Saturday, August 1, 2020



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.


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