Drhnoucí řeč
Nevyřčený zvuk se svírá v čtvrthrst slov,
přečtěte smršť třpytů ztracených v záhybech řeči.
Skřípání štěrků štípe zuby i jazyk,
čtvrť věty se láme v neklidném drnčení,
řeč drhne—ztrácí třpyt, hledá tichý dech.
poetryA collection of 44 posts
Praag Dooit
Klokken rekken zich,
stenen strekken,
smeltwater ruist door kasseien,
druppels vloeien, adem ontstaat.
De Vltava rilt,
splijt haar huid,
mist vlucht,
bruggen dampen,
de stad vervaagt in rimpelend licht.
Stemmen sijpelen uit stegen,
stappen ketsen,
Praag schudt, strekt,
spiegelt zich in ontdooide tijd.
The Pour
She begins brittle,
tightly curled,
a rustle of dry whispers
waiting for a reason to unfurl.
I linger, calm and quiet,
until her need stirs me,
kindling the flame
that calls me to boil.
When I pour over her,
a slow, burbling warmth
that saturates her edges
like it smolders in my core,
she blooms under my caress,
folds unraveling in my heat.
The turbulence stirs us,
so that every part of me
meets every part of her.
Curling fingers rise,
the air thickens;
She steeps in me,
I draw the flavour from her.
We become one together,
More than either of us alone.
The swelter inside me,
the richness within her-
we become something new
in this act of alchemy.
Bric-à-Brac Babel
Beneath a tattered coat, it haunts the street,
A mongrel tongue with mischief in its eyes.
It lifts what other languages repeat,
Then cobbles words and swears it’s neat and wise.
From Gaelic glens, it pockets "whiskey" neat,
And Saxon hoards are crammed into its sleeves.
It pilfers French with charm both sly and sweet,
Then grabs what German drops and quickly leaves.
No words are safe—it snatches what it likes,
It lifts the Arab cipher, Latin charts.
It swipes a Norseman’s saga, Dutchman’s dikes,
And builds a patchwork form from stolen arts.
It shifts and twists, unbridled and untamed,
A brash imposter, deaf to what it maimed
On A Winter Mourning
Beneath the willow's frozen, brittle shade,
I mourn the garden buried deep in frost.
The tender shoots that once began to fade,
Now sleep beneath the ice, forever lost.
Your tender stem once reached toward warming skies,
But winter came, and shadows stole the sun.
Its icy breath now stills where green hope lies,
When spring’s soft promise barely had begun.
No blossoms rise to meet the bitter air,
No verdant paths to tread where life had grown.
The hush of silence, cold beyond compare,
Hangs heavy in a field of seeds unsown.
Yet in my heart, your roots endure the freeze,
A fleeting warmth amidst the winter’s seize.
The Hands Know the Hour
In the morning I weigh my hours,
measuring minutes I might not meet,
I decide to mark the calendar
with ink instead of with doubt—
As though tomorrow is a promise
I can keep in my pocket.
In the kitchen I pour comfort into my mug,
along with my coffee and cream.
I hold the heat between swollen hands,
letting the warmth of it chase off
the remnants of dreams about dying,
much as it eases the aches in my fingers.
I scribble lists of goals
with hope instead of hesitation,
as if writing them down
could anchor them to reality.
By nightfall I might tear them up,
treating them like secrets
not safe in my keeping.
While putting away the dishes,
I line up trust along with the tableware,
as if tidy rows will bring me a tidy life,
as if this tiny calm can quell the chaos.
I slide the drawers shut with purpose,
securing away what little control I can.
With dinner I serve a side of patience,
bland as every meal I can make myself eat—
It tastes like nothing more than endurance.
I try to swallow it without resistance,
like forcing it down might make it enough.
Maybe I can learn to crave the dull weight.
I cannot name what shifts in me
between sunrise and the sun’s descent,
its slow retreat tugging at loose threads,
pulling my careful plans into twilight,
unraveling them stitch by stitch,
until nothing is left but dusk.
While I climb into bed the hours drift ahead,
indifferent to what I make of them.
Tomorrow, like today, will pass regardless.
Whether I shape it or let it slip past me,
if I fill it with hope or hollow it out,
is a choice that will always be mine.