Just the other day I thought about dVerse community and how long it has been since I wrote a poem. It feels like waves crashed over me and kept me under water, barely letting me break the surface in time for another inhale. Maybe this old thing I revisited today might push me in the right derection.

Edward Atkinson Hornel - Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic 1881

Edward Atkinson Hornel – Portrait of an Old Man in a Scarlet Tunic, 1881.

Autumn is crashing his bones,
his heart a silent drummer.
Oh, how it drummed so loud
in his waisted summer.

He longs to cry once more,
but it seems his tears
have been used up
in his wasted years.

His hands have been broken
in one too many strife;
he crossed too many lines
in his wasted life.

If only he could feel
just for a moment, whole;
but there is no return
for his wasted soul.

The roots cruelly transformed
To the ties that bind.
It seems the run is over
for his wasted mind.

My offer for today is an old thing I wrote few years ago…I was watching a wrestling match on TV and it made me think about the lives of pro-wrestlers, of the risks they take from day to day…from town to town…to earn few bucks here and there. How dark is their autumn and how cold is their winter?


Jisei For My Tired Soul

 Fly me to the Moon

Fly me to the Moon

The moon my lover
My one faithful companion
Welcomes my tired soul


It’s been a while, my fellow dVerse poets…but it is always a pleasure to be in your company. Today the challenge is to write a Jisei.

“In ancient Japanese, Chinese and Korean cultures, a practice was used at the time of death to capture the last words spoken. This practice was called jisei (in Japan) or death poem and is the “farewell poem to life.” Jisei was written by monks, samurai, the literate and poets of these cultures. Jisei was written in kanshi, waka, and haiku. Not all death poems are haiku. However, they are all in the short poem style (tanka). Kanshi is the Japanese word for Chinese poetry.” – by Gayle

Hope my haiku follows the traditional form, I welcome any correction or advice. Since it is already late in the evening, I will be sure to check all of your entries tomorrow and over the weekend.



Milano 151

Years go by, yet the pain remains,
Carved in my bones with a pocket knife.
If I could break them and re-set again,
I wonder if that would reshape my life.

And after all the years… time stands still.

The reflection in the mirror stares back,
Who is this stranger with a mirthless smile?
I frantically search for a trace of familiarity,
But it’s lost to me, covered with blood and bile.

And yet again… time stands still.

I try to tame the hunger with things I hate,
Hoping I’ll get my demons back on a leash.
This life is nothing more than one big cliché,
Poor imitation of already used pastiche.

Over and over again… time stands still.

Followed by a shadow of imminent demise,
My screams echo in a silent solitude.
Prisoner of past, present and future,
I find myself a singularity in the multitude.

Like a broken watch… time stands still.

Who is this child without a father?
And who is this motherless daughter…
Capable of remembering every silver lining,
Even when she is drowning in a knee-high water.

Rushing, running…while time stands still.

I wonder about her from time to time.
Will she be able to run up the hill?
Can she find once more the reason to live?
Breathing even if the…

…time sands still.

Claudia Schönfeld and Brian Miller of dVerse each selected a poem and asked us to grab one line, either of Claudia’s or Brian’s poem and write our own poem, based on the line we chose.

I picked the line from Claudia’s poem “sketching on Portobello Road//the clock//is body-less”…and yes, you guessed it – time stands still.




If only I knew your love would be unkind,
My unwary heart wouldn’t break in pieces.
But your closeness always rendered me blind,
With each step my tragedy increases.

You punish me for one foolish mistake,
This merciless disdain cuts like a knife.
How it burns to watch you easily forsake
All my love, my years, my wasted life.

The train is leaving, taking me from here.
With every traveled mile, my chains loosen more,
Our three-act play is finally over, dear.

I woke up this morning, first time without a fear,
Without a prospect to be called a whore,
With this knowledge I will not disappear.

This sonnet is another first for me. Inspired by dVerse, I spent last hour reading about sonnets, strict rhyme schemes, octave, sestet, volta, iambic pentameter… These prompts really push me to seek new knowledge and to explore poetry in a sense I never did before. You think it’s all about translating emotions into verses, but then you discover a world of complicated forms and styles that still demand emotion at the central stage. It is a very challenging balance act and I can’t believe I enjoy it this much.


The Doors We Never Made It Through


I wonder if you’d carry me for a while?
In your arms I could make another mile.
Is it fair to make it so hard,
When all I can offer is a smile.

This body is spent, broken and scarred,
And yet I long to be your guard.
You’ll forgive me when I leave,
I wish this disease came with a trading card.

In stranger’s arms you’ll seek reprieve,
Gentler hands than mine will help you grieve.
One step seems as long as a mile,
But with time you’ll forgive and believe.

Will you carry me for a while?
I’ll give you my most radiant smile.
Will you carry me down the aisle?
Although short on time, it will be worthwhile.

