******OUR POETRY ARCHIVE******
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Wednesday, June 1, 2016
we arrive in our childhood home
my sisters-nomadic Swallows
return each year to the familial nest
they pay no heed to the difficulties of a far journey
until the hour of lilac clouds
swathed in the green cool of the Linden tree
and honeyed scent of flowers
the wind strumming the branches
and the curious sun
peeking through the canopy of the enormous tree
listen to the conversations
we know that we must part in the fall
I will find shelter in a distant city
black-and-white birds will go south
they will slash another azure sky
several months will pass
the sun will draw trails in the sky
it will offer strength to spreading wings
it will send an invitation to return
we will meet again
we will survive successive troubles
strengthened by the energy of the place
in which everything begun
THE HOUSE OF MY CHILDHOOD
In my house strangers live.
They erase the traces of the former owners.
They settle down and they believe
that they will stay forever.
They want to become part of the landscape.
I see the changes.
The view from the window passed.
After a spreading lime tree only a dry stump remained
like a decayed scar.
Bee choirs in the yellow brilliance of flowers trailed off.
The wind dispersed the scent of the May lilacs.
The white phlox disappeared from the garden.
The walls are bare, the bricks blush.
The grapevine does not peep through the windows.
It won't offer its sweet berries full of syrupy juice
on the green leaves.
In different colours the walls blossom,
a new door has been fixed,
Only the time locked in the oak floor creaks the same.
BAREFOOT ON THE STUBBLE
I walk barefoot on the stubble.
I turn back time.
Again, I'm a girl with blond braids.
I weave camomiles and cornflowers into my hair.
I know how to place my feet,
so as not hurt them with the sharp thorns .
I walked far.
My heels pierced the ground, the doubts of my mind.
I lost my trust of a child, and my confidence of
I do not know what happened to
My faith in humanity and my good fortune.
I return from memories.
I look for relief in the song of larks.
Can I find the forgotten dreams?
Regain a slice of the lost paradise?
Somewhere, in the stubble lies the old "I" .
Pixels like the grains of sand petrified, they stopped time.
You wave your hand and try to smile to the lens,
but we both know that you will never be older.
Wild wind let the thoughts soar to the sky,
they touched the bloody sunset over the sea.
The foamed waves blurred the traces of bare feet with fury.
How strange, I do not remember much of those moments.
I jumped deliberately into oblivion as into the abyss.
Death by forgetfulness allows me to continue living.
The sorrow for the past is hidden in the album
of unfashionable black and white photos.
The memory of happiness is imprisoned in the frame.
I got onto the train of life
A blank sheet of paper.
Blotting-paper absorbing everything.
I will get out burdened with bundles of
Recollections and impressions.
I packed them carefully.
Some of them faded, like
Ink from old letters.
I tied them with ribbons of all colors.
These white ones are my
And black ones are heavy and traumatic.
I met many passengers,
Throughout this long journey
And free-riders too,
Who were picked up
At different stops.
Even this, the shortest one,
Like a flash of sun or
Flutter of butterfly wings
Enriched and filled my bag of experiences
I no longer have a nest here
But I come back, like a swallow,
To places of my childhood.
I wander the sandy hedgerows,
To participate in the mystery of lark song.
I arrange bouquets
Of wild poppies and cornflowers -
And raise up to the clouds.
Old trees, to which I confided my secrets,
Tart, wild cherries
And sweet-scented linden
As once -
I divine the world in the mirror of the lake.
I listen to the waves and the wind.
Apparently nothing has changed.
Only the cemetery hill,
Like a diary of life,
Is ever more clear
I walk along the streets of the town,
Which I once loved.
Today, I am an indifferent stranger.
I barely recognize it.
There are no more old, hospitable aunts.
No more nosy neighbors hidden behind curtains,
Or brave men with war stories.
They are gone.
Time changed everything,
Not only the people, houses, streets and trees.
It seems to me that it even
Repainted the shade of the sky
It seems to me,
I know her from somewhere.
eyes look at me.
she can easily
Change a man
and the world.
were to be
Power suited business woman
And is screwed by corporations.
One day she will
It steals moments
And whispers of her behind
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