Official Announcement

First of all, I would like to thank everyone who read my poems, who left their likes and comments, and who followed my blog. Thanks, guys!

And now the announcement:

The Wings Corpus has officially ended. The last poem, with a few add-ons, perhaps even photos (if I find a willing donor 😉 ) will be available in my upcoming online edition of the poems. I will continue posting my older poems, don’t worry. The blog is still running.

If you want to collaborate, perhaps we could write something together, or you may even wish to show me your paintings and photos in order to use them in my book, or even if you just want to talk, feel free to contact me on my Facebook page.

Wish you all the best in your creative endeavors. Cheers!

P.S. Just for you, my faithful followers, a preview of my book cover (if you think I should add or remove anything, or change it in anyway, do tell):






Piercing the darkness with his swirling sword,

ha awoke a glimmer of Hope.

Together with Yearning inside, remembered the

melody of a time when Time stood still.


Ancient Chorus,

an eternal aria,

Choir of Angels,

the greatest Opera:

Hear the Harp —

as it plucks,

and it strums, strums, strums

in a lyrical delight.

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme.¹

Hear the Chimes —

as they ring, ring, ring,

announcing the spring

in a glory of the night,

in a holy, choral glory of the night.

Hear the Glockenspiel —

it thrills in a tinkle,

as it twinkles the sparks,

sparks, sparks, sparks,

as it tinkles and it twinkles

in the enlightened, shining beauty of the dark.

Hear the Bassoon —

glorious in tune,

that gentle, vocal monsoon,

as it moans, moans, moans

in a guttural, orotund groan,

calling upon the white, laden Moon,

and a Star… star, star, star…

Penetrating the atmosphere with sound —

that harmonious , profound orchestra —

on the bottom of the down,

down, down, down.

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme.

Everlasting in the sky:

a Song of Winds,

the Melody carried

on celestial Wings…


… enveloping the fury,

taking over the Steed,

and He felt the Love of One

as the horn broke and fell,

his colors faded with the wind,

he shrunk and swayed. Standing still —

back on the undulating pastures — a Horse

with no wings, among many others.

Loving and calm.

Grazing the fragrant grass,

listening for a river in the distance.


¹Remembering the Greats: Edgar Allan Poe, The Bells.




In a dim hour of Dusk

the stroke of furies broke afar.

Once chained by the strength of winds,

with intense yearning Steed restrained,

this instant was the victim of the dark.


Led by a blind faith,

greed of a flame and pride,

shameless; wishing for the brake of Dawn —

he was summoned by a false sky

into Twilight:

Where smoking wraiths sway,

where the lightning of sin strikes aloud,

where temperance is gone and wisdom fades,

where the hope even in dreams cannot be found.

There came the horned emperor,

on the wings of evil beings.


The regime of Underheaven keeps world’s lies

poisoning the soul of the Earth child.

Strews turmoil, pain, fear and war…

Until Death takes home

tormented core of the mankind.


But the Death is not there, in the fright horizon —

she seeks serenity, peace and Eden.

Yearns for pure mind and a Beginning in the End.

She — the queen with no judgment, the sister of Life,

this night was deterred by thunder.

Electric needles falling on the entrance;

she can’t get near the breaking being,

so calls for help the eternal kin:

“Father — transcendent peace, Endless Love!

Dear brother — short-lived idyll tortured by darkness,

enlightened by mind!

Seize the unseenable dusk,

obliterate dark and darnel!

Let us offer serenity and paradise!”

The answer fell carried by winds of silence;

two speak as one:

“The trial stays with he who pursues

our scopes before time.”


Verdict echoes with truth. The battle lasts now.


Shimmering seeker of the Universe

strikes the bottom with hooves.


With a force of furious despair,

maelstrom of sharp crest,

with weapons of dreams,

colors of fugacious spring —

the massive Steed shields.


Whirlpool of evil — masked with mirrors.


With rage of fury,

bursting jolt,

burning current,

with loathing terror-woven —

hails the ghastly collapse.


Over the meadow of the Mythical Steed,

a Star has now ceased…


…in the midst of Heavens It beholds:

Where smoking wraiths sway,

where the lightning of sin strikes aloud,

where temperance is gone and wisdom fades,

where the hope even in dreams cannot be found…



This powerfull photo was taken by my mom. :D The poem was published here.

This powerfull photo was taken by my mom. 😀 The poem was published here.

Over the Gray Hills lies a small town. Up above gather stormy clouds.

The woods have fallen in, fallen to the ground.

Awake is only He who knows, wandering about. That small town is full of people, people in deep slumber. Whispering in their ears, He is whispering the truth. No one is able to hear the mocking bird.

