clean 
carefully picking them up.

i know you know you're playing
russian roulette with your life.

the drug convinced you 
your life isn't worth living.
that's what drugs do.

they're that snake in the garden of eden
and you know eve ate that apple
and you know she sacrificed everything
for a fruit that would never taste that good again.

evil always presents itself as the only choice
while good seems too tough an alternative
but the truth is, the harder you have to work for it 
the better it feels and it holds its feel with nothing to chase.

you can't hear me
the monster deeply 
imbedded in you.

but Ali i love you
and Ali my heart weeps
and on my chest sits
a small stain of blood!

June 3 2015

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne

More great poems below...

Details | Russian Poem | |

Recalling Her

It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
fuzzy-downed peaches, yellow-tangy lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candies.

Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever-flames that blaze across her page.

My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.

Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.


It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.

I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.

Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.

There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing...

Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.


It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.

My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness...

Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.

Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.

I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.

And the smudged charcoals of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours...

in memory of my grandmother

Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot

Details | Russian Poem | |

Dmitri Mendeleev

Dmitri Mendeleev of Russian descent
Designed a table for each element
Periodic symbols he inserted for flavour
Was his a chemical or human behaviour?

Contest: Periodic Table of Elements
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen

Copyright © Paul Callus

Details | Russian Poem | |

Russian Roulette

          Russian roulette
          With fate

          The hand that tempts
          And flirts

          With the shadows
          Of death

          Silence that lurks
          And creeps

          Through cobwebbed paths
          Of doubt

          Sets in

          Feelings torment
          And gnaw

          At self belief

          Blood flows
          Slowly in drips
          It ends

          Russian roulette
          With fate 

Contest: Mussetle Train
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
Placed: 1st

Copyright © Paul Callus

Details | Russian Poem | |

When Hell Froze Over

When Hell Froze Over

 Trees shed their leaves,
 the worms dig in deeper
 Mothers cry and grieve
 woman is the best weeper

 Cold blasting each night,
 birds froze on the ground
 Sad hell was the fight
 no hope was ever found

 Winter ate their souls,
 the keepers of evil hearts
 Soldiers fought epic goals
 the dead filled the carts

 War or cold killed more,
 dead is dead, hope gone
 Wasted prayers to implore
 heroes frozen all alone

 Trail, path frozen dead,
 winter sent home too soon
 asleep but not in a bed
 never to sing another tune

 Retreat frenchmen knew well,
 as their army frozen there
 Now germans found this hell
 in the frozen land of the bear!

 Robert J.Lindley, 09-20-2014
 Hitler's armies were frozen out just as were Napoleon's in the previous century. Russian winter was an enemy that killed mercilessly.The winter of 1941-42 was one of the worst in  recorded history. Daily temperatures fell to 40 degrees below zero. German soldiers had not been issued with warm winter clothing as Hitler believed that the invasion would be over by the winter. Soldiers froze to death in their sleep,
 diesel froze in fuel tanks and food was in very  short supply. Russian soldiers had been issued with winter clothing and did not suffer as badly as their German enemies....

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Russian Poem | |

The Seeking Ship

A solitary sail of contrasting 
     White in a salty sea of blue.
From its own land, to disconnect,
     Why seek a land that's new?

In a friendly sea where the mast bends
     From soothing winds it takes heart.
However; it seeks not happiness
     Nor from happiness does it depart.

The sea glistens much brighter
     Than the warm sun filled sky,
Yet rebellious, it seeks a storm,
     As if to find peace within its eye.

Translation by Connie Marcum Wong

Note: A melancholic soul often feels more at home
surrounded by chaos when one has been raised in 
constant chaos on the edge. 


Original poem
The Sail
By Mikhail Lermontov

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Literal translation
A lonely sail shows white / against the sea's blue mist. / What does it seek in a distant region? / What has it abandoned in its own land?
The waves play, the wind whistles, / and the mast bends and screeches… / Alas, it does not seek happiness / and is not running away from happiness.
Beneath it the current is brighter than the azure, / above it is the sun's golden ray… / But it, rebellious, asks for a storm, / as if there were peace in storms.
(Literal tr. Donald Rayfield, with Jeremy Hicks, Olga Makarova and Anna Pilkington)

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong

Details | Russian Poem | |



"I never travel without my diary, one should always have something sensational to read . .
 . " Oscar Wilde, 1891 

Tues    May  9:   
Just when I was busy with plans for Russia, Rudolf Hess dropped by with  crazy notion of
flying to UK for peace.   Said he bought  some new boots yesterday   for the trip  - 
dead   shiny .  I’d like a  pair like that.    I told him  -  forget the trip   and tell
me where you got the boots. 

