Saturday, December 1, 2018




It's ordinary. Simple. Apple tree smells of bees.
Volcano fumes in a paper. Tea in a teapot.
Peace basically... Only above the crusade of ants
supple flapping wings of nappies keep on fluttering.

If only this prophecy of storm over Sunday
idyllically outstretched under the blue of the world,
perhaps this summer an opportunity would be
to smuggle time and silence to white of the winter.

But it was raining at the wrong time. Madness of wind.
And expanse swayed through the itinerant theatre -
as soon as the trees bent down to do their feudal bows.

Frightened leaf close to dying clung to the window pane,
and we – oh, how sheltered - did not have enough gesture
to entice a shadow of whisper from the green heart.



Trafalgar Square with Nelson drowns in waves of humans.
Among them - like an island - the Homeless Poet draws
stanzas on slabs with white chalk in the palm of his hand.
Someone from the crowd spatter a coin into the can.
His stone tablets in accordance with the Decalogue
on his knees, very humbly - before God? before Word? -
writes down with his confession - before Word? before God?
Before me? When in half-whisper he lowers grey head...
The verses are decipherable from height of God.
Thus its LITTLE VOICE sends the one familiar to all
that is human. That DEATH would come with an angel of
love to take a tired body with the boy’s posture.
Bard Lee kneels by the poem with farewell gesture.
- Do not lose faith! – And you also. Be happy. - I am.
London 1st June 2018



There is usually some heaven forecasting the weather.
There is the greenest tree. Its whisper above the house
created out of love like a nest of the swallow.
Jubilant time of childhood underneath the safe sun.

And the fate’s mockery. And prayers’ futility.
You lose the sky. And the tree. And the house. And the hope.
History, the perfidious ironist, goes on rampage,
never insatiable with human unhappiness.

Anger. Dread. And nothing what’s human... And burned bridges.
Passing away of hopelessness, longing and regret.
So before mankind plunges again into madness -

follow simple path through horizons of death and blood
to return to yourself. If searching persistently.
You can recollect your sky. Maybe you will make it.


Bialystok, Poland

KRYSTYNA KONECKA is a poet, journalist and photographer. She lives in Poland (Bialystok). She has a MA degree in Polish Philology (Warsaw University) and she completed postgraduate studies of Culture and Education (Silesian University). She has been working in journalism  and contributed articles to many magazines published in Warsaw. She has been working as photographer for a number of years and her numerous photographs have been published in magazines and presented at various exhibitions. Krystyna Konecka is a member of The Polish Writers’ Union (Warsaw branch). In poetry she favours sonnets. She is an author of nearly twenty books of poetry and reportages. Her poems have been published in Polish and foreign periodicals and anthologies. For her achievements poetry and journalism (reportages on social issues, literary and theatrical criticism, articles on the culture) Krystyna Konecka has received literary awards and was highly regarded by critics. She attends the international literary meetings.

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