XXX.

Not much to lose, except pluck-feathered madness.
Ideas yellow in a scribbled column.
Use tongue as driblets at its leisure, gladness,
brim arias for nasal alts while falling.

The wind’s soprano, salty patterns, sadness…
Roulades, the smalt of sky moves contra solem,
occludes the light and wipes away the deadness
of hell on asphalt, sunny puddles’ strolling.

Eternal dancing – forte to piano,
and from piano into deeper forte,
chiaroscuro, yields of rings in halos,

filled to the brim in nebulous Cinzano…
Though growing dumb, in trance, I’m still recording
tempested dandelions, dreams umbrellas.

March 25, 2013

XXXI.

Tempested dandelions, dreams umbrellas,
their seamless glide seems highly frail and easy
in heady and inflated heights to mellow.
They trace around the paper sky of reasons.

The gods of ink pen in divine duellos.
Which word is right? What color is in season?
The writing thickens where the margins fell off,
the battle fields for jotted notes of vision

and penetrating body lines of silence.
The time is always right when love has courage
to free her world in words, disrobe the edges,

so thoughts could keep the light in balance.
Oh, sonnet bowels, in the blast of sorry
apprise my barely melted heart that ages.

March 26, 2013

In Ukrainian:
http://stihi.ru/2010/07/06/6324
http://stihi.ru/2010/12/31/6693