My reader, looking at the ring, have ever you been caught
On efforts, spent to make it, sudden flashing thought?
About sifting through waste rock to find the rare gem
Where mother-nature hided it from curiousity of men.

About jeweler's stone cutting skillful labor duty
To grind the gem, exposing all it brilliance and beauty?
About ring design, embodying stone in golden artful frame
Creating masterpiece to glorify forever craftsman's name?

Likewise, in poetry, the sense of being attempting to extract,
Bard feelings puts in words to shows time's connection act.

I'm in love with Juanita

From El Paso country song ...

Kiss me stronger, senorita,

Make my memories be gone.


To forget the northern beauty,

Who's cold heart is made of stone,

Kiss me stronger, Spanish cutie,

Give me love I missed so long.


Brown eyes so warm and tender,

Margaritaville from blender

Makes it easy to surrender,

Borrowing love from lovely lender.


Do not check my credit rating,

- I am all anticipating ...

Give me love that I am awaiting,

Make my loneliness abating!


Rambling rose from Spanish garden,

Do not let my heart to harden.

Harden only what can please,

- I am down on my knees.


I'm in love with Juanita

From El Paso country song ...

Kiss me stronger, senorita,

Make my memories be gone.

No one appreciates breakups but yet they happen...
And they cause wounds of hearts,  being very deadly weapon.

Wild Rosehip grew in dusty soil,
By life's tough struggle hardened,
Yet undistinguished are its heart and soul
From rose in cared flower garden.

Wild Rosehip grew by roadside in the dusty stony soil,
The thorny shrub, by life's dull prose tough struggle hardened,
Being unaware that indistinguished are its heart and soul
From ones of rose, which lives in beauty of well cared garden.

But Gardener instilled in lonely bush hope's stalk - to cure its past loneliness and worry,
And blossomed it in Spring, to the surprise of self, with shine of tender fragranced glory ...
That morning wrote the bard his best love song, the song, with feelings passion fired,
- To fame the beauty of the one, to whom his heart belongs, by nature's miracle inspired.

So let as curse, as cruel possession,
To you in darkness, lack of sight,
My hot seducing naked impression
Will come as torture day and night.

And then in throes of lust and carnal passion
In madness agonizing, conjuring and praying,  
For making love to me consuming mad obsession
Price ultimate of death you'll offer to be paying.

Your begging though will be in vain.
My heart will stay indifferently cold.
You fool, forever lying at my feet in pain,
Be able not light fire of my soul.

Once to triangle said oval: "There is no merit in answering by blow to a blow.
In figure of your character itself laid is the foundation of your failure, though.
I smoothly bend all obstacles around, while you are shaping all misfortunes of your fate.
Being hurt by cornering yourself is your distinctive trait."

This tree is obsolete, its shrunken roots have lost support of ground.
It doesn't hear voice of spring, birds chorus's trills it doesn't hear sound.
Gone are audacity and fun of crown's growth rage,
Killed by the cold hangover brought by unforgiving age.
In dreamlike memories of youth this tree is held enchanted by the past,
By happiness and love that were alive, alas, they long have passed.

But, strangely, on its trunk the tender green shoot of escape I see,
Which props itself through wrinkles of its bark's dried up and deadened skin.
Oh, tree of life - not yet completed is your time.
As long as you can stand -  life's heavy burden you shall overcome!

Just before days advance of the cold snowy winter
Autumn's early sunset colors skyline in crimson.
I have dreams of the one, whom I loved in the past,
I am hearing the music, under which we have danced.  

I am dreaming about the youth of the yore,
I have dreams of first love, I am dreaming of her.
I have dreams of first kiss, and forgotten sweet pain,
Dejavu resurrecting comes to heart back again.

Fly to South wild birds to escape winter's terror,
Cleaving sky by flock's wedge, as the tip of an arrow,
And I follow the birds, flying back to my youth,
Reuniting with Spring, leaving realm of dark truth.

With condescendence circumference selfishly once said to spiral:
"You are ridiculous and useless curve, my popularity is viral!"
So you, the poet, in vanity, being only with talent of your own bound,
Believe that center of the world you are, and all the rest rotates around.

Man's tenderness is stingy on the words, rare are male tears, which have the taste of salt,
But heart of man is not, however, bound by the armor, made of steel, and not protected is from pain his soul.
----
When time and distance violate hearts closeness sensation,
It's difficult to find right words expressing loving and affection.
----
Time lines, globe covering in circles tight,
They guard their borders during day and night.
Like sentries on the duty, they are on patrol,
They separate our love by time and distance wall.
----
Let rain of love keep pouring - it's much better than the hail of hate.
Soul's desert it will into  blooming garden turn in sudden change of fate.

In the heart of the Tuscany under Italy's sun
Lies the town of Lucca, which is known to some
As Giacomo Puccini's birthplace, and the truth to be told,
He's Italian composer, one of the best in the world.