The words have fallen in, fallen to the ground.

The Masters of Sleep are coming closer, are coming for He who wonders. With nightgowns and sleeping potions. He is taken far – where truth sleeps and echoes. And nothing is – but a sound.

The whispers have fallen in, fallen to the ground.


The Wisher of Wings


Blue laden Moon hanged aloft.

Hiding in the corner of nature is Hope;

while over the meadow of the Mythical Steed,

a Star is falling and falling…

On its peak the Meaning concealed,

the bottom kept a secret of Dawn,

both sides thinning and thinning,

pouring into the Endless Love.


The green hornet flew above the pastures,

searching for the wellspring of Wisdom,

thinking about the smell of roots…

He trotted beside.


Vast and vigorous, with tightened muscles,

the mane undulated by a whiff of  Zephyr,

he was tall and wispy, gold and silver,

with a deep black stare.


Anchored in direction of his aim,

he abandoned his home long ago,

yearning for indigo skies

slowly drove him away.

The Star is summoning to its realm.


His nostrils wide, breathing painfully;

sore legs and clenched chest,

Yet he cannot stop. The desire is great:

He would soar into the dome of clouds.


The swirl of his horn pulling him to the ground,

steam stemming out of his pores,

stepping over the soft, fragrant grass…

(but he cannot stop, no, he cannot stop).


The river flows by, gurgling drops of blue light,

dry is the tongue, the burning mouth…

Home is calling aloud.


Swarm of bees buzzing in the mind,

flock of birds is pecking about,

just a few thoughts — few bright sparks:

The Wings are there! Endure! Come on!


… slowly reaching the end of the road,

down-at-heel steps — he’s walking now,

laden as the Moon, as pendulum sways,

nearing the edge of depths…


Hiding in the corner of nature is Hope,

while over the meadow of the Mythical Steed,

a Star is falling and falling…


Moon Passage

Br. 6

Photo was taken by Nevena Jovanović. Both the photograph and  my poem bellow were showcased in Belgrade Poetography Exhibition held in December at Mixer House.

The passing of the soul onto the realm of unknown.

Over the bridge and into the tunnel. New life awaits.

For they are but shadows cut off from the body,

returning still. Reuniting.

The black of the skies doesn’t frighten,

yet the way back is amiss.

When will they understand and fathom

that the moon is the only ticket out of here?

Contemplation (Pastures of the Universe)

unicorn universe

This damp, drizzly morning

I saw a wing of a butterfly —

gentle, little… blue and sprinkled.

I felt a whiff of zephyr —

light, fragrant… undulating.

None can fly close to the cloudy Sky.


Suspicious Sun yearns for the empyrean,

raising its head and grinning towards a

savory Pasture.

The prickle of a green hornet seems terrifying,

It buzzes around, hums, breathes deeply and wonders

why won’t I get out of Its way.

But It cannot reach the topmost needle of a conifer.


Brisk eve hints of rime.

A little finch is sleeping on a stump;

I approach steadily.

The horn doesn’t frighten It,

neither does my black stare.

Ash and autumn cover that small body;

the wings carry It to the spring and back —

unable to gain height.


I became a birdwatcher today:

magical crow, wise and beaky raven,

surplus magpie, sparrow-hawk ready to hunt,

euphonious nightingale, humorous mockingbird,

friendly sparrow, a powerful wren…

At nightfall the Moon is white.

I’m welcoming it and pondering still:

Who’s Wings lead to the Pastures of the Universe?


The Smell of Rain


Made by Jesse Newman


The smell of rain in June

Rising from the stone

Like a whirl of wind

Swaying – in a tune

The breath of fresh air

Uniting in Its flight

Reaching up above

My senses – delights

Together now we dance

With nature’s true shade

Oh! The summer can play

A surprising, risky game

Fields – soaked in juice

Enjoying the cloud show

Before the times change

And bring dry revenge

Gaea, worried in her realm

Strewn by global events

Frowns upon this kind

Oh! Are we all so blind?

Urging us to contemplate

From our seats we must rise

Lie on nearby meadow

And think about the skies.



erotic abstract

It is stunning

when I look

into your eyes

and see myself,

find the sing.

All of the thoughts

that I’ve been hiding,

they are inside

of your mind.


Mysterious glance,

crooked smile,

and I am disarmed –

thinking of sin.

We’ll be united –

feeling so sure –

and that will be

our only cure.


Rising high

above the sky,

the welcoming stars.

Going faster

with every breath,

until we reach

that glorious end.


And when the Sun

finally rises,

when bird’s song

fills us within…

With gentle touch,

a kiss to repay,

I will thank you

for every day.