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Best Ovidiu Bocsa Poems

Below are the all-time best Ovidiu Bocsa poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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If written by God,
Why lost rhyme, measure?

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012

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Scent of the day

Scent of the day 
The sun and the moon, at random met in a race,
But never walked together on the forgotten grass
Of their recollections tuning incredible bass;
Drums asleep rested in a secret chamber of grace.

Fade, the flowers crushed under the horses’ hoof
Called the white dawn with the scent of church,  
While the sick forest shared hope with the birch
Like a monk in pensive mood, standing sadly, aloof.

Sun arises, pushing a shinning golden fork
At the other side of the soul and the throne
Ready to touch and wound the flying stork
At the first date with the white cloud-heron.

And the silent grew green like the firs on the crest;
And the sun was running on the moon all the day,
And the hope was running like a butterfly without rest;
It looks for the flower with secret scent of the day.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2014

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Dancing Verse

You are my dancing verse, from early frozen dawns;   
But clouds still rested, like broken glass of sky,
When playful youth, a snowball threw and hit a ray;             
But clouds still rested above the inner dreaming lawns.                 
At first I thought, the world is made of frozen honey;
But clouds still rested, like windows of the people’ soul; 
By river-time, as I stayed and saw the stopped sky`s condole
But clouds still rested, so I chose from them, the pony.

A farther world in which I live, I guard my glass menagerie:
And dreams still rested, like tamed animals in your hands,       
When words I chose, they were like penguins of farther lands;    
And dreams still rested, like ready to adorn the season` tree.        
You dancing skate and keep my hand, beyond the mirror white; 
And love still rested: the golden ray is playing in thy lock.
We form a joyful stanza, in which we dance around the clock;
And love still rested, and feeds us all with tender light.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2014

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This wind is not alone because it stays on the height,
And waits for golden dawns that follow after night;
It crossed many tempests, islands and an ocean dark,
It met the fairies and hobbits and the joyous lark.

While flattening blond fields, it thought a paradox 
How Little Prince was taught on Friendship by a Fox:
While playing with the grass, and with the yellow maze,
While caressing the flowers’ feet, it heard a poet`s case…

This poet is like the hottest wind that lives on height:
Suddenly, his “light poetry” is seen as “poetry of light”.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2014

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Adorable Mrs Spring

Well, finally one lucky man may realize
That nothing in the world could equalize
Thy poetry, except the magic season
Which for the poet, has other reason.
I have a date with adorable Mrs Spring.
So excited, I think I tell her everything:
How much I love her splendid eyes
Of magic green, that all verdure cries 
Every morning, to borrow from hers.
In dream, I kiss the naked shoulders,
I stroke that incredible hair green,
And so I know this beauty's queen:
All her body is a charming thrill
Of larks as singing on the silky hill.
Then, the horizon as her sweet round hip
In playful wish to have a happy good trip, 
It is the time when sun is ready to wake up.
A toi ! Like Joe Dassin I take the noble cup.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2016

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  I am Harry Potter and I am a killer...of ideas, because I don`t follow them to their happy end. There are some troubles with my short memory, but these cannot stop me to construe new worlds. I like the sound of ”Imagine” and Strawberry Fields. If you want to know, some colleagues call me ET, because I came in your world from my own world. I like to play with colored butterflies. I learn to count them, but I have always stopped at my IQ age: 6 or 7 (from home). I am under the butterfly effect (sensitive dependence on initial conditions).  Actually, I am trying to write my story as HP, but I don`t know to write except the letter H (from Happy and Harry and Harmony and house) and P (from Perhaps and Pretty and Photo). Happy and Perhaps are my pretty close friends. Definitely, Happy is my best friend, but I never saw photos with Perhaps. Happy says Perhaps is my future. I like in your world, except my neigbor Ready, who is a strange girl: one day, she jumped on me and kissed a lot, and I shoted and called Enough, who was the other guardian, who laughed and said she could become a president, good politician –he said- she was voted by many. I feel so vulnerable, when Happy is away. Sometimes, he is tired, I am tired, we all are tired in this world. Happy is married with Harmony and they have a week of holiday far from the madding world. I wait for them and I count the days. Ready is a neigbour, bad person. Enough laughs and asks her if she is ready. She is always Ready, for many. Anxiously, I count the déjà vu days. Now, I am to tell you about our games in which, each person is HP and has 7 lives.  The next day I am deaf-mute, because sorrow.The days after, I experience my retard in different ways. I cannot walk because I haven`t listened ”The Balad for Two Violins” by Ciprian Porumbescu... So, if you want to bring me in your classroom, please answer honestly: Are you prepared? Don`t say ready, because you are not Ready! The rest of my lives, I scribled this: It is my flower: for me? For you!

