In the beginning was the Word…
And only then was the world.
Out of chaos and the darkness,
Out of nowhere and the blackness…
Something more than a miracle happened
Filled with warmth and light that sparkled.

The world got name and became alive!
All around began to thrive.
Not in gratitude, not out of a sense of duty
It believed in truly saints and only beauty.
Eyes opened and stood in delight
It could invite, excite but not to affright.

In the beginning was the Word…
And that word was God.
Earth and sky, the stars and oceans,
Without emotions but with devotions.
Rains and snows, beauty forebodes
And even the dust of not traversed roads.

It would be ridiculous and naive
To dream about the dawns, be a sensitive.
To be the hands on the starry clock,
To make on the land a beautiful woodblock.
As all that had already been put wise.
And in time the Sun could arise.

In the beginning was the Word…
And that word was Peace
Everything could freely breathe.
If you remove it, the chaos will again start,
The universal fear and black exhaustion,
The indifference and world of combustion.

The worm of doubts shouldn’t gnaw the heart!
The rest is later and the second will be smart.
For some it is unusual and one can’t agree
But as to me in different way it could not be.
You have to hear Him to be reborn again.
His Word is saint and everything explain.


In the beginning was the Word…
And that word was Love.
The beginning of all beginnings and all the springs,
The beginning of all the most beautiful things.
The beginning of all the sources and a new start.
You have to hear it and know as it is Gods art.

In the beginning was the Word…

©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 25th of January, 2013

I hate and I love.
How much I hunger
For the days when I was younger,
for the days when I was really free,
for the days when I was a real me.
And what is happening now?
Has the world turned upside down?
I do not say any more “Wow!”
Nothing surprises me.
I can only realize
this horrible situation
with discomfort and even frustration.
Am I on another stage?
Is it connected with my age?
I don’t think so.
I can see today the youth
who can’t find the truth.
Isn’t it strange that
having two higher educations
I am on the edge of starvation?
Isn’t it strange that
having worked all my life
I have to think how to survive?
No one cares about my life,
no one worries if I should live or die.
I hate those unfair rules
which were proclaimed for the fools.
I love my motherland,
but the life here I can’t withstand.
I forgot the word “hurray”.
That was another day.
My future is unpredictable as weather.
I am like a feather
don’t know where to fly.
It seems all is a lie.
I don’t know where this time the wind will blow.
Where is my spirits flow?
I don’t know how to live,
I don’t know whom to believe.
The world has greatly changed.
For someone it’s not strange.
It’s only strange that I am still alive
but have to think how to survive.
Who will tell me what to do?
Should I be true with those who cheat,
with those who treat
me and others as a toy?
They are very much annoyed
to listen to the truth,
but they are not confused
to rob, to demand,
to occupy my motherland.
They even use God’s name
as a cover for their crimes.
They do not hear the church bells chimes,
they only hear their own voice,
leaving the majority with no choice.
My voice is crying in the wildness.
Forgetting about gladness
I have to know sadness,
to learn the rules of a new ***** game.
Isn’t it the biggest shame?
I have no more strength to fight
but only to wait for the light
at the end of that tunnel,
in other words: for my funeral.
Where is the way out?
I have no strength to shout.
It looks as there is only one: to pray,
to calm my soul for another stay.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska
December 2nd,2010

If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.

To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poets' duty.
Rhyming  words, to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.

To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.

To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.

Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.

To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.

Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010

It’s never late to dream,
to find in life a gleam,
to break a thread of insult
and hope for a good result.

It’s never late to forgive,
in happiness to believe,
to **** the seed of sadness
for better life and gladness.

It’s never late to return,
a new lesson to learn,
to fall in love again
and dance under the rain.

It’s never late to live,
a new aim to achieve,
a new life to begin
and always try to win.

It’s only late at night
when with a sleep you can’t fight.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska
November 21st,2010

As I look into your eyes
my soul truly realize
how much I love you.
Your eyes intoxicate,
I don’t exaggerate,
they are my fate.
They give me inspiration
and love sensation.
They give the rise to my imagination,
they give the rise to love temptation.
Your eyes attract,
Your eyes inspire,
My loving heart is just on fire.
My life becomes a celebration,
your eyes are just the revelation of love.
How much I starve!
How much I long
to kiss those two angels!
They are my visuals
of the whole universe.
And in my verse I say:
they are the source of light,
they shine so bright.
The stars are in your eyes.
In them I never see the lies.
They are my inspiration,
They are the God’s creation.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska
November 6th , 2010

Letter to my Deer
Thunder Bay, On
13th of June, 2013

My Dear,

I have been thinking for a long time about writing this letter to you. Only, every time I enter the writing room I feel how words abandon me into the hands of past memories. I feel deserted in front of still uncoated paper, and titanium pen waiting and waiting for the battle of my feelings.

I hope you understand and forgive me!
Since I left, much has been changed in my life.

Today,
I sit here in silence and wonder if it will rain.
The sunlight scattered in all directions
and clouds piled up covering the sky with a foggy blanket.

I sit quietly here
and watch how vapours are competing on my pale skin
for the arid spot to get in.

I hope it will start raining soon,
As it has been dry and hot since the new moon.

You know I always delighted in
touching fresh black soil with my eager hands
moving through its richness and leaf blades.

If aunty Larisa didn’t tell you,
I let you know, I moved inland and planted a garth.
I work hard from morning till night
being fond of every little progress,
at sunrise, I put up my sleeves,
spray the roses, and pull the weeds,
sensing the presence of a lost wind,
and watching how the greenwood
guards as an unnoticed hero.
It is soothing and comforting.

I even had a dream one night,
How the garden was in full bloom
waiting for you to come soon,
You were driven by grace
coming from a forest’s place,
the sun showed its shiny teeth,
and my heart froze when thee
gently leaned and smelled the rose,
as if you didn’t want to steal forest’s piece,
selflessly giving all of your attention
to the invisible fragrance.

Still in my dream,
Next spring I planted some chiefs,

I hope to hear from you soon,
My Deer,

The Gardener