Documents of Croatian
Documents of Croatian
Foreign correction
In oils blemishing
So fine
The jealousy of time
In all worlds
Cannot stop us
As poverty
As crime
Time peaces us apart further
Than our refusals mimes
Hatred in poise
Taught nothing
In passing glance
Times rot
Beckons fascination
"I shall be like a tree planted by the river ... " Psalm 1:3
A child born during thunderstorm that
Braved thunder lightning, grew up but
Could not cope brother Dane’s death
Depression, fear took an ugly turn
Even as comforted by his calm-
Father, a revered church priest who
Gave his child - 6yr old Nikola all the wanted love,
Handed him the precious Bible and
Inspired him with stories of Lord that
Just made boy Nikola learn and
Know the Bible by heart. Nikola
Learned Czech, Serbo-Croatian from
Mother who taught him patience -
Nurturing talent, creativity and
One of a kind eidetic memory
Procuring him scientific spirit and
Quest for wisdom that became a
Rage making Nikola never once
Stop in his storming life or
Tire from the hardships that
Unfolded at his each step of success
Veracity stood by Nikola Tesla who
Worked frantically for 20 hours a day
Xper who found use of alternating current
Yearned for peace in war torn world
Zap was life of such an illustrious man.
My family spoke two languages
I’m not the same
Results came in still thankless
Feels weird to be diagnosed anxious
Results so plain
I’m still hiding under several blankets
I ain’t sleeping
Then several days went
The same waste stays
Can’t clean when I’m chained by the anklets
Godsent prayers came in graceless
Repetitious technique chased off my basis
I’m jealous of the mares who run the Mesas
Too free to worry if we’re Serbian or Croatians
Expelled air
Pollution of the body left me breathless
I’m no better
Than shoot us in the feet
Allusion of me to embarrass the lesser
That’s no lesson
My pools of words are not limited to English.
I was a missionary in France and Belgium, so learned French.
I studied Spanish in college for several years afterwards.
The US Army had me learn Russian during the Cold War,
Then cross-trained me into Serbo-Croatian during the Bosnia/Kosovo Wars.
I spent about 7 years stationed-residing in West Germany and Germany.
Like German, Slavic-derived languages are very root-driven.
The most romantic word I ever heard is "izabranica" (pronounced izabranitsa).
Typical banal English translations do not give the word justice.
Usually it is put forward as an endearment such as 'darling' or 'sweetheart'.
But my favorite Serbo-Croatian word means so much more.
The root of the word is 'bran'; 'braniti' means to select or gather.
The suffix 'ica' is a feminine ending, often used for people.
The prefix 'iza' means "out from". So what does "izabranica' really mean?
Means more than just your one true love; more than just your soulmate...
It means the woman you chose out from among all others, your izabranica.
Dubravka lived alone in a lonely part of town.
She left Croatia when the trouble all went down.
In the morning she would dance the waltz in a bright red hat.
The only company she had was little Macka her tawny cat.
At lunch she would dance the “kolo” a traditional Croatian dance,
Although her aching joints made it difficult to prance.
Macka would smile at her every day and sip cream from a ballet shoe.
Her memories of dancing ballet had moved from her mind to her heart.
At night she would try to perform the “pas de bouree” and fail,
Falling gently into her bed and cry herself to sleep.
But asleep she would dance ”Swan Lake” to clapping as loud as hail.
And drown in flowers that made her weep.
Her fingers were wrinkled and found it difficult to hold a plate.
But her heart sometimes woke her early it couldn’t wait,
To dance in the kitchen on a sunny afternoon.
And push away the darkness that had come far too soon.
France beat Argentina four to three
In that game Mbappe was the key
Then they defeated Uruguay two goals to nil
As Uruguay's goalie let one spill
In the semis it was Belgium they faced
France headed one in with victory's embrace
They were in the finals, but who would they play
Would England beat Croatia and win the day?
As it turned out, the three lions couldn't roar
They were coming home with no trophy in store
So the final was set, Croatia and France
Two great teams would get their chance
In the finals France took a free kick
But when the Croatian defender did a head flick
The ball ended up in his own goal!
It seemed France would be on a roll
Croatia responded with a brilliant strike
It traveled so fast, it was rocket-like
But France added 3 more to the score
And they lifted the trophy once more!
I somehow missed the nineties
As far as pop culture was concerned
I spent a lot of it overseas
Watching as the Balkans burned
I had learned Russian for the Army
But the Russian Bear was no longer wild
About the time they reunited Germany
I gained a brand new wife and child
With the fall of the Soviet Union
I thought the world might finely be sane
Then I cross trained into Serbo-Croatian
As Yugoslavia went up in flame
The Army was not a free ride
I did several deployment rotations
Monitoring war crimes like genocide
Or in Macedonia with the United Nations
The nineties ended quietly
At least from what I remember
I was focused then on family
Until that fatal 11 September
Warrior Poet, newest nom de plume for Mark Halliday
An American citizen, gained a taste for living abroad as a LDS missionary.
Retired in 2007 as a Staff Sergeant from the US Army (20 years service);
Really preferred assignments in Germany over Macedonia and Iraq.
Instrumentalist, he learned to plays (in order): piano, flute, synthesizer,
Organ, guitar, fife, keyboards, acoustic and electric and bass guitars.
Reads a lot, mostly military science fiction novels. Loved Marvel Comics.
Prior studied French, Spanish, German, Russian, and Serbo-Croatian;
Only writes lyrics and poetry though in English and French to Nelly (Mrs H).
Enjoys cooking stroganoff, lasagna, choucroute garni, and couscous.
Trying today to get a job in France; will be flying to Paris October 12th.
Mark Halliday
20141003, Monterey Calif.
In that glistening azure pond
I had a favorite
A duck
I called
Tawnablu
A quacker kind of
Bird
Recognizable by the
Aquamarine
Feathers
Atop her bobbing head
She swam aloof from
The rest
And refused all bread
Crumbs
Thrown her way
Even the finest bits
Collected from week old
French bread
Leftovers from the
Bakery
Down the road
The one managed by a
Croatian
Kick boxer from the Bronx
The one that
Refused entry to
Shirtless
Skateboarding
Teens
But kindly gave me
All the crusty crumbs I
Could bag
For my
Duck feeding
Addiction
And I am not embarrassed
Not so macho
To say
I loved that duck
My Tawnablu
In ways I can never
Describe
But let me try
To put my affection
Into words
Just this once:
Tawnablu, my pretty Canard
Quacking so hard
I want to ride your back
Down a stream
Without end
Tawnablu, my epic Canard
Quacking so hard
Take me, wild beauty
All the way to
Duck Heaven
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