FRANCISC EDMUND BALOGH

 

FRANCISC EDMUND BALOGH

Rooftop Poem

 

This poem is a rooftop

with doves  on it,

horizone line

in a horizoneless dawn.

 

Your sigh

sneakes out like a cat

into the night

to bundle it’s lifes

in mistery.

 

The flowers at your window

are messengers of

the beauty of silence.

 

 

We Just Stared ...

 

At midnight the full moon

went mad,

swung fast like our hearts –

a pendulum

of fire alarm,

turned into the wrecking ball

of this night of glass.

 

The morning light

freed herself,

high up into the sky

as a white dove.

 

The remnants,

the shadows of the darkness

where lookin back aimingly

through the chanel of oblivion.

 

Bird chirps where fatherly

blessing the last island of the dawn.

 

The sorrow of goodbye

chained our hearts.

 

A sigh of ours, deep enough

to split the world into

prior and after that.

 

We did not kiss,

just stared!

 

 

Too Late

 

It is too late

to blow the candle,

the dawn has already sensed

our split impressions

that are still looking for each other

sleep-walking,

broken

in the twists and turns

of the catacombes of the soul!!

The rain is taping at the window

the dot of the last verse,

in the overloaded hourglass

of the memory

compressed poems.

 

 

 

The Milkman

 

The milkman comes always

on his byke, at four a clock,

not even the dawn is

woken up yet.

Some people say

they saw him

between delivery,

chasing the stars as they

were butterflies.

The very few bystanders

were worried,

some for the stars,

some for the milkman on the byke,

some for the milk.

 

Only the milkman was

hopping that the dawn will not come.

 

 

After You Pulled  The Curtain

 

That morning lights

came suddenly like

a spit in the eyes

after that glass of

tricking alcool of

light and shade

(of the dawn).

 

Sobriety untamed

was stalking us

from every little corner

of the house,

of that monotonous alignment

of those identical houses,

those well managed words,

glances, goodbies.

 

Routinely we thought of love,

probably like kids

flying a kite.

 

 

 

Birds Of Love

 

The birds of love are balancing

on a tightrope.

The tightrope walkers try

to fly without wings.

Feelings

cannot walk nor to fly,

they ferousciously crawl

under the skin

while memories stick to the

comfortable matress

of their old-time glory.

The excesively bright moon

shines like a sun,

the pale sun resembles

to the moon.

 

Waiting

for your smile that

lights up in a sparkle

hiden engines

that place things back

on their tracks.

 

FRANCISC

EDMUND BALOGH