Wed     June 22:     
Invaded Russia.   Eggs for lunch  -  hard boiled again -  I hate that. Must speak to Eva
about it.

Thurs    June 23:      
11:00  am - heard Chamberlain on radio again – that dreary voice!  that paper-waving 
droopy-moustached  old gopher!   My small black moustache  is much neater.     
12:30 pm -   inspected new bunker in East Prussia  with smoother concrete walls .   Eva
wants  to wallpaper  them    (nice little red flowers) and why  not?    
8:00pm -  after dinner,  practised  arm-gestures for  big Nuremburg speech  on Saturday. 
 Rehearsed a few ad libs. . . .  Eva liked them.

Fri    June24:      
Rained all day.   Slow day  (almost invaded Egypt) - stayed in and read.      Eva dyed her
hair  creamy-yellow.    ( I’m gonna start calling her Blondy.)           That new german
shepherd Bormann   gave me  -  I took her out for walk. . . . she's called Blondi  too  
 (Joke there  - the guys will like it) .   After dinner we all  listened to Franz Lehar’s
“Merry Widow” again.  I love it.   Eva fell asleep;    so did the dog.

Sat   June 25:   
Nuremburg speech went ok. Got all the ad libs in except one.    Rommel was on the phone
talking about Africa and Libya, and some place called Tobruk. Must make a note – where is
Tobruk? P.S. Must find out where Libya is.

Sat    Dec    6:  
Just read the latest in the newspapers....almost four million Russian prisoners  now.
Sun   Dec  7:  
Those crazy Japanese have  gone and done it. . . . oh  boy, they’re gonna be in trouble! 
Thurs   Dec 11:   
Oh, what the hell. . .  in for a dime in for a dollar :  this Russian war is too  easy,  I
need a bit of a challenge. Think I’ll whiz down  to the  Reichstag tonight  and tell ‘em
we’re declaring  war on the USA.    Might  get a pair of those shiny boots there too.  

Written by Sydney Peck  
for Constance La France ( A Rambling Poet )  -  Contest Name:  The Diary

Copyright © Sidney Beck

Details | Russian Poem | |

Inappropriate Attire

It is the evening I have waited for, 
stiletto heels three inches high adorned my feet,
real nylons hung from garters beneath a
skin tight, leather skirt of maraschino cherry-red.
A blouse of white silk, with a cascade of ruffles,
played peek-a-boo with my décolletage.
Outdoors, the rain pounded the asphalt  
making the reality of his arrival even more bizarre.
A Harley barrels into the driveway.
Apparently, he thinks 
he is Marlon Brando
and I am Stella?

I stand on the porch, a black umbrella
covering my new do, and watch as he
saunters through the puddles on the concrete walk.
The color of the umbrella my only 
non-incongruent element in the frame, the scene made.
His smile was like a box of Chiclet's
on his clean shaven face.
He kisses me.

I lick the raindrop
from the tip of his Roman nose
and take hold of his Russian fingers.
He tosses my umbrella on the porch,
throws his black leather jacket over my shoulders,
lifts me off my feet, and carries me to the bike.

The sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops,
just in time for the neighbors to glare at the sight of my legs 
reflecting on the bikes chrome work.
Shake their respective heads
and donate a few wolf whistles.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Russian Poem | |



My twisted mind
Had everyone blind
No symptoms
Not a single sign!
I want to forget everything,
Living a life of no regrets,
Facing the sun
Ignoring my debts
Wiping of the cold sweat,
Taking another drink from my sweet tea set.

My life, a game of “RUSSIAN ROULETTE,”
there is no positive or negative.

A game of slip and slide,
Opened wide
Put a gun inside
Staring down the barrel
A quick pull trigger, gone sterile 
I give thanks to another day.

