Macbeth
The heart will always see the crime
Which is elusive to the eye;
For hearts can tell, -- truth lies in time.
And time will prove that truth does lie,
And words do bind us to our dreams,
Which then compose the fated plot.
And nothing’s ever what it seems
And nothing is but what is not.
Disgrace will wear a pretty face,
Which I abhor with all my love.
And blood does have that wicked taste
Of which one sip won’t be enough.
All sense is lost in reason’s battle
In which uncertainty has won
And even triumph’s overshadowed
By darkened fate of Scotland’s throne.
As minutes weave a solid web
To catch the dreamers in their flight,
God, give me room to take a step
To step away and look aside!
Fleeting Time
The fleeting time reflected in my eyes...
I broke the hourglass and as I gathered
the fallen grains, I came to realize,--
time isn’t slipping from our hands, but rather,
building castles out of sand, along the sea,
where you and I can dwell eternally.
The thought of you vanishes...
The thought of you vanishes
like an object in the rear view mirror,
as the woeful eye quickly varnishes
all that could bring me near you.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, you’ve become my idol,
and I stopped worshiping the man on the cross,--
if he really was Him, He would not stay idle,
understanding that I am at such a loss.
The pen crisscrosses the calendar with ardor,
but alas, time reaches farther than
any calendar and it’s becoming harder
to look up ahead rather than
looking back over the shoulder, where
the highway runs like an endless serpent,
where the mirror reflects your stare,
in which I appear (closer than I am) determined.
All of us know where we’re destined…
All of us know where we’re destined
And as soon as we pay for the toll,
We’ll be traveling down the intestine
Of the giant that swallows us whole.
The metal monster exposes his veins,
On the subway map of New York.
Searching tentacles wait for the trains,
Where the 5 and the 6 make a fork.
The electrical worm swerves its body,
To the beat of the sleepless city,
To the echoing steps of somebody
Who is lost in the maze of graffiti.
Here, the shrills of the breaks, never sudden,
Are awaited with calm expectation
And the light at the end of the tunnel
Is a 6 train approaching the station.
Venice
Here, in every silence you hear a space bar, --
Venice -- the only setbacks of this place are
The knots in your veins which slow the blood,
And every street here, leads to “dot dot dot,”
Which echoes like Morse Code in your chest.
Who was the architect that designed this nest,
Where fat pigeons pluck at stranger’s hands
Where the tourists scurry like unsettled ants?
Venice -- darkness falls, but the day won’t cease
As the footsteps strike on the keyboard keys
And the blaring sirens of violins pierce
With sharp notes the lobes of the deafened ears.
Golden gondolas are like autumn leaves,
While knee-deep in water, the twilight sieves
Those lost souls, who may, slip away and drift
Pass the city’s gates, to an obscure rift
Of the outside world, where the current’s force
Overwhelms the souls’ and directs the course.
All grows silent there, lights fade into dark.
And nostalgia brands just a question mark
On the heavy hearts, overfilled with grief --
They turn back too late -- Venice sinks beneath….
Reflections on Existence
January fifteenth. I’m home-sick for Autumn.
I sit by the desk and out of boredom,
reflect on existence, on being immortal,
on God that I’m lacking, and on God
that is present. The latter -- my own creation,
I’ve long disproved the former, became impatient
and left him, and to ease separation,
created a God from my own flesh and blood.
“Religion is the opium of the people!”
Opium eases the lives of the feeble.
The sun hit my eyes when I stared at the steeple, -
Thus I never saw God, never learned how to pray.
This isn’t to say that I have a lot to offer,
but I’ve welcomed the Holy Spirit often.
Every day, I’ve left all the windows opened,
no one came and now, some say
I’m deprived. I’ve heard many sermons,
many hymns and gospels. They make one certain
that Nietzsche’s right, that life’s a burden,--
if there ever was God, he had abandoned
his great creation to spin in orbit.
He hid his trail and took the forfeit.
Such tales though make the morning morbid.
I don’t have faith because I stand on
my own two feet and that is quenching,
I despise afterlife and the idea of aging,
and what’s more I’m stubborn and hate changing
my mind whether I’m wrong or right.
People are sheep and I refuse to follow.
To me, life after death appears too hollow
and not because “it’s too much to swallow,”
but because there’s nothing to bite.
