Departure

featured in the poetry forum March 5, 2011  :: 0 comments

I hang at the edge of my brain
and I sit by the window –

it is raining.

Black clouds, stormy wind and
flashes behind the hills.

Right there on the other side of
the ridge,
the houses are silent,
but the windows are illuminated.

Inside – happy children laugh,
fathers drink wine and listen to
the radio
as the mothers fix some hot plates.

I try not to think about happiness,
kids and warmness.

I try to shut off my soul and embrace
the arriving brightness.

I lean forward
and the darkness leans with me.

Oscillate

September 11, 2010  :: 0 comments

Now all are born, those who will accompany me
at my funeral

My burial shroud is prepared and stocked
somewhere

The one that will drive the hearse
just got his driver license

All those who will hustle down the roses
now walk together

And now all starts all over
again

The clock is ticking
The time hangs still
The clouds are gathering

The rain that will fall then
now vaporizes

The ground is smiling

Cold dogs in the back yard

featured in the poetry forum September 11, 2010  :: 0 comments

There it was – in my pocket!
Oh, what a dangerous traveler I was – with a ticket!
Leaving my country for chasing a dream…
In my other pocket – what was left of my happiness
and luck. I was running away from the black dogs
of sorrow. I thought they can’t swim across the ocean.
I was wrong, of course.
And here I am, now. Sitting under the naked light bulb,
sipping the table wine, thinking “Is there a God?”
No answer at all!
I hear the barking of my neighbor’s dog. It is dark outside.
In some distant mountain I can feel the snow, I can hear
the wolves run in silence. And now all is so quiet!
The faucet in the kitchen is dripping, the pipes gurgle
and in my lap is this small, old poetry book. I search
for God in there. Nothing! Not even some divinity
of the Word. I continue my search. Outside gets darker than
black. The dog howls. I look up at the light and the brightness
burns my eyes, my wings start to flap. And all of a sudden
I hear a voice:
“Be careful! The bright watchers are still there!

Status Quo

featured in the poetry forum March 10, 2010  :: 0 comments

I grow tall from where I stand now.

Rivers of whiskey, vodka and wine,
thousands of cigarettes.

Still
aching for the Word.

30 years.

And I grow taller.

Hundreds of poems,
awful lot of problems, fights, wrangles,
poverty, starvation, homelessness, lovelessness,
and small flashes of happiness.

Living on three continents,
eager for the Word.

Only 30 years,
still growing.

Emigration,
alienation,
solitude.

Half of my life is gone.
All of my love is ready for donation.

Hundreds of read books,
speaking four languages,
and still…

My fingers are itchy,
my heart hurts,
my soul drifts

for the Word.

The Poetry is my fix.

Castling

March 10, 2010  :: 0 comments

Walking down the street,
pass the Pawnshop,
the Deli,
the Police station,
the bar,
the Serbian Café,
the Korean store,
walking among the hippies
showing me piece signs
and the yuppies
talking promptly on their cells,
nodding carefully to the bums
and the kids,
observing their mothers and fathers,
feeling scared of the police officers,
feeling obscure on the hospital’s
sidewalk,
humble in front of the church at the
corner where Sunday people remain
silent;
I enter the store where the Bosnian
shop boy sells me Jack and Coke
and then I continue to my apartment,
crossing the street,
thinking of Caesar and Rubicon
just for a while,
and then feeling too distant
for the rest of the day.

Night song

March 10, 2010  :: 0 comments

Put the cigarette out.
The night is falling down,
climbing the pines in the back yard.
The smoke is drifting under the ceiling,
sketching grotesque paintings,
of unforgotten memories.
Put the needle on.
Let the music crawl around the room,
inevitable and slowly like leprosy,
dwell with it.
Your hand is strong now!
Put some hard drink in it,
hold tight to it.
The moon appears,
dispersing the grey clouds,
penetrating the shades.
What was before
will never be again.
And now it is time.
Open your eyes!

The dogs in my backyard

featured in the poetry forum August 14, 2009  :: 0 comments

are dead
and although I am still leaning towards this window
I can no longer hear their barking against the moon;
the cats are sleeping on the red rug
redder than a blooming rose,
redder from your blood
and I think of leaping bodies from the bridges
of the world,
while I am ready to jump from the lip of the grave
into the mad swirl of the nothingness.

The curtains of the future are waving and yet there
is no wind.

Trash can of nowhere

August 14, 2009  :: 0 comments

stupidity, obviousness and abnormality;
what conclusion can we make of this?
feeling trifling,
not knowing about the geniuses of the
world-
knowing nothing about the H-bomb or
the expanding of the galaxy.
which one will tip the balance?
as we stood still and watch how all of
the greatest finish their subsistence
in the trash can of nowhere
and the question now is which direction
should we take?
as the modern heroes burn into the green
of their bank accounts
as the phony knowledge about the Art
dwell in the college auditorium
as the twisted politician keep on
telling me that there is hope for Humanity
I live with my minor wisdom;
I continue to empty my garbage outside
because I know that when death comes
almost nothing is
lost.

Sunday blues

August 14, 2009  :: 0 comments

The alarm of the clock is killing the insomnia
Turning this new day into motionless pain
Coffee milk and cigarettes as the TV is showing
Nothing at all of the present or the future
The sun is climbing the sky behind the shades
Fighting back the lovely night’s melancholia
Stirring and sipping and drinking as the pages
Of the newspaper shows me that there is no war
Or peace that we’re longing for all our lives
The world is still incomprehensible
And it will remain like that
As the next M.M or A.N.S or M.J is dying
On the first pages in every household
Feeding the hungry souls with stupidity
As the books of Tolstoy, Kafka and Celine
Keep collecting dust on the library shelves
And all the lovers in the world run away
With unfaithful women to wake up
In the morning forgotten and cold
As the only sound in the universe is this
String without soul.

The way it happens

June 26, 2009  :: 0 comments

To feel it,
to grasp your heart
and to die while you write
poetry
is not so regally like let’s say
kissing untouched beauties
between the sheets.

to listen to Mahler
and after that to throw away
all the symphonies like
garbage.

Summer time,
I kiss the hog
and whisper
good night, darling, good night
child.