Madness, I've gone insane
Lots of money down the drain.
Initiated gum pops,
Broken lemons drops,
Tainted temples,
Upon another turn,
I dream of no shame!
Always saying 'NEVER!'
To this life, I scream “WHATEVER!"


I wrote this poem, 
and dedicate the poem to my gambling addiction... 
ha ha, I miss it... he he he.... JK 

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Russian Poem | |

Best Feet Forward

I thought I could love a Russian Girl.
Her lips were divine, pretty like a rose
She was lovely, with the cutest curl.
Why couldn't I stop looking at her toes?

I swear they were twisted, not one was straight.
Sure her dress showed off her sexy form.
Those open sandles, they didn't look great!
Within my mind, I was completely torn.

I may be shallow, a horrible guy.
My foot fetish is far from a joke
Staying with her I would surely die.
If I sucked those toes I'm sure I'd choke

Some like big boobs that flop all about.
For me it's a foot, perfect and petite.
Still others prefer a woman more stout.
I'm cursed to be a man attracted to feet

For Dr. Ram Metha's Chastuski Me contest.  ABAB form

Copyright © Richard Lamoureux

Details | Russian Poem | |

Legendary Lady Leaders I salute you

I am like
embraced by serpents many
always trying something new
and dramatic with my
I am like
Eva Patrón
growing up with a painful family
getting lost in movies
thinking of my own
hypnotizing when I speak
First lady of Argentina
meeting you, after death
would be a treat
a nervous habit, of nibbling
on my jewelry
the similarities, between us
gave me a sense of foolery
I am like
Wilma Mankiller
Chief of the Cherokee Tribe
for ten years
fighting against Native stereotypes
despite such distress
enemies did stress
promoting to ‘be of good mind’
you were a leader, of your time
an advocator for women
that they may grow up
and become chief
as a child, you wondered
the forests, like me
not the streets
I am like
Aung San Suu Kyi
wearing three types of 
flowers in your hair
feeling at times like a 
‘splinter of glass, sharp, glinting
power to defend itself against hands
that try to crush’
winner of a Nobel Peace Prize, 
for courage, was
a must
I am like
Catherine The Great
a love to laugh,
coffee, and feeling compelled
to always fill abandoned blank
sheets of paper
you were a Royal Russian Empress,with
not one red drop of Russian blood
and her people, were blessed
to have her
I am like
the Queen of England
longest royal lifetime in history
strong built, from a miserable childhood
toughened her
this is no mystery
preferring candle light
to electricity
handwriting over typewriter
and poetry
I am like
Indira Gandhi
dreaming to live as she did
riding elephants and having
tiger cubs as companions
your own Sikh security
killed you, the story
a sad one
secret dreams of being a writer
angered, by the imbalance of
between men and women
listening to beat poets
like Ginsberg
as a great Prime Minister of India 
you were heard
and understood
I am like
Rigoberta Menchú
drew the worlds attention to 
native Indians rights,
because of you
your goal, to be
a drop of water on a rock
dripping in the same spot,
eventually in the world, you
may leave a mark
wearing many colors
‘because it gives you life’
insisting men and women be equals
you fought this fight
to relax, as I do
writing poetry into
 the night
I am like
Joan of Arc
French Military Heroine
burned at the stake at just
age nineteen
known for keeping your cool
even on the battlefield
being a courageous and inspirational
rare jewel
Legendary Lady Leaders
I salute you

Copyright © Heather Hill

Details | Russian Poem | |

Loving a Woman

Foreplay starts hours before the bedroom.
Leaving a note on your car while you’re working,
As flowers are delivered in bloom.
Later, rubbing your feet to ease the hurting.

Over dinner, listening to your day.
Engaging every detail as your best friend.
Like when we first met, still the same today.
One of the secrets, don’t let the courting end.

Drawing a bath with popping bubbles.
Oils and a couple from the ice cube tray.
Solace for a night from life’s troubles,
Starting down through pleasure’s parfait.

My right hand sliding from your face,
Over the ear to your hair it grasps.
Our lips flowing together in a slow pace,
As my left hand massages your ass with tight clasps.

