YuriMarkovic - Hello Poetry

Quite the start to the weekend There it goes, watch it ends These pages are made of dust What is half read is still unread Tree of paper leaving glue trail In search of the perfect bookmark I found a place for receipts to recuperate I locked eyes with Jupiter On a wooden coffee table The great counterclockwise storm Ticking away with each drop Disaster, sky without a star Heaven receives blessings, On slow workdays When martyrs are lucky enough to live We swore by that which divides day and night, and fails to conquer either That Faith must not pass the gate Until they call for prayer Until the square of crossroads is clear Sometimes I feel like a disbeliever in Jerusalem Prayers manifest duality as one So shoulders can shrug in unison Banal attempts to restore faith Outrage is out of reach The mind sets red-tape traps, We call that mindless assertions In the climate of trumpets and megaphones Nothing escapes poltics Vicious cyclones of “Breaking News" cycles "I see pictures of children in faraway places that wreck me for a day"

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Nov 8, 2017

Nov 8, 2017 at 5:24 AM UTC

Segments

Quite the start to the weekend There it goes, watch it ends These pages are made of dust What is half read is still unread Tree of paper leaving glue trail In search of the perfect bookmark I found a place for receipts to recuperate I locked eyes with Jupiter On a wooden coffee table The great counterclockwise storm Ticking away with each drop Disaster, sky without a star Heaven receives blessings, On slow workdays When martyrs are lucky enough to live We swore by that which divides day and night, and fails to conquer either That Faith must not pass the gate Until they call for prayer Until the square of crossroads is clear Sometimes I feel like a disbeliever in Jerusalem Prayers manifest duality as one So shoulders can shrug in unison Banal attempts to restore faith Outrage is out of reach The mind sets red-tape traps, We call that mindless assertions In the climate of trumpets and megaphones Nothing escapes poltics Vicious cyclones of “Breaking News" cycles "I see pictures of children in faraway places that wreck me for a day"

31

I've always found your epic tales of great essence and good taste Surely, you can disregard my prayers, and have no one question my faith While your Prophets ascend and descend Like waiters serving humanity its placebo dose of salvation Water into wine, moon splitting into two, cheap magic tricks inside Nothing is revealed as deep rooted anxieties remain I've always found your humanlike contradictions ever so humbling But why must I pray five times a day, shake my head against some wall Or have your son die for my sins? Mere motions by hearts with pseudo devotion Insomnia has a name, too Little truths reflected at the bottom of teacups Gathered in caffeine particles Stroked by last night Glimpse of glistening white teeth Particular to those who drink coffee with a straw! My God, Allah, Jehovah, (or in any other order) You, witnessing my struggle Caffeinated and rushed As I slump to slumber Face brushing the cushions My prayers are lacking, I complain O father, I can't go on, no longer! Spare me the afterlife tragedies And your abusive anger For insomnia has a name An eternal sleep, tales of woes A distress call inviting you, my unwanted anxiety

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Dec 23, 2014

Dec 23, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC

The Face of Insomnia

I've always found your epic tales of great essence and good taste Surely, you can disregard my prayers, and have no one question my faith While your Prophets ascend and descend Like waiters serving humanity its placebo dose of salvation Water into wine, moon splitting into two, cheap magic tricks inside Nothing is revealed as deep rooted anxieties remain I've always found your humanlike contradictions ever so humbling But why must I pray five times a day, shake my head against some wall Or have your son die for my sins? Mere motions by hearts with pseudo devotion Insomnia has a name, too Little truths reflected at the bottom of teacups Gathered in caffeine particles Stroked by last night Glimpse of glistening white teeth Particular to those who drink coffee with a straw! My God, Allah, Jehovah, (or in any other order) You, witnessing my struggle Caffeinated and rushed As I slump to slumber Face brushing the cushions My prayers are lacking, I complain O father, I can't go on, no longer! Spare me the afterlife tragedies And your abusive anger For insomnia has a name An eternal sleep, tales of woes A distress call inviting you, my unwanted anxiety

31

Arabs are on their knees Command them left and right, whatever you please The female goddess with her divinity But she mustn't succumb to her desires Cursed with a voidhole, a witch with no flying stick Strike the strings and they will shiver Their Gods with invested interest in genitalia, Debating vice and virtue Perverted thoughts, oh, let them pass As she rubs her blood oozed inner thighs I can hear the delicate moans and quivers Society under her thumb Quickening breath, fast paced heart and wide spread legs At last, the land of promised ******* Virginity fetishists with holy manuscripts Tribal war, the darkest of blood Mount your ******* to the highest heights Reach their moral mountains and hijack their sanity Fear stricken by your circular thumb-motions For they will associate ***** blood with vanity Ignorance at their gates No light escapes, shattered lives Facts infecting their pride Worshiped not for her intellect nor beauty But for the voidhole she carries In the desert sand, she remains a liability Until she becomes a miserable bride

