…

It has no shadow and its feathers’re missing
the gloss of dew and stardust of the night
It turns to Raven –when I read it listens
it turns to glittered quill in moonlight when I write

But interminably it comes when day’s in blossom
it’s missing wings are pitiful regret
Presiding over Salvador’s ”supreme ambition”
it squints at books I start to write but soon forget…

”Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings”
Salvador Dali

You scream I am Witch of darkened ages!
And make the fire with the pages
That praises me! You bare sages!
Me! Who drank old gin with drunken Poe?
Who filled the skull with blood of wine
for Byron playing in his castle?
Invited to soirees and rested on clover
Bed with Stevenson observing ‘’… child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play…’’ ?

I am condemned to burn in flames
Sustained by you with flapping pages
of poems read as shortened prose!
The masterpieces of new ages
Stored in the dusted schools of yours!
The instruments of inquisition to kill me more~!

I am The Rhyme!
I will survive the burning blaze
Of foolest pages yet receding!
The light of old will lit they way
To newest kingdom
Of my reign!
And not sustained thy flames will wane!

Darkened dunes lonely castles
casting saffron on coastline
Ocean–amber indigo
melting last golden rays…

Draped in the Suede of first shadows
Night pulls black sleeve of cloak,
Weaved in diamonds and rubies
lace of mask over face

casting moon shot reflection
in the glistening mirror…..
Split in half glassy kingdom
War on top –peace beneath

playing wondrous drama
Splashed in blue sward of lightning
Thunder cracks abyss open
striking torches of gold

rolling waves ever mighty
Mephistophilus plays Wagner
sweeping moon with the stardust
wind is wailing above
Brigantine harbored under.…

Rags of red silky dresses
Drapes of sails flawing down
Play is over, seats empty
actors fired. Alas!

Salvador’s melting watches
Kings of noontide are broken
Mast—lit stage holds unspoken
Final, short epilogue
of what once was a drama….
Sleepless nights twined in passion!

Paramours’ timeless playwright
Moon– is hiding in shadows
Prima donna lays pastel
Wreath of lilies –white tears

I dreamed of narrow streets of Rome with sunlight brushed against the open windows

I dreamed of iron door– its carving weave of handle too hot on fingers– opened into cooling
shadows of the courtyard

I dreamed of fountain that shed its scarlet paint, striking the strings of icicles—the feverish sparks against my flushing skin, turn golden streaks that melt and slither under décolleté of tawny silk

I dreamed you tore that silk away– the orange flames against your bare feet burning the angels perched on flowers of the tiles’ marble…

I dreamed you twined with shadows and left your light within the classrooms of your wisdom and dusted libraries and,
blaze with me, at holy city of the sin, that used to burn to ashes its dazzling bells up in its lofty cobalt dome—the endless sky of ancient Rome..

2010.

I looked for day but found night
Filled with the fear and frustration

And night by night I could not sleep
My angel left me in the darkness
Of narrow room of grimmest thoughts
The crying thoughts that were my masters

Then He would come
On windowsill his strange profile of palest
Pallet of coldest blue, transparent yellow
Lit up by moon…his eyes would ferret
His dirty cup…
my soul would scorch
In flames of thy red hellish power
To fail my will…

I could not think.…
He handed venom ..I would drink.

Dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe

*Chopin( the music of rhymes. Eastern Europeans pronounce Chopen )

.

They always cut without resurrection
The tender golden String that laces our Souls
With precious beads of days and nights
and priceless moments of Affection

And every time you slash that strand
I look for tiny beads to fix it
and with each time I find them less..

I take what’s left and try to mix it
With empty looks, and closed doors
With lonely nights, and lasting grieving
For something that belonged to us

The Spring of our treasured feelings…

This time, I may add sparkling tears
And mix them with the droplets scattered on the ground
But seems this time the strand will not be fixed
The tiny clasp of purest gold– was lost… and never found.…

…