Life as a dramedy

I write poetry, to avoid the tragedy

that conveys the apple of memories,

and teeth that bite in the freshness of days,

until the core is thin, and thin is awareness.

　

Rolling the dew, like stones,

moonbathing under that wished-for face

limbs tangled, licking the smoke

from the heart that went out of whimsy,

a beach that is tippling the blue,

from upper you,

such beauty makes the sight sweat,

such sweat are tears,

and the morning elegance

is washing off the years

that dared to nestle

in the hollow of our naked perceptions.

　

As I was watching

at first glance evening ordinaire,

I remembered words dancing

to the rhymes of Baudelaire,

and wolves laying down

as innocent as the lambs,

their cotton

as abounding as silk,

covering the sonnets in my eyes.

I write poetry, knowing life is a dramedy,

and the mist, rubbing herself

on the old skin of trees, is nothing but a wet memory

wanting to be the dust, blown towards better eternity.

© 2010. Tihana Novosel

Not another dream.

Warm her over, for she wishes this not

to be a cold hallucination,

please not another dream, for once

she will wear reality

as catholic woman rosary,

and you just might see her walking

between shadows that frolic

and sunlight at a standstill,

running under jackrabbit clouds

as they sprinkle eau de vie uphill,

listen..they are mating, narrating a thrill.

They lap against and they fawn

until learning how to appreciate the dawn

with eyes folded,

solely illustrating within a stroke,

hands that own the seeing,

perfecting a soul with a dioptre, clearing

the sounds impinging upon the eardrum,

as they imitate the waves

when swearing forever to the shores.

© 2010

Tihana Novosel.

Diurnal lullabies

Diurnal lullabies

blown through mousy tress

enthused us

when on trampoline

made of bouncy floral pompons

and kisses glued off,

fallen from the cheeks, rosy from weight.

Wounds dummied up,

not to stretch of pain,

not to wake up and open up in disdain

to speak not this time

when voiceless opera of the night

is reserved but for us, aria of muteness

with instruments more silent

than a hushed hunger of a starving child.

Elephantine echos

we drank like the gospel truth,

french vermouth, aperitif

between freedom and poets uncouth,

let our watchword be the flame

we can take that burn, lacquering

the sheathing of each swirling blast,

then suddenly, aroma of stagnation, a turn or two

over the opulence on the masquerade ball,

hands washed with gold until bronze.

Punching blue where pale,

words forgetful before thoughtful,

storm cries dim heavy air,

mirage widened under the feet like flags,

those long wings I wear

when walking is longer than a twin rainbow

under heavyhearted parade.



 

© 2010. Tihana Novosel

I wept a Danube

I wept the Danube

for your meadows and tedious culture

of your wantonness, abandon of early bright,

and dawn, that came too early;

I was not ready

my eyes, still somewhere between the nightfall

catching the leftovers of the golden

from the sunflowers that stole the soleil.

I rained the Danube

into mosaic of your winsomeness, to wash away

the perpetual concerns,

to save the nature of eternity, to wet

the first moment after noon into the sunset, to rinse

the illumination until shades break through;

I fancy I didn't knew the way,

that I could dog the footsteps of you.

I poured the Danube

whole over the gutters of my presence,

insisting to drown, begging to be worn down

by impermanence, and those small knightly visions which

crystallized nuances of prediction.

Ophelia inside me could taste, the holiness

of the last exhale, a cloying gale,

contentment of knowing,

yes!

I am dying today, to be born with you tomorrow,

as tomorrow is more fitting, tomorrow is a greater day.

 

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel

Young woman old

Who claims this young woman old,

but the time that separates her branches

from your tree,

midnight miracle, pulverized emotions

and fragmented sand clock, that now

is the desert, personal sand pool

with free slivers resting on the skin;

be the wind, cough them out her pores.

Waiting for a ride when she will be published

on both sides of his fallen leaves,

when his kisses will be deeper than Baikal,

pressing her appeased, until flat with her appetite;

he rode her conceiving without the bridle,

heavier then timelessness,

more scarlet than the eyes

of the morning star lacking sleep.

　

Who claims this young woman old,

but the weather in the suede, casting thick pother

over the pond, deception bleached out blond,

hesitation trembling under the ballet of shadows.

Instrumental music lifting the veins

and this time

just a single sight of deaf leading the blind,

mouthing with hands, regarding through a melody;

Absent inside the Baikal, sipping profundity of a lifetime.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel.

Flesh married to bones

Free from doubt

are endearments of my very survival

and the sunrise that like rose bud blossoms

inside your eyes into mature fancies

from which full of sweat I belly crawled

to mesmeric delivery of you,

the hot water over my raspberry tea bag.

Forest fruits deliquesced,

seeds bustling inside sweet-smelling puddles

splashing and serenading

under balconies rollicking

with youth on rabbit's paws.

Compunction from the past

is overwhelming like a disease,

direct injection inside the polaroid of recapture

two hummingbirds

and a summertide rapture

enamored by a quiet thrill,

two emotions standing fixed

like wild chervil on a windless day.

My flesh is married to your bones,

your muscles are my growing thrones,

I am lifted once again

upraised like a colossus, waiting for your visits

to be as often as a breath,

craving the future

where distance is measured

by just a blink.

Birthed by fire,

we were raised by the rivers,

suspiring the shivers, that adorned

our cumbersome words

into baldachin from the moonshine.

Dedicated.

© 2010. Tihana Novosel