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Dec 23, 2014

Dec 23, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC

Voidhole

Arabs are on their knees Command them left and right, whatever you please The female goddess with her divinity But she mustn't succumb to her desires Cursed with a voidhole, a witch with no flying stick Strike the strings and they will shiver Their Gods with invested interest in genitalia, Debating vice and virtue Perverted thoughts, oh, let them pass As she rubs her blood oozed inner thighs I can hear the delicate moans and quivers Society under her thumb Quickening breath, fast paced heart and wide spread legs At last, the land of promised ******* Virginity fetishists with holy manuscripts Tribal war, the darkest of blood Mount your ******* to the highest heights Reach their moral mountains and hijack their sanity Fear stricken by your circular thumb-motions For they will associate ***** blood with vanity Ignorance at their gates No light escapes, shattered lives Facts infecting their pride Worshiped not for her intellect nor beauty But for the voidhole she carries In the desert sand, she remains a liability Until she becomes a miserable bride

27

In the midst of all there is to live The crawling uncertainty, the laziness of souls The crippling doubt that rules us all Her gaze is shown, a lighthouse wearing a red stole Hours reduced to seconds and not much to spare A sip of winter *** delicate move of hands, hips unbound Fingers slip, chocolate lipped, spurred moments Tamed desires unleashing round breast-bites on empty appetites Quickening shivers, last minute kiss and our time is undelivered Words amounting to clichés and graceful, still, is her face The provoked eyes of adolescence delight my wary ghost I no longer linger in uncertain realities Raise a glass to the possibilities and what to come In the shadows I find you, my cure For you see, my disintegration never had a meaning So let us dwell between uncertain realities, least we find ourselves a host One year amounting to a lifetime Dreams of promised serenity are greater still What lies beneath the Arabian sun? Nothing but Imprisoned spirits, enslaved birds and wild ignorance Larger than life talks of reform, crumbling yet, in our first test Remembrance of past ways Everything fate has in store for us Even odds were aligned in phases Mountains of passion sprung high I’m a spectator, you control my letters Little by little, unnerved attempts Oceans of black uncharted seas Various letter arrangements and lines Eventually leading to the sublime Your embrace and my sea metaphors Oslo awaits, but waves won’t abate Until one day, when our minds abide

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Dec 8, 2014

Dec 8, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC

Uncertain Realities

In the midst of all there is to live The crawling uncertainty, the laziness of souls The crippling doubt that rules us all Her gaze is shown, a lighthouse wearing a red stole Hours reduced to seconds and not much to spare A sip of winter *** delicate move of hands, hips unbound Fingers slip, chocolate lipped, spurred moments Tamed desires unleashing round breast-bites on empty appetites Quickening shivers, last minute kiss and our time is undelivered Words amounting to clichés and graceful, still, is her face The provoked eyes of adolescence delight my wary ghost I no longer linger in uncertain realities Raise a glass to the possibilities and what to come In the shadows I find you, my cure For you see, my disintegration never had a meaning So let us dwell between uncertain realities, least we find ourselves a host One year amounting to a lifetime Dreams of promised serenity are greater still What lies beneath the Arabian sun? Nothing but Imprisoned spirits, enslaved birds and wild ignorance Larger than life talks of reform, crumbling yet, in our first test Remembrance of past ways Everything fate has in store for us Even odds were aligned in phases Mountains of passion sprung high I’m a spectator, you control my letters Little by little, unnerved attempts Oceans of black uncharted seas Various letter arrangements and lines Eventually leading to the sublime Your embrace and my sea metaphors Oslo awaits, but waves won’t abate Until one day, when our minds abide

32

Strange times I live in The age of social media and social struggles my attention span is slightly longer than three lines of poetry Stranger still is my moods and thrills What the days have in store, nothing but the old tale of man and death It keeps me running, forever asking for more, and here comes more Must I become God, alienate myself, condemn our sins for a cheap righteous thrill? Strange times I live in, I want to be 21 for entirety I must become an established author So my words may sink deeper in the pages of history But all I have is my unnecessary sufferings To translate my passion into fortune And money is still worshiped And nothing's sincere in things we worship Or maybe I will join the actors up on that stage, To get paid, busy myself and to ignore life's questions I can almost her them shouting "giddy up! here's a mundane thing or two, I hope you can multitask" I want to be a spectator on the side Lingering in shadows, waiting for my act, Forever waiting, even if I had no calling For I hardly find a motive to get out of bed So please, send in your warships, for man has outlived their Gods And these strange times, are getting stranger still and I do not wish to live them through

