DAY
Alone,
but blissful,
It's the day...
that has
the sun for
company...
NIGHT
It's joyful,
and live in party!
million stars
splash its mantle
in aquarelle..
Abandoned childhood home
Was still filled with corn bread scent
And ethereal steps of heartless motherhood.
The music box, found in the corner of the room, laid
Full of Mozart and scars,
Old cabinet
With drawers for storing
Always freshly harvested frost,
That all,
And rare watermark of father's eye
In invisible aquarelle,
Forced her to freeze the heart
And clenched the fist,
Preventing memories to spill over the soul
Like the endless field
On a cracked palm of the hand.
Adorable Michelle
A blonde bombshell
A chic mademoiselle
Moved like a gazelle
Vicious rumours ripe to dispel
Everything between heaven and hell
Around on the carousel from rebel to infidel
Jealous wagging tongues, wasn’t hard to tell
Really she was into music and aquarelle
French cuisine with béchamel and caramel
Strolling shores collecting seashell
Cultivating roses, pimpernel and bluebell
Fell hard for some guy with a rose at his lapel
Who wrote her a crude villanelle
Penned using an old fashioned inkwell
And it worked as a potent love spell
Before the dinner bell
Had her up in a motel
Watching Emmanuel
Drinking chilled zinfandel
AP: 1st place 2021
Buddhist Poet Tree in Motion
Paige helped herself to words written
On the canvas of life with earth
Etched on tapestry smoothening
The smothering eclipse of demise
Thermal springs fired resolve and
Restitution from smouldering ashes
Engraved meaning emoted retold
Enclaves of sanity resilient narration
In water she bathed her soul
Nascent native naïve swallowed
Mellow stream bubbles sprinkled
On aquarelle paper sun stars and
The moon in eight noble truths
Inspiring rhyme rhythm meter from
Obscure obfuscation Paige turned
Nothing to pages a tree of her change
24th January 2016
streets became an obstacle to footsteps
because of their benches
lighting columns
stairs at the building entrances
you are not breathing
a quarrel
concealed by the door is screaming from a nearby apartment
no one has ever told
that
it is going to be easy
under the window
football boots
unearthed from the pile of Red cross's garbage
are chasing the ball
for you it doesn't make any difference
a thought -
the tree will sprout
if not in yours
than at least in your neighbor's backyard -
is
disgraced by spilled concrete
again
it won't happen to you
a touch of warmth imprinted at your cheek
and your silence
below the heels of well trained passers-by
you have mislaid your expectation
and
threw that last look at the muddy road
it should happen to you
maybe already tomorrow
either way
pink is only a reflection of the red on the white surface
Apocalyptic sight
Six pairs of Homeric children’s eyes
Over the tomb of ice gray world
Multiply my infinite sorrow into sins with no eyes or ears
In tangents of nostalgia
I kiss the death there that life suffers lung cancer
Biblical accusation pierces the silence of solitary harp in the Century of Hamlet’s
Four soaked tears eyes
Cannot set in a web of art neither in the depth of tired aquarelle eyes
The old childhood love into triangle breaths depth
Shed tears in salt of survival
In the geometry of continents
Time impasse like me in the Scandinavian saga
Logical mathematics does not capture lines neither feast of hieroglyph tears
The root of injustice divides only parents' pain
Above the European dried moral
Six pairs of eyes and four pairs of eaves accuse
They live autumn of loneliness
Any number does not define emblem of loneliness
Not even a prayer of compassion
Cosine of loneliness interferes in verses and the poetry of human love
And the death doesn’t suffer the reception
because I draw lines while remaining just a number
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