The perfect space

Sits quietly and waits
In lieu of wondering about
Un-drifts itself from ups and downs
Prolongs the day without a doubt.

Invites attendants to the smoothest show
Un-compromised by feelings, looks or story's flow
Desire free, no second thought nor grow
.. mostly simple and un-hinged blow.

The perfect space hides deep inside somewhere
It'd hover not be low enough
Linger by itself..
Not open not closed, colourless
Impenetrable by our ego..
Or our hands..
Or minds.

It is perfect in this form
Or shape..
Unforgettable by all means
Of understanding..
Could've easily been missed
Nor found
Afaik that special link,

Which got me thinking.


I must


I must learn to play the violin
All through my darkest grin,
I must learn to recognize the grace 
All within my dog's embrace.
I must write on something odd
Like my mum's smile in her diary log,
I must touch all flower's petals 
Like my lover's skin which gracefully unsettles.

I must offer trusting echoes 
Desires clouded in their misty fragrance,
I must overlook my senseless thoughts and struggle
Whenever life takes aim and shoots point blank her daily fable.

And when all this noise is vacuumed by the moment 
Then I must hold it in whilst share it's natural endowment.



It's gonna be a blast 
I'm about to pump some air 
Forces unhinged must throttle aghast 
Rise muscles of iron and fists of flair.
Almost a gang inception 
My internal organs rebel all forgotten 
Outside a mantle of muscle armor feeding on action 
Maybe in a stretched second, but if not in a dozen.
Committed like Bull was I in my mind 
Stretched on the sand all limbs out and inert
Stories succumbed.. went still, my eyes blind 
Imagination eager to stroll whilst my body is all but desert.


(‘Umbra’ by Ana Blandiana, she is a Romanian poet, essayist and political figure, born in 1942; this is my interpretation from original)

Who is walking ahead
Without looking back
Has forgot about him behind;
Who runs
Is of being afraid
To not be reached
By himself;
He who doesn’t share a target
Is scared
To not find there
He himself,
As if his shadow
Wouldn’t be just the pond of black
Dropping from our open veins
Because of our desire to progress…

Empty house

(‘Casa goala’ by Adrian Paunescu, he was a Romanian poet, journalist and politician, 1943 – 2010; this is my interpretation from original)

Wasn’t gonna open up about this rain
It just is likely, in an empty house,
All of my chest feels big and crouse
While my back already folds in pain.

Thou I wasn’t gonna share, it’was told up,
By my mouth, this simple but full truth,
Miss you by my side like a sweet tooth
For always, my religious death cup.

And when it pours, the rain’s my cover,
It helps my closing down, as if a gate,
Under this sea of brownish sky’s fate,
To keep on seeing you, my quiet lover.

I figure then this rain is crying
As world is doomed by bloody lighting.


Life bags

Ominous bags.. one carries them all
They’re full of slack.. at most times no life overall
Their presence mostly assumed.. Bigoted rash
Crystallizes hidden contempt.. Content?
Vague and aghast!

The bag of-so perceived goods
Thrones on ones shoulders.. glitter and bling Odds
Fake makeup hides and distorts our It.. conceived ‘umph
Bewilders ourselves in warm.. Reality?
Short of nothing!

The bag of personal values.. ‘likes of me and you
Take them as cornerstones of our means.. thou
Nothing stings better of emptiness’ self.. When
In the end we look empty handed.. Unconscious?
You bet all the way!

The bag of closely tied friends..stones to grab
Few to none will prove the long run.. ‘ll end up with a drag
A sinuous short sided blind folded path.. ripped away
Or better..each a self centered planet.. Rich and promiscuous?
But nonetheless shy to be!

The bag of dreams and desires and extra self Worths
All envisioned and grown up by the nay corners of mind.. aloof
In the end not so good to come through.. Quite at all
As perceived blossoms of fruits.. stale.. empty..where?..what?
Sure.. the biggest the dream.. the hardest the fall!

The bag of memories.. remains of our scorched shell
Of-so perceived goods with no time value at all
Of personal values gone south at the whim of a fall
Of closely tied friends now all dusted and small
Of dreams and desires torn to pieces by times’ wall
All stood in the way, in our way to grow tall.

So, any hope for us in the end?
Any dotted line drawn for us by the times’ hand?
To compare to?..
Will we stand by our worth?.. such obscure.. gone!