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Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC

A Message To A Nearby Void

Strange times I live in The age of social media and social struggles my attention span is slightly longer than three lines of poetry Stranger still is my moods and thrills What the days have in store, nothing but the old tale of man and death It keeps me running, forever asking for more, and here comes more Must I become God, alienate myself, condemn our sins for a cheap righteous thrill? Strange times I live in, I want to be 21 for entirety I must become an established author So my words may sink deeper in the pages of history But all I have is my unnecessary sufferings To translate my passion into fortune And money is still worshiped And nothing's sincere in things we worship Or maybe I will join the actors up on that stage, To get paid, busy myself and to ignore life's questions I can almost her them shouting "giddy up! here's a mundane thing or two, I hope you can multitask" I want to be a spectator on the side Lingering in shadows, waiting for my act, Forever waiting, even if I had no calling For I hardly find a motive to get out of bed So please, send in your warships, for man has outlived their Gods And these strange times, are getting stranger still and I do not wish to live them through

23

Emotions run deep, and deeper they must seep But what do they seek? Nothing but sheltering words, be it from a Sheik, or a Greek. The imagery is both out-worldly and unspeakably realistic We try to find a way, a channel, a historical shuttle Only to have it expressed in vague words "Here, another puzzle". The words dance in rhythms and riddles Sometimes unfathomable, Yet once aligned, they cast a spell. The spell is poetry.. and it has a society Countless souls, and souls yet to come 11th of August, marked the arrival of its rightful king Tired and tireless, a lifetime of embodying poetry O captain, my captain! Let us roam the forgotten streets and share a bottle of cheap gin Let us whisper inappropriate jokes into the ears of those who deem suicide a great sin! And Let us remember that once conscious, mankind was in tragedy, but through comedy, we found our remedy. Rest in Pieces, For I swear to Jesus, I can hear your laugh at "Pieces".

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Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC

A Thing or Two About Poetry (A Tribute)

Emotions run deep, and deeper they must seep But what do they seek? Nothing but sheltering words, be it from a Sheik, or a Greek. The imagery is both out-worldly and unspeakably realistic We try to find a way, a channel, a historical shuttle Only to have it expressed in vague words "Here, another puzzle". The words dance in rhythms and riddles Sometimes unfathomable, Yet once aligned, they cast a spell. The spell is poetry.. and it has a society Countless souls, and souls yet to come 11th of August, marked the arrival of its rightful king Tired and tireless, a lifetime of embodying poetry O captain, my captain! Let us roam the forgotten streets and share a bottle of cheap gin Let us whisper inappropriate jokes into the ears of those who deem suicide a great sin! And Let us remember that once conscious, mankind was in tragedy, but through comedy, we found our remedy. Rest in Pieces, For I swear to Jesus, I can hear your laugh at "Pieces".

22

My Middle East is torn Divided into sects and stones Desert full of rage Ancient cities bearing witness to atrocities In the name of the merciful Let the killing begin Seek justice in an afterlife For God is deaf Ceasefire! long enough to bury her face Under the classroom's desk Or onto her dead mother's chest Nameless casualties in numbers Gaze at the brilliant night sky Rain of shells, rekindling the dark-ages No truce is left For God is deaf The Father carried his young one A lifeless log returned to earth Faith unshaken among shouts and prayers Let the words avenge you Curse the creator in whispers And spiral not into an uncharted nihilistic ground Fuel your hate For God is deaf Commemorate the dead With roses on their heads Or with poems on their gravestones instead Morality embedded in poetry, blood is shed Humanity on trial Blame not my words For God is deaf And in my Middle East He remains, Undead.

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Aug 10, 2014

Aug 10, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC

My Middle East

My Middle East is torn Divided into sects and stones Desert full of rage Ancient cities bearing witness to atrocities In the name of the merciful Let the killing begin Seek justice in an afterlife For God is deaf Ceasefire! long enough to bury her face Under the classroom's desk Or onto her dead mother's chest Nameless casualties in numbers Gaze at the brilliant night sky Rain of shells, rekindling the dark-ages No truce is left For God is deaf The Father carried his young one A lifeless log returned to earth Faith unshaken among shouts and prayers Let the words avenge you Curse the creator in whispers And spiral not into an uncharted nihilistic ground Fuel your hate For God is deaf Commemorate the dead With roses on their heads Or with poems on their gravestones instead Morality embedded in poetry, blood is shed Humanity on trial Blame not my words For God is deaf And in my Middle East He remains, Undead.

