Suspended in Time*

Fountain pen color of ice
Phone receiver before my eyes
Silence inserted with waiting tone
Night fell down like heavy stone

Record playing a broken tune
TV broadcasts an old cartoon
Haunting hours memory's curse
Whispering tales of Death and Birth

Different trains, holy wars
Nightly prayers, crowded doors
Stars reflecting in frozen mud
Drinking waters turned to blood

Crying winds, moving trees
Souls following yellow bees
In future, in past, fly as they must
Chattering darkness, disturbing the dust

Mocking procedures scolding the rules
Laughing the foly of fighting bulls
Before and after like grains of sand
Find their way through open hand

What purpose has pen the color of ice
And phone receiver before my eyes
And silence inserted with waiting tone
And light increasing with rising dawn?

*Published in Wordart Thirteenth Annual American Poets Competition. Received Award of Merit.

Do You Remember

Do you remember house and park and street,
And sounds beneath an empty sky,
The simple meaning of the earthly beat,
Do you remember how to fly?
Do you remember trips around the moon
And jumps through hoops with no clear ends,
The stunning richness of Pompeiian ruins,
Do you remember evening scents?
Do you remember laughter, tears and talks
And stars that told of new vows made,
The gentle breeze of angel's holy walks,
Do you remember witch's trade?
Do you remember fall's and winter's rush
And summer's calm relieving pain,
The fields unraveling through archways lush,
Do you remember sun and rain?
Who travels widely visits many worlds beyond
baroque meringues of clouds
Lost Don Quixotes with wonderous magic swords are killed by Bingo-playing crowds.

Published by The International Library of Poetry
http://www.poetry.com

Editor's Choice Award, presented to Regine Fisher for "Outstanding Achievement in Poetry" Presented by poetry.com and The International Library of Poetry 2000. Howard Ely, Managing Editor

The Way Home**

The fragrance of the moved hay made Lyuba feel like crying. The scorching air cloaked her in a shroud. It's probably like this inside a mother's womb. Where is Mother? Where is everyone? He's nearby, but that's just by chance. They had met on a platform on the way home.

Conclusion

How I Found My Mother***

Each time I walked into Bloomingdale's to check on my mother, I was greeted by a Bloomie's nightshirt, the exact copy of which I had worn to my school dance just to make a statement. Basically I went to Bloomie's to see what my mother had done wrong that day with her looks. What else would you expect from the woman who got her first pair of earrings at the age of thirty and discovered blowdryers even later? The earrings, some blue stones set in silver, I was told, she had received from her mother on the day of her departure from Moscow. She left the Soviet Union with my brother, then a sweet baby-hard to believe-and her ears weren't even pierced.

Conclusion  |   Printable Version

***Originally published in "Lite", Baltimore's Literary Magazine, February/March 2000. Link to Lite at http://www.litecircle.net

One Tuesday Evening

I feel the wind changing
Stars shift in their constellations
I feel the moon spread whiteness on my face
And in the morning I feel spirit
Flying freely inside me
The space is so vast, there is no end to it
I feel no limit to my own existence
My thoughts are reaching the unreachable
My mind's at rest and gathers energy
In my hands I hold the planet
I am the Master, not to rule
But to live in harmony and love
I feel as if Fear knocked on the door
Love opened - no one was there
Love filled my entire universe
I am floating in it
I feel like dancing, flying
I feel no weight
I am beautiful, I have no faults
An absolute perfection!
I am pure like water, sound, light!

©1993

A lonely figure on the grass
Is puzzled neath his skin
The bells are ringing early mass
What journey to begin?

Should oceans crossing be his way
Or golden fields of rye
Which inner voice will he obey
What will be his reply?

He'll leave his town, his house and wife
He'll take the smallest sack
He'll pack his cup, spoon, fork, and knife
He'll say, "I will be back."

He'll walk through fence he meant to mend
But doesn't any more
To his surprise his own bare hand
Will tear the prison's door.

He'll see the vastness of the land
It's breathing warm and cold
He'll understand there is no end
There is no young or old.

He'll travel far for many days
He'll learn the worldly arts
He'll say, "There is no lonely place
But only lonely hearts."

A quiet figure on the grass
Lay solemn and in peace
His body still on broken glass
No puzzles underneath.