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2015

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With closed eyes,because this burning light,
The clouds will go beyond the golden day,
And sun will rest in your hair, a playful ray,             
But blue will stretch a hand to inner sight;                 
Some dreams are riding yet, the friendly pony.
Neighbors: the fairy`s breasts in joyous rest; 
With closed eyes, the morning wind will test
And run a bee along no time wet honey;

Old summer buried its face in gentle light and sand;
Some dreams grew like shinning clouds above       
By covering the castles,then a part of our beach;    
No wind to run them , except a tender hand.        
The taste of salt and sea are slowly speaking love;     
While changeable waves, to blond laughs reach...

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2014

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It`s peace in the forest, this night…
All stars gathered in the same breath;
The frost`s wolf chatters his white teeth;                                                   
 Mourning old trees are all covered by light;
The wind increased his obsessive white;
Neighbors: the snowmen and a glass stag 
When night is finally waving its white flag,
Dreams are hanged by luminous white of the height.

Winter buried its face in frozen white lands,       
Long Snow drifts grew like glass clouds above       
And covered the village and half of the church;    
Sun seems a squeezed lemon by white hands.                                                 
Milk dawns, glass blower speaks slowly of love;     
White field sounds with crows near one silver birch.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012

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Grass of hope

In color flouting leaves, those leaves of times:
In dream as searching for hope another rhymes,
They met the grass, everywhere,the grass of hope;
But neither fate nor faith were set to moral slope.

The trembling leaves were free to kiss the wind
While the postmodern Columbus swore to find
The freedom`s borders with morning quivers,
With shinning heart like golden sharp scissors.

Like the pretzels with seeds of caraway
Passed our serenity and the emeralds` day,
Coiling itself up  in the times`shell,
Calling recollections hidden in hell.

Noon of amber color, with old scissors
Is ready to cut the black stripes of tigers,
The moon, and the beard of the Prophet;
But monks cannot endure: Not even a poet.

Breaking away through the walls of reality
Going  away from the cold rationality
Entering the realm on the heart`s side
Now was the time to open up your mind.

Was forest covered by guilty silence of mankind?
A rusty axe out of the east perturbed the mind:
If love was true, why liberty was not responsible
And it might mock the saints and hate was possible?

Truths hunt and think upon us. A larger reality: 
Feelings were talking about love and brutality
Spirits, beasts, ghosts in a pale path of normality
Taking gentle face of the family, city, mentality;

For once you should not try to shirk the real facts:
The language, beliefs, culture, feelings and acts.
Life is our own real reward and punishment
Living in the woods, kind of self banishment…

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2015

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A frog like me

When Fancy`s Fairy barefooted runs in the happy green, 
The blond bees dance near honey comb in New Jersey…
One Ocean distance to lie in daily gray and self mercy:
This butterfly lost the way of Brasil Carnival just seen

In virtual  3D in the last movie of the “generation mall”
At the European new poles beyond the old courtain.
The goldfish .jpg ,pdf , new prezi in chatrooms mentain
Virtual people looking for exotic food, forgot the call.

Beyond pictures.jpg, new projects.prezi kept in leptop,
Postmodern hermeneutics of love lost the compass
And compassion in this aquarium whose ocean may pass 
All in those proclaimed Mayas last days ,they will  stop.

Staying on the large yellow water lily, a frog like me
Is fascinated by the ocean of your eyes and their swords.
 I Goggle out at the little crumbs of bread and words
As thrown by the good visitors of the small lake free.
“Your bread is dry and dull: You are not good for Soup!”
I wanted to share the dinner with my noble neighbor:
A reddish tortoise stopped near my poetical harbor.
I know. I know I don`t live in Galapagos with your group.

Defiant white and red beets wait on the table` bands;
Horse radishes with invisible pricking javelin, vinegar,
Turkey, salad decorated with sweet basil, potatoes eager.
Family, Trinity, prayers, smiles, candles shaking hands.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012