In the times of Medieval - far back in the past
Thrived the banking in Lucca and the art of silk craft ...
....
The legend has that at those times and in this very city
Lucia Manco lived so gorgeous, vane and pretty.

Though cunning Satan made her splendid stunning beauty last
On the condition, that her lovers souls to Devil pass she must.
... For quite a while this deal worked really well
- Men souls were going from her bed straight to the Hell.

For quite long time she never fell in love, we trust
- Her drive was simply egotistic vanity and crave for lust.
But even magic comes to undeterred sudden end
- She met young man, to whom she loving heart of hers has lent.

She would not dare to corrupt his wholesome soul,
And lost her beauty just at once forever and for all.
He lost his love to her at instance when she lost her femine charms .
But to the worst, the Devil told him that he held his mother in his arms!

The famous Mona Lisa smile, projects it mystery of earthly women's wisdom grace...
I saw its shadow, hidden in the eyes of mad and homeless female beggar's face.

Two different women names his mouth calls,
One in a prayer and another one in curse.
The ****** one makes him suffer, though yet he longs for her in passion spell.
His body and the soul dwell in a bitter strife between the Heaven and the Hell.

Even though tightly fits into the sphere certain cube,
Rejected she his love, because he is primitive and rude:
"Alliance between us would really be looking very strange,
I am developed fully, your intellect stands far below my range!"

Do you love or just want to be loved ?

Is for you "to be loved" good enough ?

Should you settle your life just with that,

How it feels during times, spent in bed ?


If ******* just comes as technique,

Not requiring for both hearts to click,

If the skills are well tuned and adjusted, being tried,

Then before you are ready to fall into sleep, satisfied,


Do you dare to say: "I do too" to the guy ?

Does he know it is just a lie ?

Was he able sometimes to cut through

And reply with the pain: "It's not true!" ?

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.

Sraight line is boastful, being so righteously direct.
It thinks of self as borderless, is always forward towards progress aimed,
Deceived by nature's false simplicity, by pride of ignorance being blinded bad,
Just doesn't know, that eventually it comes full circle also at the end.

As Khayyam in rubaiyat quite often used to say:
Here's the wine, so drink it up, let it make us play.
Don't break this fragile jug, which is made of clay,
Time will pass, and you too may return this way.

Like rivers flow into ocean
Time doesn't stop its steady motion.
And only Love without caution
Survives the time through its Devotion.

Blessed be the one, who loves and who is loved, such love is most expensive treasure.
That lucky one, surprised and stunned, sinks into the ocean of nirvana's pleasure.
And only poet can experience sometimes quite similar self satisfying festive mood,
The bard, whose words were read and meaning of his words was felt and understood.

In poetry I go by the pen name Prince, but yet for me it's not so big endeavor.
Just let the purity and pain, in love for you I feel, in heart of yours will stay forever.

I wander through the resting place of love, the abode of disappointed hopes.
Grass of oblivion can't be found on this ground, there is no pain relieving herbs.
So many restless hearts are buried here, lying abandoned, cheated, burnt.
Not once nostalgia, for the feast of memory, will ask me to this place return.

Give me chariot with horses, bearing likeness of Pegasus,
I would soar on their wings, reaching top of mount Parnassus.
I would leave the Rocinante under care of Sancho Panza,
I'd forget of Dulcinea, drop romance unfinished stanza.

My poetic inspiration would uplift me over prose,
I would stretch my hands in trying to embrace the sinful Earth.
All the planet's mortal dwellers I would make cry, pray and curse.
May my art of playing lyre be Apollo's cheering worth.

As reward God gives to Poet magic gift of divine seer,
To foretell its own fortune to the readers and his peers.
But the poetry is powerless, can't protect the bard from death,
Will not shield from fateful ending, will not hide from cruel chase.

Pity is, but wings of glory can not change life's fatal bound.
Will not notice that dead rider dropped from saddle and fell down,
Horses will continue running with their cruel pace in keeping.
Only Muse, the Dulcinea, will shed tears in mournful weeping.

The mystic secret of the night
Embraces us and holds us tight
In its evasive grip of freak,
Which treats one's life with danger's trick.

Night wears covers of the dark,
Full of adventures to embark
On scary trip, set by the fate,
To risky pleasures we await.

We step, we dive into the night
To lose what holds us at day light,
To free dark corners of the soul,
To shut the conscience and control.

And every face looks like a mask,
Face painted by the dusk to bask.
But may be really night reveals
The truth of us, which day conceals?

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!" ...

I do love you, but not for looks of beauty.
You don't shine with womanly appearance traits.
I love performance of your storyteller duty,
With such entrancing art, that deeply penetrates.