Over at dVerse, Gay Reiser Cannon challenged us to draw inspiration from Robert Foster’s classic Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening  and write a poem in iambic tetrameter, shaping the poem in Rubaiyat stanzas originally created by Edward Fitzgerald. Each verse (except the last) follows an a-a-b-a rhyming scheme, with the b line in each stanza setting the main rhyme in the following stanza  making it a chain rhyme. The end result is a rhyme scheme of AABA-BBCB-CCDC-DDDD.

I love this idea and was very eager to test my abilities in this challenge. I must admit it required a little bit more of my time and effort, but in the end, it was worth it.



Who Will Digg My Grave?


With a shovel in your hand,
How will you find the strength
Or a will to part with me?

Will you still mourn me,
If I ask you to embrace my end?
Love will tear me apart…
Love will break my heart…

Digg deep through dirt and grass,
I‘ll sleep to keep my mind at ease.
Gone in a heartbeat…
Gone, done, my last retreat…

My love, do you hear the drums calling?
You should kiss me before it’s too late.

Gravedigger is what people see,
Raw hands and muddy boots.
Are they blind? Can’t they see
Violets you placed in my hands,
Everlasting love in your eyes.

This is my offer to dVerse‘s latest prompt:

“Fold a sheet of paper in half
Think of a career or occupation choice
On the one side of the page list 10 nouns
on the other half 10 verbs that correspond to that position
Now connect each of the nouns with a verb
Using any of those combinations, write a 3 (or more) stanza poem with 3 (or more/or less) lines per stanza.”

Another interesting exercise that led me to a place I probably wouldn’t venture to.



You ask me
Who I want to be?
Dare I return back to see?
Where will I find the roots to my tree?
Am I free?


Tony Maude of dVerse posted an interesting challenge today. To write, how shall I call it?…Once removed Cinquain.

The Cinquain is a five-line poem, invented by Adelaide Crapsey, an American poet. The first and last lines each have 2 syllables, with the intervening lines having 4, 6 and 8 syllables respectively. Tony asked us to write a five-line poem with 3, 5, 7 ,9 and 3 syllables.

I must say this challenge really intrigued me. Since English is not even my second language,  sometimes it is hard to frame my emotions in a more technical verse form. I fell in love with acrostic form and it came surprisingly easy to me. When I read this latest challenge, I thought I might try it.

So, here is my humble offering. I have no idea if it is technically correct, but I gave my best. And if you don’t try it, you’ll never learn it.



Over at dVerse Brian challenged us to break a form of poetry. This is what I would call a broken acrostic, where the last letter of each line spells out a title of my poem. Hope you enjoy my little exercise in breaking.

      In the end it wont matteR
How we lose our lovE
Once we leave this asyluM
Do not dare to cry for mE
Through my words you’ll swiM
Over my stanzas you will climB
You’ll want me as your heroinE
But I always was your annihilatoR
Isn’t  this life one crazy dilemmA
I find it impossible to fight addictioN
Although your touch leaves me toxiC
And still I thought you’d never break mE





At dVerse, Mary introduced us to a talented photographer and poet named Totomai Martinez. The challenge was to pick one of his photos and write a poem. This one captured my heart and my imagination.

15876939567_3f16bd5c8f_k             Image credit – Halo by Totomai Martinez

Walked out on the ledge
One step too far
My heart upon my sleeve
Burning like a star

                  Let me burn
Let me bring the light
           Just let me burn
And light up the night

Standing on the edge
In a hope of a better day
Looking on the world bellow
Trying to find my way

                  Let me burn
Let me burn so bright
  Just let me shake off
  This wretched plight

Give me the wings
And let me fly
Give me the burden
No tears left to cry

                                 Let me burn
               Let me bring the light
                          Just let me burn
   I am ready for another fight

Spinning Hearts – Revisited

My fellow Friday Fictioneer Björn Rudberg commented on my FF short story, how it fits perfectly to the prompt that’s up on dVerse. To write about a secret, without actually revealing them. So, I decided to revisit the story and try to transform it into a poem. I’ll let you, my dear readers, to be the judges on how successful I was.


Like a whirling dervish,
I futilely try to fill this emptiness.
It was always my favorite place,
this secluded courtyard, our secret garden.

Quiet little corner,
where we used to talk…
where we used to dance
our perfect routine, our whimsical relationship.

These days other people
dine at our table,
sharing stories, wine and laughs…
But I never let them go out to the courtyard.

And when they leave,
I walk out and dance.
Pretending you are here.
Practising my carefully choreographed therapy.

I spin on my tip toes,
forgetting the world,
remembering us.
One day I’ll admit the truth….Just not today.

Thank you Björn, for opening the doors for me, I hope my poems will find a  warm place here.