From moments when love was cherished in Stalingrad,
Like stories written on the walls
With the song repeated by Babushka
And not long after that, the war reached its gates.
Hands turned into fists and ready for battle
Like heads and shoulders patiently under the whip,
The Motherland Calls enchants and glorifies,
Without knowing the ensuing bloodbath.
Every minute felt like a bundle of fear,
With the magic of free will as faded as a dust,
Like a house turned into rubble
And corpses piled upon corpses.
Categories:
babushka, hero, history, war, world
Form: Free verse
Try not to notice the stand-out babushka I was told.
I immediately whipped my face around, so big and bold.
She was really something with kerchief of green and gold.
I said not to look! Said my friend, whose face seemed old.
He is so smitten with his cat, it is almost ridiculous I know.
But he has no other relative, so he is in love with Bitsy Blow.
She wandered onto his back step one day in February snow.
I try my best to not see her, even though she has eyes that glow.
Categories:
babushka, cat,
Form: Rhyme
White, blue and red
With you in life I wed
Babushka you may not like
Moya supraga I will surely like.
Categories:
babushka, love, meaningful,
Form: Chastushka
The Matryoshka marriage bound
with plush roses and spiced tulips.
Bride’s xanthous babushka, face-crowned
in Matryoshka marriage bound.
The groom peacocks with lively sound -
a bottle dance with skillful kicks.
The Matryoshka marriage bound
with plush roses and spiced tulips.
2/4/2022
Categories:
babushka, marriage,
Form: Triolet
Wanted to write a Chastushka
But Christmas snow dampened my hair
So I took out my babushka
And said, “Let it snow, I don’t care!”
* December 18, 2020
For Andrea’s Chastushka Contest
Categories:
babushka, christmas, humor,
Form: Chastushka
THE HANDKERCHIEF
heavy babushka
wrought with widow’s drawn out tears
a brief lover’s note
6/28/2017
haiku form
Categories:
babushka, bereavement, heartbreak,
Form: Haiku
About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
*“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”*
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
Soused on *Stoli,* reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats,
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm *détente* between us.
Categories:
babushka, america, angst,
Form: Blank verse
A horde of weary eyes
at the false fountain of youth
in demo against
the fading of the majestic night;
their hushed voice vibrates against
my seat, as I enjoy the skyline
while the silver moon, secretly
sips my ice-cold compote.
That strange looks
somehow touch
my own sadness, humming
with the cold breeze of gentle wind
and the yelling of sweet Babushka;
I know…and they know, she is right;
it’s time for all, to come to term
with her final whistle.
She’s the night watcher. Her gate
of ephemeral solitude,
is soon to be locked; no other entrance,
unless one takes the risk, creeping
like vine to reach the terrace;
but it isn’t easy, ‘cos yesterday morn
crushed eyes blocked the doorway
that made Babushka scream, for help.
Thou, I never gave her headaches;
she’s really worried seeing me
on the edge
of the rooftop, while
reading Pushkin, as the squadron
of night worshippers, whining
at the false fountain of youth,
‘cos of unfinished home-works.
Categories:
babushka, life, nostalgia, people, places,
Form: Narrative
Over a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka
And slices of kalbasa…. and cold breeze
Of first September, you proudly spoke to me
Of Lenin; we sat beneath the apple tree.
I disagreed not, with your thoughts
Neither, I agreed. It’s just I had no time
To argue, nor speak about him right now,
For my mind was fixated. A green apple
Teasingly, hanging above our heads;
Come on, discussions…later, I childishly beg
As I kept lusting for the sweet juice of temptation;
Tempted I was, it took me only one jump, for
The fruit of my fleeting desire;
Still, you refused to stop, talking
About the great proletariat, who cares?
Me? Hmm, nope, this green apple’s juicier
Than what you’re telling; I wiped the thin dust off
With my long-back shirt. Then, I opened my mouth
To bite it; But, a passing, scraggy Babushka yelled:
“If you eat that apple, my son, you will die!”
Without asking her why? I threw it.
Then, my friend Ruslanchik said:
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,
We’re only 100 km away from our black history!”
Categories:
babushka, death, history, life, people,
Form: Narrative