Laying you down under the light of the moon,
Candle’s flickers dance among our needs.
A cuddle making a fork from a spoon.
Hot wax drips the body’s tense pleads.

My tongue traces each of your curves.
To make them all mine this night.
Each part given what it deserves.
Knowing where and when to bite.

With the right pressure on every button,
Finding and keeping the perfect rhythms.
Loving you French, Greek, and Russian.
In and out of all the positions.

Two finger tricks in love and smut.
Just two inches in, then up.
Making a pea become a walnut.
While your hands hold your legs like stirrups.

Opening that box of our toys.
Black leather with whips and chains.
Clothes lines and collars employs
Us playing Asphyxia’s dangerous games.

From each encounter, perfecting my skill set,
And if your heart ever turns to another,
Your mind and body to never forget,
When once and still I be, your greatest lover.

Contest: Hotsy Totsy
Sponsor: Rachel Firmin
Written: 02.14.15
*Forever grateful to Dr. Ernst Gräfenberg (1881-1957) and every woman I’ve ever known*

Copyright © rob carmack

Details | Russian Poem | |


(on the basis of Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata)

Be calm, because it's vanity of vanities,
reach harmony taking a truce.
Be generous, despite “in vino veritas” 
all in the world forget the truth. 

Remember that all have their rights –
an ignoramus here or there a fool.
And are you right with all your stereotypes?
So, take then theirs in blood cool.

For evil leave that everlasting fall,
obsequiousness and arrogance – a fuss;
As all affected will be ground at all
by millstones-years first or last.

And give yourself up to a labor of love,
depends itself on you your destiny.
In lieu of victor's wreath a head above
will be a crown of thorns eventually.

But if one day some utter fraud
floods flourishing in blossom land,
let it not devastate your soul  
with all abstracted from your bank. 

Remember, love is never bought,
you'd better flirt with haughty divas,
in style be good at getting old,
as all the beauty fades with years.   

Enjoy the time not passing by,
this moment's not reversible.
Strengthen your spirit to be high,
your fears all alleged impossible. 

At last a child you're of the universe,
as those trees, stars and our heaven.
You're given to explore your place,
though you take all for gospel ever.

Your God – it's peace within your soul,  
you, cherish as the apple of your eye. 
Let it be love here in a cottage small,
and be vivacious till you die.

There is a war on for your mind:

My page on a Russian site:

Copyright © Aleh Barysau

Details | Russian Poem | |

A Cloud

A grey cloud in holes
flew in the sky alone,
headed for its dole
all the time along.

Brilliant sunlight spots
fell onto the ground.
Jumped as little balls,
run as a greyhound.

With the insects brittle
rushed along the meadow,
an’ there a May beetle
made another circle.

An’ sounds everywhere
rang out as in a jungle,
the guests in the air
lavishly got jumbled.

Fondly dandelions
crowded all together,
organ-grinders – flyers
played in fair weather.

Suddenly black clouds
gathered in the sky,
blew away round dance
in the near dry.

Soared in the bounds
of the vault of heaven,
the cloud on the ground
fell to form forever.

My page on a Russian site:

Copyright © Aleh Barysau

Details | Russian Poem | |


He should have gifted something else the gifts brought her an instant fame as she saved those on her 'blue dress', Zippergate was the scandal name! ==============000================ Placement: 6th;(March 2012) Contest:Chaustushka Form-Russian Poetry Sponsor:Gwendolen Rix By:Kash poet

Copyright © kash poet

Details | Russian Poem | |

Shotgun Lovesong

Let's play a game
of Russian Roulette.
I'll go first,
you can pull the trigger.
Look me in the eyes
as the muzzle 
the temple of my skull.


I'll probably be fine,
more than alright in fact, 
as I watch you
watch me
remain alive.

It'll look like you love me.
It'll look like you care.

Copyright © Gabby Muir

Details | Russian Poem | |

The Ghost of Mengele

"I will curse thee with my last dying breath,
Josef Mengele, the Angel of Death"

The years have passed yet the memories haunt,
my mind still clinging to the past.
I've tried to move on but his voice still taunts,
sometimes I wish I had been gassed.

