Poems

an empty room, the ghost of dinners past
it's seen no broom, and memories that last
are in the parquet floor, and in stained walls
she still opens the door, as if he calls

Author notes: image from picturem.com

you'll find your love among the stars
so read my horoscope
when Jupiter appears in Mars
do not abandon hope
and so I didn't, mon amour
as I am an astronomer

that tiny, sweaty head, laid on your shoulder
what won't you give to feel it once again
to hug her, and to comfort her, to hold her
why can't it be like, just like it was then

she slaps you on the shoulder, and says: Dad, what's wrong?
And you smile, like all dads, and say, oh, nothing, carry on.

Author notes: image from parade.com

you thought, perhaps, you'd see it later
imagined that you have a while
believed that we are better, greater
dismissed the signals with a smile
and even now, as danger lurks
you are convinced that it all works
and confident, you see no teeth
the surface's clear, don't look beneath

I've realized that I no longer read.
Oh, I skim plenty, just as we all do.
But read, like I read then, back when I grew,
and swallowed books with a voracious greed.
Before the writer's had a chance to plead
his case, I'm searching for a stronger brew,
and move on to the next one in the queue
and rarely stay to learn who's done the deed.

It's formula that's made all copy bland?
Or is it my capacity to care?
I worry, on occasion, that it's me.
I see the words, but cannot understand
why anyone is moved. A stale affair.
This one's about the princess and the pea.

I've reached the age when one eschews new forms.
Those brave endeavors better left to those
residing in their swanky ivy dorms,
or those receiving Pulitzers for prose
that masquerades as poetry in print.
I can abide geometry as art:
Picasso, at the least, won't make you squint.
But adjectives assembled ala carte
and bent to shapes no stanza should allow;
as eyes glaze over, accolades and stars
accumulate, the poet takes a bow...
Let beatniks read them in forgotten bars,
and ooohs and aaahs dress emperors in gold,
these are not poems. And now mine's been told.

a splash of red and green, the porch looks festive
a combination pleasing to the eye
your mind will set the scene: a housewife, restive
he left this morning, didn't say goodbye
inside, she's having tea and crumpets
but later, she will water the rocktrumpets

Author notes: image from publicdomainpictures.net

Damascus steel
reflects its inner layers
a prism into its hammered, fiery birth

Blind, but by feel
its drawn to final prayers
and longs to send them back to Mother Earth

Metallic rainbow, fills you up with dread
Accepts all colors, loves the color red

stop telling me about my better nature
stop saying I'm so holy and so pure
do not be so impressed by wings and stature
it's honestly just too much to endure
can someone just invite me to the ball?
what does it take? I really want to fall

Author notes: wc 48

As memories flood in, the clock stands still.
The second hand is helpless.  The deluge
sweeps all that's in its path.  The evening's chill
seeps into every bone, there's no refuge.
His wife, that first shy smile, and then a laugh!
"A boy! Yes, it's a boy!  I'm calling Mom!"
The hospital so helpful, and its staff
so sensitive... No matter, he is numb.
Was it all worth it, ups and downs of note?
His children here, their children matter most...
"Say something..."  But the words die in his throat.
A sob escapes, the wailing of a ghost.
He is no longer here.  His form remains.
The hourglass relents.  Sand falls in grains.

Those frantic years, their joy extinguished, over
Weigh heavily, brain muddled and hung over
But like a wine -- the sorrow of days gone
grows stronger as it ages, now all brawn
My path has dulled, predicting labored grieving
uncertain, wary seas, the waters heaving

But friends, I do not wish, at all, to die,
I want to live, to think, to suffer, aye;
I well know what awaits me: rarer pleasures,
mixed in with disappointments, anxious measures:
Occasionally tranquilized by drink,
or drowned in tears when writing what I think.
Perhaps, just maybe, for my sad, last chapter
Love flashes a sweet smile, to take hereafter

Author notes: Безумных лет угасшее веселье Мне тяжело, как смутное похмелье. Но, как вино — печаль минувших дней В моей душе чем старе, тем сильней. Мой путь уныл. Сулит мне труд и горе Грядущего волнуемое море. Но не хочу, о други, умирать; Я жить хочу, чтоб мыслить и страдать; И ведаю, мне будут наслажденья Меж горестей, забот и треволненья: Порой опять гармонией упьюсь, Над вымыслом слезами обольюсь, И может быть — на мой закат печальный Блеснет любовь улыбкою прощальной.

Among melted down candles, devoted to prayer,
among old wartime trophies and bonfires for peace,
lived the children of books having barely a care
and bemoaned as a crisis each minor caprice.

Children often lament their existence and state,
and our fights were well spent, scrapes oft leading to hate.
But our moms on the whole, mended us and our clothes
while we swallowed those scrolls, getting drunk on each dose.

Hair fell loosely and stuck to the sweatiest brows
and the intricate phrases would catch in our breath.
Heads grew dizzy from battle, and warrior vows,
spun them further from pages as yellow as death.

As we went on the prowl, our pretend live or die
and confused a loud howl for a stiff battle cry.
What's the point of an order, the point of attack
and a border that's crossed by a chariot's track.

Cauldrons, soon boiling over with squabbles and feuds
ample meal for a hungry, voracious young mind.
For the role of the cowardly, traitorous broods
we put up our young enemies, they did in kind.

We would not lose the trail of the villain's next move
Good shall always prevail, maidens shall get the proof
of our undying love, and our friends put at ease
We're are heroes, and heroes can do as they please.

Sadly, dream worlds can't offer escape without end.
Idle play time runs out. World intrudes with real pain.
Can you open the fists of the dead? In their hand
there's a weapon, make sure they've not struggled in vain.

Try it on, you now own someone's sword, it's still warm
Put your war armor on, and ride into the storm.
Are you easily rattled, how will you behave
when you taste a real battle, a hero, or knave?

When a friend falls besides you, his wounds are too much
and you wail at the loss, it's a risk you both knew,
and you feel his raw skin and the pain of his touch,
and you can't comprehend, why it's him, and not you.

Now you do understand, now you've witnessed the cull
The helm's visor at hand, it is Death's smiling skull
The rough lines in the faces of evil and lies
Left behind, shallow graves, cracking ravens, and flies.

If you never ate meat off the edge of a knife
and you fold your hands, neat, and say, that's not my life,
if you've not joined the struggle against the unjust
you have not played your part, have not done as you must.

If you've cut your way through with your father's old sword,
if your tears stain your face, you don't care how it looks.
If you've known heat of battle and its just reward
Then it's likely that you've finished all the right books.

Author notes: https://www.culture.ru/poems/19515/ballada-o-borbe