I find my calling in mere existence!
The alarm clock resounds to start up my pistons
and I’m ready to go, and travel the distance,
and keep myself occupied all through the evening.
Whether I’ve lived as a saint or a sinner
is easy enough, - I just look in the mirror.
I find pleasure in life! I like chicken for dinner
And that is enough for me to keep breathing.
Tomorrow, I know I’ll awake in my bed,
with my love by my side, and I will extend
my left arm to silence the clock on the stand.
I’ll eat breakfast and the day will follow exactly
the same old routine as the day before it
and the day will reflect the night that bore it.
Future reflects the past and therefore, it
appears immortality’s fairly likely.
So, what’s the purpose, if life’s eternal? --
to transform the external into internal
(and of course vice-versa), to keep a journal,
to search for beauty, to search for purpose,--
to be!—it’s all so simple. The rest will fall
into place, as it must in nature. Each soul
will find its object of worship. And after all,
the dust will settle and truth will surface
and it’s all so simple...
Ode to a Window
Before this perfect square alone I stand
and I reflect upon its very meaning.
It’s not a box.... an outlet!-- I demand
to be let out. Outside, the stars are gleaming.
The darkness makes it seem as if they blend
together with the window, thus deceiving
a child into thinking tha
t his hand
could touch a shining star and this believing,
his spirit leaves a handprint on the glass.
The window is our link to the outside.
It floods us with the greenery of grass
and makes us snug as it allows the light
that penetrates the leaves of trees to pass
into our lives as well, and we delight
to share its heat. A normal window has
four corners and four sides (each side
is tangent to two corners), which then form
four angles that are measured in degrees.
These measures are important when a storm,
with raging winds, picks up the small debris,--
they make the windows strong and keep you warm,
and windows block the branches of the trees
that bend with raging winds out of the norm.
Thus windows are the messengers of peace.
At night, they are like mirrors, they reflect
our every move and thus it often seems
when we are doubled by this strange effect
that we are living in the land of dreams,
where even parallels will somehow intersect,
where star-crossed lovers find the hidden seams.
The eye-- the star, two points now connect
and hands, again reach up for silver beams.
To ***
We broke the night reflecting on existence.
My pillow absorbed your scent, and I grew
to hate the concepts of “space” and “distance,”
for both are defined by the absence of you.
We’re like two lines or rather, two points,
parted by chance and weighing our chances,
but no matter how much we flip the coins,
the probability, dear, remains against us.
Stubborn fingers refuse to dial your number,
protecting the ear, which now, dreads silence.
I turn in my bed, -- wearied, half in slumber, --
as conscience confronts the drooping eyelids.
But, even in dreams, you are hardly nearer.
And all that is left is to sit and observe
the fleeting time in the rear view mirror
and gasp when the road makes a sudden curve.
Autumn
The lonely widow, Autumn danced,
Recalling how things were,
While eager winds with eager hands
Tore off the clothes she wore.
I shivered when I heard her moan,
I asked someone “What happened?”
And in reply, the clouds groaned
And puddles rippled, saddened.
Cold February. Heated furnace…
Cold February. Heated furnace.
And you, my dear, refuse to sleep.
And lights across the window sweep,
And droplets freeze upon its surface.
My eyes meet yours. We dim the lights.
And suddenly, as one, we’re breathing
My hands, around you, interweaving,
I recollect the gone-by nights.
My heart is burning, -- raging wild!
“My dear, I’m ready to confess...”
You place your hand upon my chest,
And softly whisper, “save it, child...”
Again, it’s February…
Again it’s February, and again the snow
Absorbs all colors of the sleeping planet.
And only footprints bare a patch of granite,--
The rest is white and there’s nowhere to go.
The hour and the minute hand combine
And fall in unison upon the number twelve.
I sit behind the desk, all by myself,--
The tired hands cannot complete a line.
The pallid moon bewitches and enchants...
I cannot focus on my poetry. Instead,
I think of you. And next room, in my bed,
You are asleep, and life, again, makes sense.
Prayer
Abba, Father,
let me give back
what You gave me!
pass me the cup,
I’m thirsty!
Don’t save me!
Rather
let them curse me,
throw me into the dirt,
spit in my face,
disgrace me.
Let them deny me!
I need it!
