submerged in a cascade of
cacophony, my pieces wade
like fish, into semptember's silvery net
so its plundering pull would heave them
                                                          ­       out
from their misery, grant them purpose
in the mouths of fortunes, that gobble them
as delicacies;  they wither, till my egg-fragile
                                                          heart
unravels itself, savors the warmth
of the virgo sun, and hatches
immaculately, into me.

Tiptoe to my nights
with tender steps
Unlock the windows open
Guide my thoughts to where they belong

Sing me a lullaby of your presence
On a moonlight night in September
the warm light falls upon her window
your shadow twinkling over
breathing her in
ethereally
The moon once watched melancholy


- Moza

It was your words
I missed the most,
mesmerizing and delight
in early September morning,
spilling from fragrant,
pink petals like dew
in late summer,
every conversation
an undreamt dream
warm and wonderful.

©desireddreamer

The hydrangeas are starting to die now
The clouds are filling with rain
The kids have new-school anxiety
And we’re all filling with pain

The novelty is starting to die now
I’m already tired of faces
The leaves are falling from branches
And I’m already out of aces.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/7/2019

The sun has saddened its face
with lots of gray,
and made the mountains' bed
with an abundance of colors:

For Winter - it makes the bed with whites.
For Autumn - with reds.
In the Summer - with golds.
And for Spring? - with lyrical greens.

It has adorned everything
with shades of colors
awakened but still sleepy,
spoiling with correlation
of fiery greens.

Enamored time of red
of autumn colors
will turn the forest into one big flame
with fulfillment of flirtation.

A dewdrop sobs in the morning
put to sleep by dusk,
flying away as a wreath of rainbow
it returns at dawn.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/15/2001

Like leaves

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/19/2018

If for the orphans of golden autumn,
Then only in a country where they dig out
From sycamores, beech trees* - among ancestors' shadows
Because these, constantly dying live.

If hands of the poor fall
Like golden leaves, without the law of gravity
- Then what must be never changes
And richer they die.

If everything ecloses itself in the space
Over the crowns with radial glow
Then nothing apart from this color will change...
They'll be reborn again in the multi-leaf tree.

Wieslaw Musialowski 9/22/2004

Beech tree is a national Polish tree often found in Polish poetry.


Indeed

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 9/23/2019

Nestled into a pillow before falling asleep
maybe you will think to yourself
I managed to get something done today
and the rest? let it happen in dreams,

when you wake up fresh in the morning,
like the grass silvered with frost,
the sun will twinkle with a ray
and everything shall be great,

at midday, you'll sit under a tree,
because it's pleasant to rest in the shade,
and to end the day successfully
you look at the tops of the mountains

and you think how wonderful and beautiful
is autumn, luckily, the forest is not burning
though beech trees as red as fire

Wieslaw Musialowski 9/2/2019

*A reference to The 2019 Siberian wildfires.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/8/2019

* * * (A sad September is heading over the tops...)

A sad September is heading over the tops,
through the barren peaks suddenly turned gray.
In his heart hidden luggage of memories he carries,
and only crickets' farewell sails
quietly rustle with wind filled,
rocking to sleep dreams* unfulfilled.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/27/2002

*moments in the original

Autumnal Hour (Shorter)

Look! - from smoke I plait this poem short:
for fogs over an autumn meadow
with heathers strewn and drowsy,
for stubbles, fields and forests - in honor - of bards!
I? - I know they're hardly rustling
the strophes of simple words... And you? - you weave sorrows!

Wieslaw Musialowski 6/19/2002

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019

So poetically the mountain forest shimmers:
yellow-gold chickens here and there,
gray guineafowls' small chicks,
and hens clad in red of the dresses.

On the edge in beads of flames
a rafter of turkeys - eye-catching -
therefore colors of colorful flocks of poultry
in dying green submerged are easy to remember.

The cold ray gathers goose feathers:
and from quills arranges an autumn mattress,
while the whitest down he'll embroider into hours

with larch needle, so that a pillowcase made of the rainbow
every year would bloom many times
on the dial of a silver cobweb.

Wieslaw Musialowski 10/27/2002

We all wear masks
Having a perfect face, that's our task

We are supposed to look like dolls
But when we take off the mask and look in the mirror we start to bawl

Because we are told we should look a certain way
And when we dont we are told we can't stay

We are told to walk straight with our chin up
To cover our masks with makeup

And we all listen in fear of rejection
But maybe we should stand up and make an objection
We should be able to look in the mirror and be happy with our reflection
And not always have to strive for perfection

When will we be happy with our face
When will we catch the perfection that we chase

Will we ever get to be good enough
Will our mirror ever stop calling bluff

Will the people around us except us for who we are
Or will we have to forever hide our scars

We all hide who we truly are behind this mask
Being perfect all around that's our task