In poetry you are both Messalina and Solveig, both nymphomaniac and nun,
You can be angel of the kind caress, or  bully, thought provoking hooligan.
Sometimes you are a child, another times - soothsayer, your pride is mixed with gust of true remorse,
Sometimes you are black stork and witch, sometimes you are the evil's victim innocent white rose.

If you deny me of devotion to your art three times,
And with anathema my feelings cruelly betray,
I don't want to live to sobering sad day
When i forget the poisoned spoil of your enchanting rhymes.

Immortal Prince keeps coming back to make us look in depth:
What's better choice - to take the life "as is" or challenge it by death.

Through words of feelings tinderbox I kindle spark of pain
To torch in tears cold stone hearts in high emotions flame.

Is there courage drinking poison once - to brake the body's cage?
- Much harder is to cope with bitter daily taste of overgrown age;
Experience no more the feelings that we yearn,
The longing of the youth, which never will return.

Get off the horse, Don Quixote, my knight!
Sad news I have for your ears tonight...
The image of dream blew away as a smoke.
Tired waiting for you keeping heart on the lock,
Dulci got married your friend - Don Juan.
Wind mills are many, but life - only one...

First Love, which lives in each of two young lovers trembling heart,
Being glorified by Shakespear's tragic story of the hope and pain,
Its essence is immortal, it blooms like rose: again, again, again,
Its burning thrill shines in the world, by sin and evil teared apart.

Two bodies's gentle ardent languor merge, filled with elation
Turns satisfaction of the carnal instinct's *******
Into the sacred hymn of the eternal nature's cycle regeneration,
And into solemn ritual of celebrating life's rebirth.

As long as rises sun, heralding coming of the new day's light,
As long as moon brings spirit to the shadow pit of botomless dark night,
- Oh earthly prose, I beg, please don't overthrow sentiment,
Expressed in copulating naked souls Love's holy sacrament.

Last sip of tenderness, last breath of love, last line of verse ...
Exhausted, cold and empty is my soul, lost in eternity of Universe.

God Cupid has appeared once before famed bard:
"Whose gentle female heart with, to reward you, tell me, singer?
For lyre playing art gods granted you this prize!"
Poet replied: "I do not want another loving heart,
The joy of being in arms of simple girls just isn't made to linger.
I want to feel the Aphrodite's affection as the price!"

The deity has thrown to the ground magic bow in the angst:
"Desire to possess the Venus's body is fatal for the poet's soul.
Since in the face of earthly woman you don't see a goddess's call,
Being ruled by whim of outrageous pride, Your talent you've axed!"

When childhood comes back again

Through the window of your fast life train,

Just before it will reach final stop

Open window and let childhood hop

Into cabin where loneliness dwells

As your only companion on rails.


Let your childhood take you by the hand

Trusting you as you've trusted your dad.

Take a journey together back to the past

Into times where hours could last,

Into times where days were so long,

Into innocent times where nothing was wrong.


When childhood comes back your way

Don't push it away, let it stay, let it play.

Let it share its secrets and dreams

While its head to your head softly leans.

Let it be your true loyal friend,

Let it stay in your life to the end.

I'm soaring up to bare simplicity,
False art's complexity discarding use.
Let feelings plain undressed explicity
Don't scare poetry inspiring muse.

Time blew away without a trace young years in a blast...
I keep the calendar same way, like memory of past,
Reminding me of my childhood, hanged on the wall by nail,
Though count diminished of left days in my life story tale.

Pulled out days can't be replaced, can't be relived again,
So few red colors were in them, so much black ink of pain.
Someday I'll part with you for good, for someone else to care,
Without me to celebrate the eve of next New Year.

Wish I'd be that boy from vicinity,
Whom entrusted you sweet virginity.
One, who was your first, one, you wanted whom,
One, you let to sneak to your maiden room.
But there is nothing I, in my whim, could do
To be me instead, who climbed your window.

He was the one, who made your passion turning.
He was the one, whose love you were returning.
He was the one, whom then you were caressing.
He was the one, for whom you rushed to get *******.
He was the one, to whom you gave yourself without warning.
He was the one you kissed way out in the morning.


If I would have it now  - the magic Time Machine,
I would fly back there, where then you've been.
I would throw myself between you and him,
I would beg your love, I would yell and scream.
I would cry my tears, I would be enraged,
But there is nothing then could I really change ...


He still'd be one, who made your passion turning.
He still'd be one, whose love you were returning.
He still'd be one, whom then you were caressing.
He still'd be one, for whom you rushed to get *******.
He still'd be one, to whom you gave yourself without warning.
He still'd be one you kissed way out in the morning!

Mosaic-like fragile illusions of the youth are shattered, lying in the dust.
Their recollections settled in the gloomy asylum of murky, distant past.
Sea foam of dreams dried up, the wind of hope died down,
Faded red colors of the sails into love's funeral white gown.
The ship of love is anchored in the bay of gray weekdays life's press,
The dullness of the real world prevails in its routine repeatable duress.

