ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FORTY-NINTH DAY OF THE YEAR

A broken, gnarled bough

lies on the grass, so long

a part of the old birch tree

swaying in the wind above it,

and now, separate and lost,

as we are, one day.

31.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FORTY-EIGHT DAY OF THE YEAR

Have I missed you?

Your absence is a wound

across my every hour.

30.-31.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FOURTY-SEVENTH DAY OF THE YEAR

 To my mother

We should celebrate, yet

we mourn. The memories

of birthday cards, gifts,

have faded. Part of me

me gone with you under

that green grass, beyond

the great waste of yeats

separating, wounding.

29.05.2023

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AND YET, WE ARE ONE OF THE FACES DRIFTING THROUGH THE STREETS

Such a ghastly exercise

sometimes, this linear flow

of events we call life. If

only we could stand a little

bit outside, across some

unseen divide, untrampled

by years - like some statue

standing in a forlorn park,

upon a hill overlooking a city

going through its time-ordered

decay and the relentless

change of faces wandering,

lost, on its streets.

28.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FORTY-SIXTH DAY

There's not much wisdom in what we do,

and hope... even less. We live for the day,

and yet dream of the years to come, of

some future time when we shall be

blessed, and all is tranquil and at peace.

Well, that place, of still and cool rest,

the end of all the ache and yearning

- it's the grave.

28.05.2023

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NO ONE GETS WHAT THEY DESERVE

The idea that life should

be fair is as absurd as the idea

that those cast on the highest

cliff by its waves deserve

to be there. It's solely chance

only which crowns or

decapitates us, mere

human flotsam.

27.05.2023

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FLOATING

It's not our name being written in water

that matters, it's that the very water of life,

which encompassed our being, itself

evaporates. Our world is but currents

in an evaporating ocean.

27.05.2023

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THE NEW WILL ALWAYS CONQUER THE OLD

The past is a foreign country,

so the saying goes,

but the future...

The future is a foreign continent,

full of spiteful armies measuring

our decrepit ramparts with

their confident eyes.

27.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTY-FIFTH DAY OF THE YEAR

A morning so different

from the gloomy beginning

of yesterday; a landscape

now abundant in light,

bright colours flowing

in birdsong. The human

mind but supple clay

before nature's change;

when rain fell in dim

light, grief was my

companion, now joy

dreams of pale flesh

on the spring grass.

27.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FOURTY-FOURTH DAY OF THE YEAR

It rains behind the library window

as I sit on a sofa reading a book by Glück,

close to falling asleep as I kill time waiting

for the mid-day bus. Such soft condemnations

of the path poetry took in the USA, like raindrops

outside hitting cracked asphalt. They exist,

but leave no mark, and uniting, run along

the cracks to pool, like these essays

to the pages of her book.

26.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FOURTY-THIRD DAY OF THE YEAR

A gloomy day, breeze

travelling the lane as we

walk, slowly, your tail

held up but lonely

after a decade walking

these paths with another

tail wagging happily,

confidently, beside

your hesitation. Thus

we end up in the evening

of our lives, waiting

for the rain to come.

25.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTY-SECOND DAY OF THE YEAR

Under the azure sky, bright green

leaves I am far away, far away.

Far away from the burning sun,

far away from the silent houses.

My mind is in other places,

it's walking on different grass

than this my feet are trodding

here. In other places, in different

times my mind is seeking what

it lost and will never touch

in flesh again. Under the azure

sky, bright green leaves

I am far away, far away

where I lost what made me. 

24.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FOURTY-FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR

Evening. Patch of

pale blue sky

between white

clouds, darkened

crests of trees,

silence. A hollow

moment carved

in flowing time.

23.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND FOURTIETH DAY OF THE YEAR

And what if you had guts

and you had luck on your side,

and from your brief years you

fashioned something people spoke

approvingly standing on the side

of your open grave; the silent one

to your left, and the silent one to

your right, perhaps didn't make

as much, and perhaps they wasted

all they had, in talent and years. Yet

the earth is same and lies as heavy

on their coffins as yours, the worms

will make no difference between your

flesh and theirs. And all your guts

and all your luck will not guide you

out of where you are now.

22.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINTH DAY OF THE YEAR

These long summer

days, so short against

the canvas of years.

And see how the

canvas itself frays.

21.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT DAY OF THE YEAR

There should be more

here, in this apartment, today

on your birthday; two more,

at least, & us all happier,

with less empty places

around the table & our lives,

& those lives with less loss

in all its myriad forms.

There should, & there

isn't, & that, that

is my fault, this life less

rich than you deserve.

I can only apologize

through time to a later day.

