Sense of worth.

Uninspired...ever so barren,

in times of withdrawal,

written words adopted a tone,

audible fluency to compliment

the questions thrown to shadows.

 Echoes from small imagery

considered satire to define kindness

and I

used the enthusiasm of a sprightly child

to sculpture the passion of a woman he made me.

 During a surrender, storm appeared larger

than the palms of the universe,

aqueous adventures unfolded to dry

over the back of a male dream,

around the throat

and the jaw of a flattering breeze, 

guiding spirit

was lifted as a muse, engaged in meditation

of how to be a poet,

of how to create something selfless.

Nonetheless

its a plain pleasure to dance

with your own sense of worth,

to its music,

listening written words adopting a tone,

just to respond to questions, that you though

were born without an answer.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel

Dirty dry pools.

Blackbirds unhindered through the fog

carring fire and brimstone on their back,

responding like echoes to solace

crossing bridges, in the shoes of a forest,

darkened from rain, undercover rain.

The wind, death of an emotion, breath

peeling the hard pine-skin of the night,

moonflights inside  fall's spring,

dirty dry pools, small passions

looking from under-water,

after swimming resting bones

on shores of mortality unrolled to fulfillment.

Human happiness

no more counting the years, but the speed beats

of excited heart, no scars opening

like flowers at midnight,

no hands compassing like feathers

too large to motivate the winging,

but all abounding, savoring, smiling.

Time is a ghost

that sleeps on my breasts, uninvited,

dirty dry pools are filled with all from the pure

and you exit from out of my dress

like out from the sea.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel