Thursday, October 14, 2010

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

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

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

Friday, September 17, 2010

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.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

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.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

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

Sunday, August 29, 2010

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

Thursday, August 26, 2010

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.