At least those who died have rest from the pain,
their suffering is long since gone.
Many of those left have since gone insane;
in his eyes we were all just pawns.

"Brilliant" they said, "innovative" they bragged,
"the Fatherland's brightest and best!"
They tied up my hands and had my mouth gagged,
"Be still son, it's only a test."

He prodded and probed and stuck me with pins,
my flesh he cut with a dull knife.
An innocent twin, no knowledge of sins,
how dare they toy with a child's life!

"Here little one, I've a chocolate for you,"
that soft voice, so charming and sweet.
"You did well today, o little boy blue,"
my spirit sank in sheer defeat.

As I laid on that bed, weeping and cold,
my thoughts took me back to the past.
Mummy and daddy, a teddy to hold,
how I wished that those times could last!

But hatred and lies and prejudice reigned,
life changed from that moment on.
Like poison the evil became ingrained
in their minds, brainwashed by a con.

The Angel of Death changed me forever,
forgiveness - so hard to extend.
The man I am, eternally severed
from the child I was before then.

Yet hope springs eternal, I look ahead,
the promise of Eden to come.
Oppressed ones will live, oppressors stay dead,
vindication under the sun.

*Bonus poem

Tears for Babyn Yar

"All Yids* of the city of Kiev and its vicinity must appear on Monday, September 29, by 8 o'clock in the morning at the corner of Mel'nikova and Doktorivska streets (near the cemetery).  Bring documents, money, and valuables, and also warm clothing, linen, etc.  Any Yids who do not follow this order and are found elsewhere will be shot.  Any civilians who enter the dwellings left by Yids and appropriate the things in them will be shot."

- Order posted in Kiev in Russian, on or around September 26,1941

"Mommy mommy tell me mommy what does it all mean?
Daddy daddy is this real or is it just a dream?
Will we live here will we stay here must I pack my things?
Shall we kneel now shall we pray now see what 'morrow brings?"

"Listen up dear things are changing time to pack and go.
Find a new home find a new place find somewhere to grow.
It's okay dear it's okay hon never liked this town.
Come to daddy let me hold you chase away that frown."

"Mommy loves you let me kiss you wipe away those tears.
Hope in good things faith in new things don't give in to fear.
Trust in God child trust in us child life is looking up.
Never worry better hurry pack your favorite cup."

"Promise mommy promise daddy that I'll make new friends.
Heart feels broken heart is hurting hope it one day mends.
When we get there when it's over can I get new shoes?
Mine are old now getting new will help to heal these blues."

On September 29th and 30th a special team of German SS troops and others murdered 33,771 Jewish civilians after taking them to a ravine in Babyn Yar, Kiev.  They had been told that they were to be relocated.  They were forced to remove all clothing, and to lie down.  Each were shot in the neck at close range.  Bodies piled on top of bodies as the killing went on for two days.  Finally, the murderers covered the bodies with earth to form a mass grave.  Only 29 are known to have survived.  The clothing and other valuables were collected and turned over to local Germans or to Nazi administrators.  Among the valuables was a little cup with a picture of Minnie Mouse...

*Russian slang for Jews

Copyright © Tommy Boy

Details | Russian Poem | |


This feeling dragging myself to the lowest standards 
the horrible feeling of being ruled by the man who has me face down on the mat
and when i give in,, the craving go into the deep dark abyss..
i only see one way out and the cold steel is in my hands,,,,
playing Russian roulette with my emotions..
not knowing when my next craving is going to hit me over the head.....

But then i realize that i have a purpose on this earth,, and i don't have to give in to
"the father of all lies" and that i do have a way out, and i do have people who love me
so what can i do??

