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.

My love to you burns in a raging flame.
Confess in that alas would be a shame.
Because heart of yours is cold like stone,
And pride of mine can't tolerate to hear: "NO".

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."

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

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!"

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.

Both fields of war and love obey same rules,
Both celebrate the victories and mourn the loss.
Their soldier's fortune is decided by coin's toss,
And both the winners and the losers act like fools.

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.

Poems, like flowers, often grow out of mud.
But trample them no one can into dirt in vain,
When Poet's words rhyme fastened chain
Weaves fabric strongly tied with reader's heart.

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.

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.

The white on black, the black on white,
Explosive mix it makes, so easy to ignite
By jealousy venom, injected drop by drop into suspicious mind,
And vicious fantasies force fatal spring of hate to wind.

And there you go ... flame of rage
Burns out lives, while getting out of its mental cage.

In black on white
Bard dared to write
About love, about race,
About trust and its disgrace.

Not lasting was this couple's tragic young romance ...
To taste the sweetness of each other love they lucky were just once.

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?

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.

Omar Khayyam observed that world is full of ignorance and evil.
Shakespeare confirmed that nothing changed in ages of medieval.
Five hundred years passed and I could sadly say:
Still ignorance and evil rule, they didn't go away.

The fate is good to some, to others - pain.
So was it, is, will always be again.
Awards gives sparingly, yet generous to beat,
Weaves for elected ones just only two gifts.
So was it, is, and will continue on and on:
A Laurel wreath, and a crown of thorns.

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!

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 !

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.

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.

Falling leaves, stirred by wind, fly around dancing slow
In the shadows of Autumn along park's crimson alley.
Though Wintery storms will be soon blowing snow,
Count of days towards Spring has already been tallied.

Snow shines like silver in the moon light...
- The charm of the old  song...
Night woke in the heart the memory-longing,
Remembrance of the one that I loved.

The sad voice of ringing bells
Gives quiet pain in my heart,
Bringing sweet dreams of the past.
The meetings with the beloved are coming back alive...

Feelings awakening, love timid confessions,
The oath of fidelity, tenderness of dates.
Youth, in its dreams, promised happiness,
But the fate has decreed otherwise.

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!

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.

Life only once we are destîned to live.
Love, big as life, in it just may not happen.
But poet dwells in magic country, made of dreams,
Where he can find the reason to be happy.

For each of us the fate has meted out length of living,
And, inevitably, at certain day and hour unforgiving,
The Messenger of Death, Finality's Ambassador,
- The man, all dressed in black, appears at the door,
Reminding that approaches end of life's short play,  
And ordering to write a requiem without a delay.

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.
----
Though nightingales get older too and their warbling during nights alas gets shorter,
But poet's trembling heart refuses to be calm, because love and art are both immortal.
----
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.
----
Hours are flying, years - running, and centuries shall pass,
And just Art's magic surely knows where lies to Glory path.

There are in life some rare moments, which make the living worth it's price,
When talk is done directly by two pairs, two pairs in each other sunken eyes.
----
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.
----
Perhaps the power of the Death is one and only force, which cuts  
The chain, that yet connects for life two loving parted hearts.
----
When two decide to set each other free, to break and part,
The cut runs not between the two, but deeply through each lover bleeding heart.

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.

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.
---
Alas, with destiny no one can argue.
To some it's generous, for others there is no bargain.
Not fairly the fate awards us with love gift;
Those lucky ones get lots of it, unfortunate get grief.
----
Love is a mystery of two enchanted hearts.
They don't teach the laws of love in schools.
Love can not be explained by wisest of the smarts,
-When fell in love, they too become love's fools.
----
Melt my heart, thaw it of frost, bring me hope, which I've lost.

Pandora's box, packed with the memories of past,
The source of jealousy, heart break and quarrel.
Don't open it, by no means, to your loved ones,
- For them those stories bring snake bites of sorrow.
----
Кeep sacred secret of your love - by no one be mentioned,
Because just by one, to you devoted loving heart, your love deserves attention.
----
Our lives - are distant islands, each is caught in own cage,
Love of two is torn asunder by the difference in age.

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.
----
Makes feel dizzy, stronger than wine, this crazed sense of love struck magic potion.
Drink it up till it's over, drink to bottom of it, sunk your soul in the wave of emotions.
----
While in captivity, birds don't breed and if they do - it happens very rare.
But poet's misery please do not open cage, he finds his inspiration only there.

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.

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?

The life of any human being is worthy of a picture,
It's truth with no deception, it's richer than book's fiction.
About grief, about joy and choices, not so simple...
There is a bit of saint in us, we all as well are sinful.
Until life is not finished, it's on its own rolling,
There is no story similar, its plot can not be stolen.
Life is unique and precious, can't be relived from scratch,
It runs like fairy tale from first page to last page.

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!

There was a site for writers and book readers.
There was a guy, who liked to post on it his rhymes.
There also was a girl, who read his poetry sometimes,
And, strangely, found she herself eventually attached
To honest feelings of his humble words so much,
That made him fall for her and she became his love and cheer leader.

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

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!

Well of my memory is filled with you amidst quite boring sad existance.
Reflection of your image I still see through separation distance.
In vain my mind tells me that useless is compassion ...
My heart still speaks to you, in you it draws inspiration.

There is the woman only one from thousands of others out.
When I'm with her I'm the Prince, I'm the beggar - when without.

Time ripped away from me my childhood part.
Time's exorcism has killed my mad possession.
Time put to sleep the rat that gnawed my heart,
But doing so killed in me my dreams and passion.

To those, who wasn't loved enough, in fullest measure,
I dedicate my lines to ones being dumped, not treasured.
So many broken hearts are hurt, so plenty,
Always alone and sad, loveless and empty.
But for despair, though, there is no reason,
And Spring will come after cold winter season.

To those, who wasn't loved enough, in fullest measure,
I dedicate my lines to ones being dumped, not treasured.
So many broken hearts are hurt, so plenty,
Always alone and sad, loveless and empty.
But for despair, though, there is no reason,
And Spring will come after heart freezing winter season.

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.

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 ...

Two worlds exist in parallel within the realm of human senses:
One - Love, the other - shadows's refuge, asylum of ghosts.
While second, freezing cold, is deadly dull and infinitely empty,
The myriads of stars, each lit by souls in love, the first one hosts.

If the sadness sneaked by sudden into heart,
Do not share grief and sorrows with beloved.
Don't show her your worries, pain, don't say a word.
Let the calm of one you love be undisturbed.

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.