35

Rest your body in this cemetery And in my backpack You’ll find your soul One arm on the damp grass Close your eyes breathe in the harsh air Cough Cigarettes are to blame Blank tombstones and timeless graves Carve our names in cursive Drink in their honor Rest your head on a tree trunk Sleep now A peaceful death Awoken by the morning mourners Frozen tears, frozen trees Stockholm, have we not shivered enough? Inhale Heaven on earth Exhale Heavenly warmth Afternoon strolls The dead crawls knees dancing Let’s find shelter A permanent home Let’s dig a hole

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Jun 11, 2014

Jun 11, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC

Sweden

Rest your body in this cemetery And in my backpack You’ll find your soul One arm on the damp grass Close your eyes breathe in the harsh air Cough Cigarettes are to blame Blank tombstones and timeless graves Carve our names in cursive Drink in their honor Rest your head on a tree trunk Sleep now A peaceful death Awoken by the morning mourners Frozen tears, frozen trees Stockholm, have we not shivered enough? Inhale Heaven on earth Exhale Heavenly warmth Afternoon strolls The dead crawls knees dancing Let’s find shelter A permanent home Let’s dig a hole

28

I find comfort in the news Be it typhoons or drones I feel like a 100 year old Camus For he was a miserable little raccoon Or should I say Morrissey? But the bipolar king is lost at sea! I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin? I will mention roses in a second But first, wear your veil May I eat your cheeks? I’m your psychopath with style We bathed in herbs together The pale ******* that shone A reoccurring dream of two moons I believe in reincarnation bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music Few clichés, I forgot about your roses One day I’ll strike the balance between rhymes and passion

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Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC

Sentiments

I find comfort in the news Be it typhoons or drones I feel like a 100 year old Camus For he was a miserable little raccoon Or should I say Morrissey? But the bipolar king is lost at sea! I think of Sylvia Plath and her oven Incinerated in a jar or in a coffin? I will mention roses in a second But first, wear your veil May I eat your cheeks? I’m your psychopath with style We bathed in herbs together The pale ******* that shone A reoccurring dream of two moons I believe in reincarnation bosoms, as the lunar eyes of an owl Stars, rain, coffee, cigarettes and music Few clichés, I forgot about your roses One day I’ll strike the balance between rhymes and passion

21

Memories of childhood, reminisce of pet-like life Time unborn, devoted to cartoons and toys Tiny lives filled with little joys Little fingers drew the future, coloring all sorts of objects painting white walls Our masterpieces punishment And then, tears We mouthed storytellers Innocence was not of choice Questionable belief in soothsayers “Music is forbidden!” They shouted But our jumpy feet touched and danced We moved in circles Incoherent dance tiny lives filled with little joys Careless giggles at the cautious tales of heaven and earth Death was a mean man in a black robe We were fearless in the face of mystery Little wanderers armed by the Whys and Hows But dear, little did we know That death is the lingering shadow weighing on the edge of our beds That afterlife is a haunting nightmare That morals are the sleep paralysis of chaotic choices “Childhood is the only known heaven!”, we asserted So we became fitful sleepers Actively protesting the killings of children With our toy-like, light beaming devices Such despairing hope We search for little joys Now we feel older than we should A cause for misery Trapped in a ruinous decay Trying to remain joyous Because we merely remain

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Jun 9, 2014

Jun 9, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC

Childhood

Memories of childhood, reminisce of pet-like life Time unborn, devoted to cartoons and toys Tiny lives filled with little joys Little fingers drew the future, coloring all sorts of objects painting white walls Our masterpieces punishment And then, tears We mouthed storytellers Innocence was not of choice Questionable belief in soothsayers “Music is forbidden!” They shouted But our jumpy feet touched and danced We moved in circles Incoherent dance tiny lives filled with little joys Careless giggles at the cautious tales of heaven and earth Death was a mean man in a black robe We were fearless in the face of mystery Little wanderers armed by the Whys and Hows But dear, little did we know That death is the lingering shadow weighing on the edge of our beds That afterlife is a haunting nightmare That morals are the sleep paralysis of chaotic choices “Childhood is the only known heaven!”, we asserted So we became fitful sleepers Actively protesting the killings of children With our toy-like, light beaming devices Such despairing hope We search for little joys Now we feel older than we should A cause for misery Trapped in a ruinous decay Trying to remain joyous Because we merely remain

35