Four Bridges 

with a new beginning
return is too far;
a new beginning is a return
to the same stigma
that stops breath on a sinking face
clenching life in an inexpressible scornful argument phrase
to a cornered missing self-presence
mocking for a short death
yet, there is so much to be said
and so much to learn from silence presence.

Must be a way out
to cross the rivers
and break the squared circle code;
Have you noticed
city always pulsates on an emergency frequency mode?
When in Spring
floods blow concrete dams
and hatch nuclear
plants with wasted rods
you can see
the metropolis turning into the lonely island caught
between flow of the four rivers,
rewinding controlled flow to the eon of timeless,
but collapsing bridges
scream in a panic armed ring
and no one hears rain written sonnets
rhyming the cow red burnt sky with the last comet
and bursting stars of love….
Today I remember the end
And still musings push the gas paddle high
over the Gateway to free escape,
but they skid off the mainstream lines
and crash in the middle of the burnt city bridge


… despite all Calvary, car horns, sirens, and traffic jam
the thoughts cross restrictions of times
and all unwritten poem lines
aim a dream straight to your arms.
With the mind’s whiteout
the broken smaragdus blizzard hope awakes
hanged on the last door,
“Open that gate”
And you will see me on steps leading to the opposite embrace
Singing with the warble morning to your astral body
Where the cleansed river longs for the East of Eden
And reborn everlasting ruby mid-summer,
Let’s return back, don’t hold onto the old world boatman Charon.


He remembers when you were once washed of the virgin garden shores
she saw with your eyes the passing silhouette
and you both found the shell without the essence
and washed off the plaster, clay, and oil paint
turning canvas into an iced lake mirror
seeing one another in all Lives,
until the lava broke the echoed side
where in a tic the garden grew beyond the truth
falling into a wild abiding duality forest
–we lost a sense of being one and
the river snake tailed our traversed unrest dreams


Anchored present,
ebbs into the past
When the old Cathedral ripe yule bells
struck that gap
between memories, lost and not yet known words,
bridging the white stare dot fixed on an empty life wall
and crumbling cascades of hope
measured by the years of distance.
Like the possessed spirit the body moves
To the secret garden and the night-stand drawer,
the stash of old albums;
Present is robust here,
but heavy with a burden of too many missing moments;
laughter still echoes in the old family photos
braking through the “playing a role” face background,

pine silver smells
and nests my childlike smile
that died too many times with the first snow
on the lips of the dearest;
I still hear lamenting spaced dull bongs
Carried on wings of a new child’s cry
In my hands rests the future photo,
stares back at me with the same smile
that buds hart into shine.
Shade and light crackles in hisses
the yule-log bridges past into the present
Fire eats distance turning presence into a silence,
silence burns thorns and thistles;
so afar, but one from that Eden’s garden time;
we see one in another passing through all past lives;
love burns dust to dust, and our cosmic kiss still thrives.

“After the kingfisher’s wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.” T.S. Eliot, “Four Quartets: Burnt Northon”)


Pin It on Pinterest

Share This