As I sigh, I pat my pockets
And search for an old friend.
Seeking comfort and consolation
In someone I know all too well.

A pure white cigarette with a cotton filter.
I place it in my mouth and light the end.
A familiar greeting. A firm handshake.
Then we begin our conversation.

I take a long drag from my dear old friend.
He pats me on the back.
He tells me that I will be okay.
He gives me the strength that I lack.

Another long puff with a cough at the end.
Five minutes of my life that I'll never get back.
Five minutes of life taken from me,
In exchange for a glimmer of solace.

Holding my friend, I take a deep breath.
Inhaling the oxygen I need.
Then I fill my lungs with smoke.
As I feel the comfort slipping away.

My friend is gone; my friend is done.
I flick his remains away.
Although he is gone, he will soon return.
Helping my body decay.

My solace has disappeared.
I'm back to the way that I felt before.
My former feelings, now magnified.
Leaving me unsatisfied.

We are passing through a blue
period after
a grey period: 'Surely
a green age will follow.' You
stifle your remorse. We are on
our way to
yet
another chance
for tears
in our mother's eyes. Don't you agree? Mothers
enfolded
in the depths -the depths
of land dear
to our souls - where the gods
live
steeped in their
energy. That energy
is proof enough that never, not for
one single
moment, have their hearts
departed
from that magnetic place.
               Magnetic? Of course...
Alone in those lands,
they hang on to their sadness, their wisdom,
while their children
              reach out to catch
                         the golden ring of freedom,
and the risk:

the risk of wandering on an endless,
senseless pilgrimage. Flying
like model planes? Oh,
the thrill
until -
three thousand, twelve thousand
years - they're found, fossilised in sedimentary rocks,
mothers
separated from their children, layers
and layers apart, preserved,
with a bit of luck, in mint condition
(maybe) buried
with all the things that might
be needed in the afterlife...
A movement
from East to West, following
the progress
of the sun. What

was I saying? Oh yes, we are passing through
a blue period, after
a grey period...

Liviu Ioan Stoiciu, from Born in Romania, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest 2014

I shall quiet the cries
living in the back of my mind
and halt their attempts to skew and redefine
what it means to feel joy..

Joy? What's all this talk about joy?
What is this polarized dialogue
between what I feel and what I think
and what I think I feel?
                                      
                                      I am life, is that enough?
                                      I am cold, should I be worried?
                                      I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry for what I've put you through. I am sorry for my foolish dwellings where I chose to reside.
Could have burned them down
Could have drowned it out
Instead I chose to ache for you and wait for you
to make me change.

He:
Oh, how I beseech to woo
From the moment I laid my eyes on you.
Who wouldn’t wonder of such that Fate
Brought unlikely souls like bait?

Here comes Cupid’s arrows flying
To our innocent hearts as its landing.
It is not something I wished
And child’s play can be suppressed.

But the tempest had to appease,
So I made Poseidon to please.
Bacchus, enough is that merrymaking
That I may be spared by the king.

Far and wide I had to go,
Lo, I’m surprised my love is just here so…
Come, hold tight to my hand,
Let our musicality form a band.

She:
Hug me to your heart’s content
That warmth can be competent.
Go, you have me to carry,
Just don’t let your piggyback hurt me very.

Let us hither under the stars,
Wish to shooting stars that never scarce.
I hope you don’t mind my long hair,
Perhaps the wind can move it, not tear.

Can you smell the breeze of the meadow?
Oh, I like to lie on it like a shadow.
Make haste, for time is to burrow,
Kiss me like there’s no tomorrow.

Salute to this allegory!
Be this love’s hymn of glory;
Here’s for my boo long before I’ve met
From your dearest, the poet.