I rip open my shirt,
spread my arms crosswise,--
crucify me!
I can’t perish unheeded,--
I’m a poet!
They’ll know it
once I arise....
Venice II
It’s been raining all day. The streets are flooded.
To survive in this city, I’ll have to grow fins,
becoming cold-blooded.
Then, I shall explore all the ins
and outs,
of Venice, buried below the reflected clouds.
As for now, I sit in a coffee shop, whose ceiling
is designed to resemble the sky.
The moon, like a fishing hook, looks appealing.
It catches the eye....
It catches me by the eye.
Mercury climbs the thermometer…
Mercury climbs the thermometer.
With all of the warmth that I’ve put into verses,
I came out profitless.
Goodness,
let me fall out of love with her,
(I don’t deserve this!)
or else,
I will burn out from happiness.
Goodness,
let her be trite and stale!
Let her look down on me,
scornfully!
Hide her smile under the sky’s dark veil,--
maybe then I will love her
normally!
maybe then, I’ll be able to gaze at her
without turning my eyes
away from the sharp razorblade
of the horizon
afraid of seeing!
(Just look at me!)
I feel like an elephant
trapped in a skeleton
of a human being!
Silence
I turn on the light and search for the answer.
If the muse won’t hear me, then perhaps the pencil
Will render some vision, perhaps an omen,
Will clear up the haze, which at the moment,
Smothers my lungs from the inside out.
It’s so easy to hide within, without
You at my side. I need you near me.
I’d scream, but I doubt that you would hear me,
Since the sound that travels the given distance
Is certain to blend into nonexistence.
Therefore I’m biting my tongue, crestfallen,
And searching for verse to put my soul in,
Since the body’s too small to contain this passion
And either way, it is certain to return to ashes
Faster than verse, which survives long after
And propels the passion. Who said that laughter
Is the best cure for grief and sadness?
It perishes quicker and drives to madness
Faster than pain. Therefore, I don’t hide it.
In short, this hunger can’t be subsided.
It grows and multiplies in your absence,
It eats up words and feeds on nonsense.
The stubborn pencil
evokes your presence,
The rest is silence, and you’re its essence.
Mid-December.
Mid-December. Insomnia. Dreams don’t come easy.
The clock’s steady meter resounds, -- displeasing.
Lean on the window and listen to the winter’s
Heart-moving symphony.
Warm breath. Shivering lips mark the window,--
A sudden epiphany.
Naked branches sway to the rhythm, -- freezing!
Thus starts a poem. Thus the Muses control us, teasing
With the wind’s wailing. Thus cold fingers
Become anxious to write.
Thus, seducing the soul, the hour-hand lingers
To move any further tonight.
Venice III
The city of masks whose grayness
reflects indifference,--
Venice, you’re bound to suffer
the fate of Atlantis.
Thus, finding a small cozy place
in one of your attics,
a poet stands ready to capture
the end of existence.
Reflecting off the dark water
the stars shine brightly.
Dreams are redoubled here,--
the nights are wonderful.
The poet inhales the air and writes,
“Death seems doubtful,”
exhales, pauses, and continues on,
“...afterlife likely.”
Spring
Spring,
at random,
paves everything
platinum.
It twists and
bends
the streets
in a knot
of a pretzel,
and heats
the blood.
The hand
drops the pencil.
It’s hot
even at nights,
when the lights
of the street-lamps
collapse
on people’s shoulders
like needles
and bodies smolder.
As the mercury reaches
the triple digits,
the sweat,
in beads and droplets,
covers the forehead
and dampens
the virgin bed
sheets.
Muse
As she
sprinkles
her fingertips
and tickles me,
pricking
my ribs,
ink
begins
dripping...
and crippled,
I shrivel
into a wrinkled,
crumpled
sheet...
Without a reason…
Without a reason, seasons come to pass.
We sit alone in front of dusty windows,
And still we gaze and still we ask the glass,
“Hold back for us the evanescent winters
Without a reason do not let them pass...”
We listen to the clocks’ familiar chime.
We watch our cigarettes diminish into ashes .
We drown our sorrows in the pleasant wine.
Perhaps, with time, we will regain our passion.
We listen to the clocks’ familiar chime...
Without a reason, seasons come to pass.
We sit alone in front of hazy mirrors,
And still we gaze and still we ask the glass,
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