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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But, who feels the hush of future-in-the past?
A rabbit in the bush, his heart when he’d greet
The lover’s smile, at little distance, at the last,
To see that Nature's charms would be so sweet;
With an orange in his hand, or maybe this nosegay
Of tender recollections that would tiptoe,
But, he had been at their date, a man of clay.
And all he’d thirsty see -those eyes of the roe.
Because that orange afternoon’s desire was in debt,
And she -a lady dear, like dressed in the air all:
And golden shoes! -a princess from a fairy tale: 
”I cannot stay too much” -a clock of his empty soul.
”I have a problem with my shoes” -and he, so sad, 
That quickly, she would add: ”but not so bad.”
The hush of each first love would ever last,
Even with awkward poets belonging to the past.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2015

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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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  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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The breast of poetry is round

The breast of poetry is round
For any logic, this may sound
My sinalethism too quickly done.
Of course, I never saw a square one,
Or triangle, as maybe somewhere are:
From Oblio, No Reason Woods, not far.

The breast of poetry is round –this kind
I like to think it , while teaching blind:
It makes me feel a child of universe.
Except, it is perhaps my own verse
Ugly, distorted, and spiny as it lays
Like a beard uncut since many days

Indeed, the breast of poetry is round.
Sorry that I might not touch, but one.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2016

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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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It is golden  the shadow of  this afternoon:
Some birds gathered on the green roof,
Quarrel a time, but a cat runs them quite soon;                                                   
Orchard parted the blond cherries aloof;
The sun is playing with its shinning old crown,
Till the passing of  the good angel to tower. 
When light  finally stops on the green lawn, 
Dreams are thrown by air hands of a hope sower.

Summer, like an ostrich buried its head in the sand;       
A transparent sea steams  the dome of infinite love;   
A  swimmer reached the ships wreaked near the hot land;    
In a hurry, some clouds put down their white glove,                                                 
Trying to touch a high mirror kissed by this playful lark;
Horizon tries the new lipstick in front of the same mirror:
It seems a dark green forest slowly moves its secular ark;
Wonders greet Alice as laughing and changing world color.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2017

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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