20.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH DAY OF THE YEAR

In the long dusk dies the day,

and tired I come back to the door;

the longed for sleep awaits,

in which the lost from other

days live like soon shall we.

19.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-SIXTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Cold morning, before dawn, the fir tree

we planted on the backyard so many

decades ago sways in the wind, slowly,

so tall now. Where have the years

gone? I ask, knowing. They have gone

into this dark-green life swaying in

the wind, they have gone into the damp

graves under an iron sky.

18.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIFTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Rain, wind, the evening early

dark, and to there, into that

gloom, to walk the path that

should be unnecessary,

the path to your graves.

17.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-FOURTH DAY OF THE YEAR

These days of ours just slip away, like the water

flowing in the brook runs, cold, over and around

your extended hands; cup them, dip them

below the surface, raise your cupped hands -

now you have a little of the brook. This water

is the memories you carry in your mind. Now

try and bring it back to your home in your

cupped hands. What you have when you arrive

is what you will save of your past life, until

the end, when the brook runs dry.

16.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-THIRD DAY OF THE YEAR

Reading Yevgeni Zamjatin's We I'm

thinking 'This isn't that terrible a place

to live in, for a dystopia built on

the ruins of a two-hundred-year-long

war that has left most of the Earth

uninhabited." "It's dull, a conformist's

wet dream, but everyone get their

basic needs filled and there are

no underclasses, no manipulation

of intelligence. It sure as hell

beats libertarian utopias..."

15..05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-SECOND DAY OF THE YEAR I

Birdsong, just before

the Sun rises, pale blue

sky and fields finally

more green and brown,

and it's time to go to

sleep, to let these

hours spent on the

world's pain find solace

in the dark, cool

waters of dreams.

14.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

DON'T GIVE ANY ATTENTION TO THE ARMAGEDDON

One more thing people take for

granted, the lack of insects:

So very few where spring

evenings were full of them,

swarms in the fading light,

and you had to put lattice

frames on windows to

allow in the air and deny

them; but no need for

that now. And people,

as ever, accept this evil

as the new normal. As

they accept the birds

lesser in numbers,

their songs a distant

echo of what it was.

The people shrug their

shoulders, their lives

are so troubled, they

say, they don't have

time to such things,

all this foolish worrying

- isn't it better, they say, that

there are so few insects?

And if the birds have less

to eat, and less nestlings

each year, well, pity, but

the people, they have

so much on their mind,

they can't be worried

about this, and anyway,

on the web there are

people saying it was

ever thus, that those

spring days filled

with birdsong, those

swarms of insects,

they are all lies

from doormongers,

that everything is as

good as it has ever been,

and silence, after all,

is good for the nerves.

14.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-SECOND DAY OF THE YEAR II

From the highway, beyond

the healing wound of a felled

forest, an unending sound of

cars, a world on the move.

Here, a thinned spring,

inhabited by ghosts, their

voices uncaptured, lost

except to memory, and

the occasional sound of

birds, singing, like they

have for tens of millions

of years. A constant thing

against the hum of wheels

on cracked asphalt, these

brief lives we inhabit into

oblivision's final winter.

14.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

NEOPTOLEMUS AT DELPHI

And so Neoptolemus, the blood of Priam

and Polyxena on his robes, and Hector's

widow his slave, went to Delphi and challenged

Apollo, who had slain his father. An old man

and a young girl had fallen to his sword,

a city had been burned to ash; all the world,

Achilles' son saw, trembled before him -

the god didn't. What he had started at

Apollo's altar, ended at Apollo's altar;

like Priam's blood stained the altar

at Troy, his own blood was offered

as a libation to the god of the swift

bow at Delphi.

14.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTY-FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR

In the end, yes,

in the end...

there is an end

of all this

that we call life,

of which we have

wasted so much

thinking about that end.

13.-14.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

A DECENT DAY THAT SHALL NOT BE REMEMBERED

I stand on the creaking porch,

listening to the birds singing

in the dark blue night, a mug

of warmed coffee, burning

hot, in my hand, sipping

from it as the night grows

slowly chill. So the day ends,

slipping away, to be among

the shades which exist

between memories.

12.05.2023

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WATCHING EUROPEAN SOUTHERN OBSEVATORY'S VIDEO OF NGC 1316

Like flowers on a dark meadow

the galaxies bloom, brightly,

blue, red-brown and white,

thousands of billions of stars

making a handful of blossoms

for the patient hand of time

to slowly wither.

12.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND THIRTIETH DAY OF THE YEAR

Night, and death blossoms

in explosions tearing the darkness,

but be numb, and blind, and deaf,

'Westerner', for this is Palestine's

Gaza, not Ukraine, and thus

you don't have to care.

