Sleepless Night

To measure night by sleepless hours
To fathom darkness
to its inky heart
delirious
devoid of breath
cut mercillessly by the silver arrows
of branches in the streaming light
of a weather-beaten lantern
softly creaking
its painful gasp
among the whispers of the leaves
seeks shelter.
Restless solitude
reveals its inner sanctum, quiet peace.
By dawn's blade touch
come to your senses
ever grieving
to loose
to leave
but never able
to forget

Russian Orthodox Christmas in Seattle

This year the Bishop of Seattle Feodosy came from San Francisco to serve the holiday liturgy.
The service was beautiful and somehow solemn. It was my first time to see Feodosy, and at first he impressed me as a tall man with a commanding presence. Imagine my surprise when I met him face to face and discovered he is an average height, quiet voiced man with kind and vulnerable eyes. I could see he enjoyed fellowship with the parishners - and had a wonderful time at the yolka. By the way, I played... Baba Yaga... Hello, old age... Oh, well, I had fun!

Silence

I know how silence traces with dusty fingers
Shelves and desks
And paints in somber grayish colors
Dark screens of monitors.
It swiftly streams along reluctant quiet keys,
Plays with the golden dust
In rays of sunshine falling gently
Onto my floor, and watches
Intently from the other side
Of a looking glass
Among tall slender vases - fractured shadows
Of lilac irises and
Dreams

And on the other side it's calm and quiet and serene
where oak frames imprison solemn faces
and polished wood of cupboards seems
a pool of mirky cold waters.
The venerable chairs' twisted backs
hide in the corners softly waiting,
The curtain of a carpet slowly drops
its purple bloom
towards a forgotten tome.
A lamp under a plastic shade
A glass of tea in etchéd-metal holder
A spoon,
A cube of sugar

Silence came

Captured by the Snow Queen

(to my childhood friends, Lucy and Alv)

The childhood time was golden and slow
Like honey from a plastic bear bottle
The old apricot tree would get dressed in pink lace
Alive with the purposeful buzz of the bees
The wet clay between fingers was fat and pregnant
With a host of ideas demanding immediate implementation
Even the moss had its own inimitable sligtly pungent smell
Colored sea glass spoke of distant shores and adventure
Dead goldfish were awarded lavish funerals
Cats on the roofs engaged in mysterious rites
A boy and a girl were reading a book together,
Their shoulders barely touching, and it was important:
Trust and intimacy; in November the wind tore off
Acacia pods, sharp, curved and pointed Tartar swords,
Their seeds perfectly smooth, their juice bitter-sweet and gooey.
The unbearable backpacks were dragged on the ground,
And even the pouring rain could not interrupt
The conversation of two fifth graders.
And at home there was the hot stove, yellow light and cocoa
The fervent wait for the snow would be followed
By the impatient hope for the spring
The last icicles like some crystal amber imprisoned
All sorts of strange little creatures, wood chips and sand.
Sitting down by the bluish mounds of ice by the water
Lost in the halls of the Snow Queen,
I am still expecting a miracle.
December 31, 2008