Let the pen bleed out onto the papers who have no way of judging my defects of character

and take it one day at a time

Copyright © jacob lammerman

Details | Russian Poem | |

Shot down

blazing overkill
attacking inner depths
savagely i ride
the storm

on the crest 
of waves
unfurling high winds
battered and torn

russian roulette
rolling in the chambers
lead heavy
spinning circles
upside down 
pulling on feelings

emotions explode
burning fire
in depths
shot through
the heart

to a lovers emotion
love lives
in you died

Copyright © liam mcdaid

Details | Russian Poem | |

25th October 1854 Part 2

Left And Right

Either side the cannons roar
Took of blood and wanted more
Salvo after salvo into the valley
Point blank range to deter the rally

Water poured over steaming muzzles
Russian gunner at this sight puzzles
Tis madness against this cannonade
Tis the sacrifice of the Light Brigade

The quicker they fired the faster they came
Under billowing flags and the Queens name
Torn and shredded they carried the fight
And many a soul, never saw that night

The Redout

The Russian generals looked in wonder
Stood in awe at the total squander
The cannons barked and took their toll
Removing horse from man, man from soul

Rifle, cannon, spoke the same
The Light Brigade on they came
Thundering hooves and yelling cries
All for the sight of the Russians eyes

And at the distance of a lance
The Russian soldier in a trance
Sabres cut and slashed in violence
All was death in the cannons silence

The Russians fled in disbelief
Last shot fired to the Brigades relief
Bleeding soldiers and tattered flags
Stumbled, tottered, like wizened hags

Down The Valley

Looking back along that mile
Bodies, horses, pile on pile
Wounded men lean on lance
Said a prayer in skyward glance

On the ground a sleeping parade
Remnants of the Light Brigade
Depleted souls but not of honour
Yet a picture of battles squander

On the conclusion of this battle
Fingers wag and tongues will rattle
But nought should be put to shame
The Light Brigade and its day of fame

At Night

When the moon shines that longest mile
Hear the hooves on lush green pile
The rattling sabres and rippling flags
And how he rode the horseman brags
In the night the ghosts they ride
Full of honour and full of pride

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman

Details | Russian Poem | |

Leaves of Parchment

Times of old dwindle throughout captured in leaves of parchment sewed individually into bounded Moroccan, Spanish, and Russian Leathers, seeping the smells of old centuries wisdom enclosed. 

 Taking the mind into the beyond where great stories are forged and fantasies made. 

 Smells of musk, vanilla, and tobacco fill the air with the sweet hymms of melodies playing from a far.

 Dripping wax from candles burnt fall upon parchment, and the taste of whiskey near the crackling of the fire leave one's mind lost between worlds.

 The setting of the sun glides down in an array of colors throughout the land, sweeping all that is, all that is known, and all that was, as the crinkle of every page turns.

Copyright © marilyn velez

Details | Russian Poem | |

Steamed Ferret

Steamed Ferret

Very steamy hot thoughtful stuff
get me hotter sure enough
getting hard to  keep it down
feral  ferret will swim or drown

would you like to eat a chop
as i'm fumbling at your top
lamb is good but tiddley's better
cannot get the catch unfetter

can we have a cuddle now
moving closer to the chow
tween your thighs I could slip
panties dinna wanna slip

things are damp its getting harder
no way to get  between
in a  rotten Russian Lada
gear stick jabs me so obscene

finally i'm in the passion pit
plunging driven just to it!
yes i'll make you moan a bit
but i'm only dreaming :)

Don Johnson

Yes Trace :)

Copyright © DON JOHNSON

Details | Russian Poem | |

LAND of the LOST

Land of the Lost

Time in time out
What's it all about

Got no freedom
Drunk on rum

Russian roulette full of fun
Empty barrel, trigger gun

Bust a cop
Prison mob

Modern warfare
Lord's prayer

Life's a steal
Keep it real

Living will 
patients bill

File for divorce
Marriage course

False image
True discourage

Hating phase
Finger peace trace

Murder case

Where's my justice
Religion practice

Body full of lies 
the truth dies

Sex thrive

Driver licenses
Fatal expense

Public enemy
Hermit disease

Auspice unity
Combined greedy

Foot prints
Heart dent

Failure to communicate
Achieve to hallucinate

Judged by hypocrite
3 seconds, 3000 kilobits

Every minute matters
For jugglers and gamblers

Every life has a cost
Land of the lost

By: P.D...

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Russian Poem | |

This Poem May Kill Me, or Not

Notes: I am putting the notes upfront, suicide is no laughing matter, however, anything that makes it something that can be discussed I think is a good thing. Humor really is an aid to many an illness. Note the poem starts with a reason, when someone is at the point of suicide, there is NO reason. It is an illness like any other. Also inside humor  and innuendo is meaning. Enough said.

