September

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Here is a poem featured in CalendArt by the Balkan Writers Project. They also organized the Belgrade Poetography Exhibition last year, which I’ve already mentioned here. And, as last year, the promotion was fun and creative, a great experience!


Rustles — feverish, sore
Whistling — chronically loud
Eyes closed,  September strides
overtaking what came before.

Weeps — rainy sweat
Whines — stormy breath
Embraced by nature rushes forth.
Who knows where it wants to go.

In a raincoat, looking at the sky,
I’m wondering: Will it arrive?

 

ONE

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Mom’s dandelions.

This poem is oppening to Oblivion Corpus I wrote a while back.


We were strange dandelions
Little, yellow and extraneous
Wind blew followed by a ray of sun
So we became merged as one.

Cursed be that whiffing
Destiny’s thread is pulling
When nature goes on spree
And completely eradicates thee.

In your turmoil you’re not vain
Although in lack of that ochre mane
For I was just about to bourgeon
To me the world wasn’t a burden.

The roots interweave
From confinement no relief
Did what you thought was right
To cut down before we start

My part.

Game Over

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A boy. Restless, hyper-all
through vessels sugar rushes.
Oh, the fun!

Cars on a colorful rug
against the laws of physics
follow lines.
Toy soldiers fighting aloud —
shooting, breaking, demolishing.

A plush Teddy, now a stained bear — suffers.
Stuffing hovers and falls.
Broken pencils, scraps, slips, splinters
taking over the floor. No room for
a car and soldier toys.

A child, when there is no more space for him to play — departs.
The mother will clean up; the child will return.

A Human, when there is no more space for him to play — departs.
The Mother will clean up. The Human — removed.
No room for a toy soldier if Mother gets hurt.

Fruit fly

 

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A single all hues colored fleck

flies

flies

restless and fidgeting

flies

flies

just a bug

the fruit one

that flutters through the air

and bobs around our heads

flies

flies

we shake our limbs

something burns within

so we stretch it’s wings

across our bloody palm

what is that which bothers us

which takes our peace away

when we can with just our hands

spill it’s bile and cease a fly

that now forevermore

flies

flies

The Furnace of Joy

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I’m a blazing furnace

That chemical in mace

Which burns your groins

Holds you to your loins

Until the moist is out

And my ashes sprout

When I am well done

We clean up the fun

And start the meal over

Cause I’m a lucky clover.

 

“You truly are my favorite poet

It delights me when you’re open

Inspiration you always do share

Along with ‘her’; it seems you care.”

 

I have unveiled talents that

You didn’t know you had

Many of those are bed bound

Some of them are word sounds

For you are becoming a poet

A good one; I know that sonnet.

It’s been inside this whole time

Now you are ready to burst out

With beautiful words of joy

Go down there; be a good boy.

 

His Home Town

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A town embraced by earth’s hips and bosom,

neatly lain between the curves and sways of trees,

colorful under the heavy clouds,

brighter soaked in rain…

Welcomed me into its cold, yet reassuring hug.

When the sunshine drops through the sky’s rug

it glimmers and laughs, echoing over the mounts.

Loud… and silent when silence is required

wet… and dry when your feet get tired,

Continue reading

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):

THE WISHER OF WINGS

 

 

Hope

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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.

 

Fury

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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…