* * *
I saw it in a future
Forever lost, forgotten
The slavery of men -
And there was no war
And no politicians
No businessmen buying
Songs and education
Then had even changed
Minds and hearts of people
And there were no slaves -
Paradise they called it
And there were no differences
No more exploitation
Of one to another
Of one to the many
Of many to one -
I don't know the time -
I saw it in a future
Forever lost, forgotten
The slavery of men...
Unemployed Week
On Monday morning
I laugh at the world
On Monday evening
I laugh at myself
On Tuesday
I just do the reverse
On Wednesday
I ponder on the sense of it all
On Thursday
I cry...
But on Friday
I take pleasure
in all the little things
On Saturday
I rest
and drink from the water of life
Then finally, on Sunday
...I work!
Modern Poetry
Is this then what
they call modern
poetry - broken
lines continuing
thoughts left (somewhere)
hanging the future
balances of yet unseen
stanzas that start
tying disconnections -
untying connections
found perhaps in
moody (obscure)
scenes
details one is
supposed to know
these rather famous
people - Muji and
Halili
drinking milk! -
watching the latest
superhero movie
growing each second
stronger and stronger
themselves - "Zana
makes you strong"
you know it -
it is not even
arbitrary
time at 13:37
GMT+1
or the road
"Kreshnik 1"
unlabeled dust
flying and playing
timeless..
as stories I guess
native in content
foreign in meaning
vice-versa in depth
surfacing again
bubbles of styles
in meter with time
playing with rhyme
that one can design
and later combine
with deeper thoughts
of eastern winds:
"Who can ever find
The center of east and west
Ain't it everywhere?"
like here
...
yes there
...
no maybe
there is no such
place of
doors opened
with keys of wind
is there
enough of this
past, present
future
"modernity"
I guess
the old is "ancient"
what once was
"modern"
that so will be
in future times
when one may look
the same and different
and change
all of it - or nothing
and call it "modern"
But I believe
that one can write
not bound by time
not bound by space
or anything
Yet there are bounds
of those that read
in time and space
and everything
till they find keys
Of timeless dust
Of timeless wind
For doors and places
That one has built
He hopes with care
But then who knows
If there are treasures
Or empty spaces
Of fragrance feelings
Or dancing thoughts
But I build keys
Of wind, of dust
Of paper, ink
Of electrons
Till they can open
A door, a place
A mind, a heart
And feel the fragrance
Of thoughtful feelings
Of timeless things
And call them "modern"
Or call them "ancient"
I do not care -
About material
Or about form
Or ornament
And period style -
As they are keys
I'll call them keys
And only keys
And look for doors
For places, minds
For hearts and fragrances -
And match the feelings
Of timeless things -
Flower demining
once again through orders traveling in panic
I gave my hand to a word lost in the crowd
she saw my like a child in the midst of war
and we walked in a field full of false mines
we stopped on a hill under a blooming tree
and blew the flowers away as dandelions towards the field
we saw fireworks targeting the stars
falling back on the ground like seeds that do not grow
Melting Colors Page 4