In poetry, the sense of being attempting to extract,
Bard, in his feelings, shows time's connection act.

Heart's feelings often grow from delusions,
Out of soil, deceived by dream's illusions ...
Love comes in no time, by plunging peaceful life into wild run of madness spree,
As spring's green sprout suddenly breaks through the trunk of dry old dying tree.

I don't comprehend why life is so short, I don't comprehend how vast is universe,
Alas I know that despair, loneliness and pain are parts of poet's everlasting curse.

While heart is pushing blood in veins, it's always braced for love, no matter will it bring the joy or peril,
And how heart on Earth could feel - incapable to grasp in Heaven or in Hell, nor angel, neither devil.

Husband to wife on way out did say:
"There is plenty of space in my house to stay.
Feel free to go around wherever my dear,
Except for one room, which is banned for you here.

Death is the price, set for breaking my law,
- Don't go downstairs to that room on first floor,
Though I shall leave upon you all the keys ...
Stay out from entering it, be obedient, please!"

Just when he left, she went down at once,
While devil whispers: "Don't miss the chance!"
Here's that coveted key to the door ...
"Open it up" - devil says: "wait no more!" ...

My windows face the busy street ...

Both day and night the traffic beat

Invades my quiet solitude

And violates my restful mood.


Fire trucks, an ambulance, police

Disturb my inner conscience peace.

Their sounds tell me of distress

Disaster, death, unhappiness.


I sense like that the world entire

Is crying pain, being set on fire.

And I feel urgent to respond,

Discovering my human bond.


But there are times, which aren't my best ...

Inside of me wakes up unrest.

I feel abandoned, I feel weak,

I don't sense my heart beat tick.


And in those times I have the need

To hear sounds of the street.

This buzz connects me to the world

To which I cling as last resort.


It's nice, being either young or old,

To know that's no matter what,

No matter what will future hold

- Life keeps on moving by my road.

The love in poetry or poetry in love,
Which one is my forte I don't really know ...
Or both or none of the above,
Or something in between ... and there in between I go.


On certain mornings I awake being sick
With certain sweet disease that has no other cure,
Than trying to come up with words, which in my heart would stick,
Such words, which are in sync with feelings I indeed endure.


And when I find those words, my rage goes away,
Transferring into poetry so utterly contagious,
Infecting those who read - and that what makes my day,
Rewarding efforts, humble, yet enormously courageous.