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

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