ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA

ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA

A Letter To My Father

Dear Dad!

I do not have you so much

-almost nothing is left

Only a few things have hidden

somewhere in the house.

The wooden hangers, in our wardrobes,

have forgotten you for a long time.

The leather shoes went far into the world.

There are no more documents and business cards

with sweeping signatures, on which letters

climbed sharply up and then they were falling down

and like steel bridges tied the edges of the pages

They flew away somewhere.

Everything went away and disappeared.

A few faithful items stayed with me.

They whisper about you from time to time.

Dad, visit me in my dreams, please.

Do not tell me you are busy now...

Prescription For A Poem

It is not easy to write a poem

You have to gather your thoughts

Swirling quickly like snowflakes during a blizzard

Catch them before they melt and disappear into oblivion

Later add fever of feelings and strength of emotion.

Decorate your sentences with your dreams collected

from the silver dust of falling stars.

You can also

pick out a melancholy

longing from the bottom of the lake

and hang it on eyelashes to shine with tears.

Then collect the wet haze of sadness

shimmering like drops of dew on calamus,

add grayness of the November’ s landscape.

Season it with a bit of bitterness and regret.

Or you can

capture the laughter suspended by an echo

between high mountain peaks.

Catch the merry words in the net of butterflies

carried by the warm breath of the wind.

Turn the rainbow over to add a smile to the sky.

Sprinkle it with a touch of humor and joy.

Finally, crazy metaphors must be released.

Let them draw colors from the imagination.

That the poem would acquire a transparent lightness

and like a soup bubble rise above everyday life.

Allow it to fly off in an unknown direction.

The Homeless

Some of them chose a homeless freedom.

Set instinctively to survive they live for today.

They know all the dark secrets of the city.

In the evenings, they fall like birds onto the park benches

To spend the night in the company of stars.

In the morning,

They leave the baggage of old newspapers and wander on.

It is never too late, or too early

-The days are too similar to be afraid of anything.

Those of us, who live hurriedly and hygienically,

Pass them with revulsion and a feeling of superiority.

With dignity, we tote around stereotypes

and the day’s routine.

We hurry along other paths of life.

Sometimes, we collide - we stop pensive

Over diversity of human stories.

ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA