Indian summer.

Streets are flowing into immortality

like thoughts, indian summer aimlessly

walking where wind is unnoticed, dousing city lights

one by one.

　

All the motions stopped their traveling to envy

the dynamics of peace, after smelling the paths

with eyes mute and large, they grew beside the misery

into smaller planetariums, whirling around days

that pass with nothing more but ignorance itself.

　

Very lonely is the tolerance, even lonelier the nerves

that cross swords to defend the dirt

which keeps the truth flawless, but look at kismet

how amused he truly is in his race with the clouds,

counting avenues of trees in the last corner of his focus,

until the sunny side up is washing out the tops.

　

First petting of the morning is dawn,

as the first stroke of life is faith,

naked from celebration, escapade.

　

Indian summer found the aspiration

in storms to rise like élite of hearts, not to fade

into denying but to deafen from noiselessness.

Bodies that swallowed the stars, stole waves

from the ocean and now dance sea-sick, scattering

like blue crystal thick, over life to come.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel.

Beyond shadow of doubt.

 

We fell asleep in a common dream

plainly to awake in incredible curiosity

bemused from a turnaround,

disturbing thoughts in disbelief

under the sacrament you, my favorite thief,

jewels o'mine looted with diligence,

accompanied with the echo of eskimo kisses,

still as the mountains

before the quake of a summer land.

Your tapping is my heartbeat

over the lake, cellophane sheet,

peaches-and-cream and our lives

as one bridged, we are waterproof

in the liquid bonbonniere of bliss.

We, in sacred symbiosis with the moon

that now the sixth time resembled a fruit,

humbly saying

its just another puffed up midnight suit,

brushed by the tired air, praying

with fingers, believing through rain.

We were biting our way to the middle

thinking how the taste is more complete

with every new mouthful,

every second heartbeat

and we knew

that sometimes the wind is just the sound

and souls, the sharpest of swords,

most tender of lords, bowled over

the silhouettes of a late debonair afternoon

we are crowing, enjoying the moon;

as still as the mountains, two butterflies

leaving wings

beyond shadow of doubt.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel.

Dedicated to my Jason.

Silver over the rust.

The noon is squirming along the wilderness

waiting for Earth to spin

as gracious as a petticoat in sway,

nervously rubbing the hands

on the feeling of words in a fur,

envelopping emotion of a voice,

blackbird's song in a perfect blur,

walking alone, turning every stone

awaking laments, clashing the hornes of

poise and silence swimming inside the stares.

All is alive, dancing,

traveling,

slipping over the azure oil,

etheric yens bathing, unable to walk

as madness disfigures the metal

of the sun

that softened into furling

of one single shade.

The green of the pines

drinks the mellow out of storm-kissed eyes,

feasts upon the fainting spells,

a moment that yells into the ears

that took vows and two trembling hands

cupping what is left from a thoughtful yore. 

I have seen life that ends

on the edge of a body

just to sleepwalk around the neck,

watching the lips replying with silver

to the whispers rusty of lingering.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel