I.

Whilst getting used to words, as to a dungeon,
I muse. Like ashes in a hearth or swishes,
remembrance makes a shroud of paper grungy.
Some thoughts die burst in inks and some are wishes.
They spread out widely as lianas’ branches,
inlaid in lines, like skin on lasts in stitches.
And maybe Peace becomes the one who stanches…
Your spear is welcomed as the word that preaches.
The sky is out of wearing a straitjacket.
I hear some native voice. It is escaping
and fondling rhymes till they replete with glosses.
It flows down in the tears to find two brackets
between the “losing hopes” and “being happy”.
The thoughts are broken up, as knees on crosses.

21 July 2009

II.

The thoughts are broken up, as knees on crosses,
and solar plexus is my spirit’s prison.
All roads with ancient pain are closed, and losses
prolong to paint between the eyebrows reasons.
No wind could bring a balsam for the roses,
for they are cut to wilt. What makes you listen
to how departing moments break to clauses,
to phrases, words, and something warm as pleasing?
An eye is hosting planetary rallies,
but step inside liaised with love and courage
to catch the severed light and self-reflection.
A check-mark on my left side meant for sally.
It’s time to conquer blues and narrow forage,
words nail the sole of firmament with passion.

13 August 2009

III.

Words nail the sole of firmament with passion,
cross-weaving nights with comets’ shiny laces.
They push through holes the solar supplications
and use long prowls for cosmoses’ shoe-spacing.
The stairs are chirpy, leading to Gazebo
where angels of the death, who hook libretto
with savors of nocebo and placebo.
I could descry in pails the splashing ghettos.
A bit up high – the roof is made of chosen,
who earned the place though agonies and sages.
The vane controls all winds, they love to crumble.
Blow molding news, as always, taste ambrosian.
Since eyelids shut by silhouettes of angels
feel oxygen starvation. Cosmos mumbles.

11 September 2009

IV.

Feel oxygen starvation. Cosmos mumbles
when hands of Atlas are too numb from stiffness.
The hauberk of the stormy cloud with rumbles
slips off his back. I am the only witness
how skies sit down and sift the gloom thought pebbles.
They long for long and earthy games with sleekness
of clammy body laid with hopes to cobble
the lonely heart. To heave a sigh with meekness
the body, drop-by-drop, unwraps the bosom,
concealed in tided lips of ocean’s ceiling.
Such way, ballades are wishful for rhymed music,
such way the timbre of the bell would pass on
the gossips of the wilted day in lilies.
The sonnet lights the written scene for musing.

18 September 2009

V.

The sonnet lights the written scene for musing.
A spider’s web gets pregnant with piñatas
of rain drops where the stars are jolted cruisers.
The moments breathe as universal strata
keep losing tracks of all galactic fuses,
claim victories o’er solar light armadas.
The wind smokes chimney pipes, drinks echo’s smoothies
where love starts journeys chirping through cicadas.
She turns to white in mothers’ breasts as timers,
forgets for everything except the wa-wa
and tries to put the cries deep down in cradles.
The spiders are lung-weavers for a summer.
Their web, when torn, set aimlessly to travel
such as forsaken words in endless fables.

9 October 2009