As lion March in Boston starts and as a lamb it ends.
This means that Winter and warm Spring through fight are changing hands.
Though winds subside by April first, but sometimes as a joke
A snowstorm down from sky falls quickly as a hawk.

Onto Beantown as a prey it sets its snowed grip
By dressing streets in winter cloth once more in fierce zip.
And tree's awaken swollen buds are tortured by the cold,
As anguished be one's dreams of Love, being kept in heart on hold.

There is no sweeter pain on Earth than one, which is Love's demon poison.
Entrust him with your soul and open door to heart - he's also angel, only fallen.

I'm soaring up to bare simplicity,
False art's complexity discarding use.
Let feelings chain, undressed explicitly,
Not scare poetry inspiring muse.

The heart of lover does not lie.
It speaks from love that will not die.
My love is blind but my heart cries,
You see the tears in my eyes ...

The cry of heart is such of sort
- Just by one's heart it could be heard.
The special one, who went same road
And knows how love could hurt.

You said that you could read the voice,
That you could hear truth through noise.
Why couldn't you hear cry of love,
Which comes from me to you, my half?

Your kindness towards yours "just friend"
Is killing me on other hand.
Such kindness is quite harmful rather,
- It saves the one and kills another!

I never searched the truth in vine,
But in this case it might work fine.
Instead of seeing my plea sinking
I'd rather shut myself by drinking!

You could deceive yourself in reason
That you just want to keep him breathing,
That your sole purpose is to please him,
But in my heart I hear treason.

You could insist that it's your goal,
But your insistence tells me all ...
That you're afraid to tell what's true,
- You need him more than he needs you!

What else might tell you I this night!
You can't deny that I am right!
Just let me stay and taste the misery.
Don't add insult to my heart injury!

The heart in love could not be patient ...
It suffers in anticipation!
You say I don't have your trust ...
You should believe me! Yes, you must!

Two people live inside my skin,
One's coward and one's bold.
One takes the blows under chin,
Another shuns the world.

They hate each other so much, being bound by the chain.
They are engaged in fighting match - the endless fight with no gain.
As such, I'm left to be their judge, the judge who feels the pain.

One tells me: "Live with no fears, be what you are with pride !".
Another whispers in my ears: "Shut up yourself and hide".
Two people live inside my skin,
And Lord one knows who will win ...

The end of her days gets burned out alone

In care of the staff in remote nursing home.

She hardly remembers her name and her age,

The book of her life turned itself to last page.


Her mind is confused and her talk lacks the sense,

She feels that she lives at somebody's expense.

No interest in living, no hope, no dream,

She is locked in herself in the mental extreme.


Since her husband has died twenty years have gone,

And then she has lived by herself, on her own.

Her only offspring is her sixty years son,

To whom she gave life and so much she has done.


He visits her weekly, she cries when he leaves,

He is so ashamed when he flees like a thief.

She wants him be near till she is alive,

He lives at the distance of thirty miles drive.


She wants be in comfort of family warmth,

He can not oblige with his heart has been torn.

She calls him each evening: "Please, please take me from here !",

He tells in return: "I can not, oh My Dear".


But once in a while she has painful nightmare

That her five years son still is in her care.

She calls on the phone in torment and despair:

"With whom is my son? Where is he, where? where?"

Be loved by you? - there is no chance, not even hope, precarious and shaky,
But I will face my fortune with a smile, you'll never know that I faked it.

The world is full with novelty, but only one will always stay in fashion,
There is no greater wonder one could find on Earth, than wonder of love passion.

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.

Two passions dwell in poet's heart,
Two desperate obsessions are reflected through his art.
Those are two characters from Shakespeare's poetry triangle:
The dark skinned lady and the man of fair skin ...
His charm is gentle and she's quite a striking beauty queen.
Three lives, three loves in chains of jealousy are fatally entangled ...
Did two conspire secretly behind the poet's back,
Betraying him two times, which caused his soul to wreck?

I was thirteen and I had got a date one day,
My very first... and I was so excited...
I went ahead and flowers bought bouquet,
- Twelve scarlet roses - hoping heart of hers to get ignited.

I was stood up - she did not make the date...
I felt ashamed, embarrassed and betrayed !
Those flowers burned my hands and made me be suspect,
They yelled that I am total failure and reject.

I threw away this evidence of shame.
To glowing roses I assigned the blame.
In instance came relief, despair went away.
I still remember vividly that day,

Experienced by me half century ago.
But recently this story came again to me to grow...
While walking down the street I noticed the bouquet - exactly that,
Or very similar - I couldn't tell you more,
Which lay abandoned on the top of parapet,
- It was another failure of distraught amour !