12.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

PALESTINE UNDER ATTACK

33 killed in the last three days

in Israel's occupation forces' attacks,

33 dead, 7 children, and yet the 'West'

is only truly troubled that Israel has

to face some consequences,  547

rockets, for all the killing. Violence,

the 'West' says, should be one-sided.

If this would be Ukraine, oh how

would they be crying now,

in the capitals and press rooms,

but this is Palestine, so they

are telling how nothing ever

justifies opposing murderous

occupier with violence.

11.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-NINENTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Long evening, Sun

finally dipping behind

the now black line of trees,

and I sat here, the doors open

to outside, from where the

occasional sound of birds

singing comes into this

room in dusk, the sound

of spring among so

many things ending.

11.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-EIGHT DAY OF THE YEAR

411 dead, thousands missings, in

the Democratic Republic of Congo,

former Zaire, and what are 411 dead

against the history of tens of millions

dead since Arab slavers and European

colonialists pierced the heart of Africa?

This, again, is not the doing of the people

who are dead or homeless now, no, it's

again us, we who drive global warming

with our fossil fuels and bring increased

rain and landslides washing out villages,

villages in which electricity was a luxury.

So much riches carried out from the heart

of Africa, bleeding, by us and all we give

back is death, death plentiful and devoid

of sympathy, like our distant, selfish lives.

10.05.2023

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LOOKING OUT

Black cardboard figures glued

on to dark blue silk-paper,

trees in the spring night.

09.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-SEVENTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Ten dead in besieged Gaza, as

occupier Israel kills with the blessing

of Brussels. 124 dead this year,

and there simply are no words

left to describe the immense

injustice in which our charlatan

leaders dutifully play the role

of the comical sidekick to

the bloody-handed villain.

09.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-SIXTH DAY OF THE YEAR

A happy life is all about

helping to postpone others'

deaths successfully.

08.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-FIFTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Insects swarm the backyard

in mid-day light, and inside,

in the dimmer, filtered light,

particles of dust like mosquitoes

float in the stagnant air.

07.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-FOURTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Evening, the backyard

in shadow, but from between

the crowns of high pines

the Sun throws a golden

lance, a golden and cold

lance, across and through

the window, impaling on

the windowsill the old cat.

06.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-THIRD DAY OF THE YEAR

131 dead in Australia in the last week, I read,

in the First World blessed with vaccines, and

then WHO essentially declaring emergency

over, with pious rhetoric how the well-to-do

should now do better, after having allowed

millions to die. All those petitions for vaccine

patent waver, in vain, hundreds of millions

of doses wasted, and three billion without

a single vaccine dose, and now the smug

f*cks should do' better, in the name of their

children and grand-children, preaches Right

Reverend Tedros. Millions more will die,

and one day, sooner than later, the day

after tomorrow, a new variant from

the ranks of the unvaccinated, abandoned

multitudes, to sweep this globe with a viral

scythe of death. Our leaders, our dear,

despised First World leaders, should

be broken on the wheel.

05.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-SECOND DAY OF THE YEAR

A morning in shining gold,

evergreens against the blue sky

swaying, all colours tell of

warmth, but the chill

goes to the bones.

04.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDREDTH AND TWENTY-FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR

Sunshine and rain,

the day wavering between,

until now, in the evening

just before night, all calm

stillness, clouds frozen

ragged in the fading blue.

03.05.2023

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BRIEFLY

A reflection of a falling

leaf on dark lake water,

this life of ours.

03.05.2023

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IN THE GLOOM OF A SPRING MORNING

'There's a desolation in the soul',

I would say, if I would believe in souls,

 hiding in pineal glands and weighing

21 grams. But I don't. So I just say

that this landscape in autumnal colours

is seeping into my mind, crossing

the barrier between self and the immediate

world it inhabits. The melting snow

and the raing falling cold, the soaked

dead grass and the dark green moss

covering stones, the silent absence

of songbirds on this spring morning,

I don't know where they would end

and I would begin, brief moments

in meandering time mingling

on their way to emptiness.

02.05.2023

#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse

THE ECHO ANSWERS

The universe shouts,

in the garb of this world,

and the echo that answers,

already fading,

is you.

02.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRETH AND TWENTIETH DAY OF THE YEAR

It snowed again last night,

white veil melting over the

dead grass and fallen leaves

of last autumn, dripping from

the rafters as drops of water,

transforming as we never can,

water and nature, between

forms and seasons.

02.05.2023

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ON THE ONE HUNDRETH AND NINETEENTH DAY OF THE YEAR

Against a blue sky the evergeens

caressed by the Sun; only yesterday

snow fell under a gray-white sky,

and now, the spring, again.

01.05.2023

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