I went to the casino of love last night
I placed a bet on romantic seven
Lost all my chips, ain’t going to heaven
Broke me heart
Lowered head, I walked back to the car park

Next morning I woke up
Put a gun to my head
I can’t even win at Russian roulette

Need a change, to get away
Mending the pain or soul, some might say
Took a plane to Bengal
Ended up in beuruit
Walked right into the middle of a war or 2
Explosions all over, around me head
Thank god, soon I shall be dead
I saw a terrorist with a real mean look
I waved hello, shoot me, shoot me!!!
I am sure he would have given a chance 
But someone else tossed into him a lance
Seems even in a war I can’t make myself dead
Sadly I lost at even this deadly dance

Then an explosions tossed me sky high
Was i going to heaven, was this my grand demise?
No, I landed in the sea and just on time
For a cruise ship to save me, soul and all
Off too Florida it seems
Death sure has some gall

I was walking along a sunny beach
When all of a sudden two gangs appeared
One Cuban, one Mexican, they sure looked mean
Two gangs known as killing machines
Here is me smack in the middle
My lucky day, for how could I lose
Suicide was assured, come on, you know it
I yelled to both of them
I am DEA, and I think all of you queers are very very gay
That out to get me the bullet I wish
What the hell, they all dropped their guns and surrendered
I admit I was starting to be mighty offended

So now I have this Medal of Honor
For saving a community of drugs and plunder
I just can’t win at the casino of life
I can get myself killed no matter the plight

So back home I go
What the hell
I’ll fill the bathtub
And give that a go

You think I’m bragging or boasting of death
I am serious, this will work, why drowning for sure
What could go wrong? with such a fine plan?
All I want to be is a dead dead man

So yes, I fill up the tub with water and suds
I down some pills, some booze and some bud
I am drifting off, to my purgatory bliss
When I hear an alarm the wakes me
What’a darn bitch
The buildings on fire, ok I can burn in my sorrow
Except the bathtub collapses and doses the fire

I am a loser, this is for sure
They gave me Medal of Honor again
For saving all the seniors by making it rain
I am not dead, and I am not happy
Seems I can’t accomplish 
Even my death
Even this task I make a mess

Now I am curious, I have to ask
Have any readers killed themselves yet?
This tale that’s a mess, being alive is giving me stress
If not read on, it’s gonna get better
Someone I will succeed at this suicidal adventure

OK now a bridge I hear is a good place to die
Not to hard, you jump and say good bye
I can do that, doesn’t seem hard
So now I stand on a Golden Gate Bridge
Happy at last that life will be over

All of a sudden a huge shaking occurs,
An earthquake , oh lucky me maybe the bridge will collapse
Not to be and you know that now, it tosses me infront of a car
The car brakes and halts and honks its horn
Till it sees the crack in the road just up ahead
If not for me falling right right there
That car would be the one drowning in the ocean of despair

They jumped out and hugged me and kissed me with thanks
Apparently I saved an ambulance full of pre mature babies
You know what happens next, and don’t you go crying
Another Medal of Honor for me, a hero without trying!

What the hell I give up
This suicide profession is harder than you think
Hell I might as well go back to my whiskey and drinks
Live in the darkness, and pray that one day
Life has enough meaning that I wish to actually stay

So now that these ideas so dark and so deadly
I have discarded without hope, so now I will be friendly
I will join the world of human souls and laughter
Even if inside I still lack such basic character

No more silly ideas of death
I need to move on and make life the best
So off to the store, to get me some groceries
A new leaf I have turned and I confess to a smile
When I am crossing the street, I see to my horror
That I am hit by a bus, and finally no damn tomorrows

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | Russian Poem | |

Year of the Wig

(This is a true story from 2001, when I let my
hair grow back to dark, and I fooled a few people
who thought the wig was still my own hair but with 
a different shade of blonde!)

Growing roots meant bad hair each day;
bought a wig to stay blonde at school.
One guy loved my color that way.
Said, "Your hair's never looked so cool!"

For Rick Parise's "A Bad Hair Day" Contest
using Chastushka (Russian form of poetry
with trochaic tetrameter).

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich