Tuba man

His face a smudge, eyes under monstrous hat
Invisible, performed his daily chore
Of packing up a cart, a folding chair
And brassy instrument,
Unsinkable musician, wher’art thou?
Are you at Pearly gates performing songs of joy
Or roaming still, invisible, among the crowd
that so oft despised your artless and imperfect tunes?
I’m saddened by your absence, keenly missing
the clownish cheer and the friendly mien
and long and sonorous vibration you called music.
I’m sorry that I passed you by
Indifferent, self-important, in a hurry,
Without a word, without a friendly touch.
Here I am standing at the door
Here is the orphaned city waiting
in sorrow that is born of deep and silent void
And lo! A boy puts lips
onto the heavy mouthpiece
Of his ridiculous and shiny
tuba.
December 26, 2008

Christmas Tree

The ever-repeating ritual: floors scrubbed clean
In the anticipation of the arrival of the Christmas visitor
Into our souls and homes, her fragrant boughs still captured
In ropes like a fantastic wild bird;
Innocence and faithfulness overcome the rapid flow of time,
And the glass beads, old, touched with black on the chipping edges
tinkle faintly, stretching magically a path into lost childhood
where I, very little, in a silk puffy dress
stand on the edge of the sofa, barely breathing with happiness,
following the flight of my mother's hands
stitching silver bells on the pink hem.
The house is filled with the aroma of chocolate and tangerines,
father is crowning the tree with a star,
presents await in paper bags
and fists are full of candy.
Then - the bliss of sitting quietly, in the dark,
waiting for the miracle of transfiguration
when the ruby, sapphire and emerald lights
spring to life on disappearing branches.
Tissue paper and cotton wool, boxes of memories
Among the dry whisper of pine needles and tinsel
Golden globes, a mushroom and pouting fish
birds, Harlequins, tiny churches, benevolent angels
And babes in their blankets of sparkling confetti

My son is trimming the tree

Snow at night

Snow fell like a pause between a breath and a heartbeat
Listless, inexplicable, pristine,
The white maiden pages of streets before dawn
Scincillated palely, promising magic
Of new beginnings.
Cars by the sidewalks froze
Under thick blankets, enchanted monsters,
Hunching before a pounce.
Empty parks peered into the white silence,
Zealously guarding rabbit tracks
And the summer-time benches of lovers.
Trees stopped in the windless quiet,
Dropped their last yellow leaves
Into the snow and ice,
Frozen, fragile,
Like hard candy and equally bright.
Puddles stifled by frost, loomed black
Like negatives of lost sunny days…
A homeless man from Renton can no longer remember
A warm home that was his just three months ago
Policemen in heavy black coats
Look like Malevitch’s black square
Awkward in their attempt
To help
Ice on his blanket
Tarp, covering
Remnants of personal possessions
Snow
And oblivion

Snow storm? Bah! Humbug!

I was extremely surprised to learn, upon arriving to my classroom, that the Seattle schools had been closed - apparently, while I was still driving! I am no meteorologist, but even I could see the clear skies - and almost no ice on the roads. Considering that my school sits on top of the Queen Ann Hill, it was obvious that other, more accessible schools would be in good shape, either. But the Gods of the children were stronger today - and they were granted their wish: no school! Mom stays at home! Let's watch a movie!
Actually, some did go to the movie theaters - and to the malls... A freezing rain started to fall around 5 in Lake City neighborhood, but about 10 it began to die out... So, what is the big deal with the snow in Seattle?
My guess is the transportation - or the lack of it. Who wants to drive around on slippery slopes of the city cut by multiple bridges, in gusting winds? And so the legend of the snow storm is born...Well, on the other hand, I am enjoying myself by the fireplace...

The tall historical bridge of dull gray concrete that is stretching between Queen Ann and Freemont neighborhoods is known to Seattlites not only as the Aurora Bridge, but also as the Suicide Bridge. During past decade at least 39 people leaped to their deaths into the dark churning waters of the Lake Union - or into the parking lots and rooftops nearby. This is the bridge that witnessed the bus hijacked by a madman go over the rail... While the city is still pondering how to suicide-proof the bridge walkway, the bright yellow boxes with emergency telephones were placed on the bridge in the hopes that the suicide might pick up the phone. In November, another person plunged to death from the bridge.

Early twilight

Multilayered clouds of all shades of storm
bleached the lake and the city
to the same dull silver,
left it twitching in agitation and fear
pierced by the red-and-white snakes
of the highways.
The wind threw handfuls of black birds
into windshields,
gigantic firs stretched their dark looming arms
in a sinuous macabre dance.
Early twilight swallowed all colors
painted dark circles under tired eyes
masked familiar faces with heavy gray make-up.
Damp cold numbed the fingers,
the concrete rails rose for the occasion,
the rain denied vision
and so
it was impossible
to see
on the bridge
the hope of a yellow box
with a telephone

To my friend

Caressing glimpses of thoughts
scanning the words
images of the vain busy days
and low quiet echoes
of a heartbeat in the twilight of the empty rooms
golden evenings
floors like honey
conversations
about the most sacred
and the most mundane
are left behind somewhere
the overwhelming
separation
in the physical space
rolled with the red apples
from one coast to the other
fell with a wall
of the bright autumn leaves
eclipsing the other time.
And only the moon,
the all-knowing crone
shed her pale light
on my secret path
to the new house.

Homeless in December

A homeless woman is leafing through
The yellow pages of her newspaper
Her face is bruised, worn and shriveled
Like a forgotten pear
Under a tree.
What long-lost news is she searching for?
What story keeps her
Lips moving?

Equally homeless dogs trot by
Unperturbed
Preoccupied with their own woes,
And the passers-by
Scorch her with indifference.
The city is getting ready for Christmas.

Post by the road

Post by the road stands unblinking
in ragged remnants of forgotten
words
like dying saint
his body pierced
with thousands of staples, pins and nails
He calls with hope and
vends the glory
and offers deals
and sells
at a discount
both self
and everything in a garage and home

post by the road’s deadly wounded
with biting cold of cruel lonely nights
and rains
and the indifference of the passers-by
Each crack is bleeding tears
and deep uneven wrinkles
run
like furrows, each one pregnant with a word

Like soul
that ever wanes in solitude
Like soul that ever
hopes to see

February 24, 2008

Turkey

To Seva Rzhondkovsky

Like Earth’s blue eye
The deep pond roundly gazes
Into your face
And burns the lips
with thirst,
insatiable sigh of longing,
Or music’s rich elusive balm.
Do not rip strings,
Don’t break the chains
Of lazy afternoon daydreaming,
Allow me yet to linger at the edge
Of the impossible
Mediterranean
Eden.
But lo!
A rider gallops in the distance
And cuts
with a thin blade
of trailing
dust
The periwinkle-painted skies.

November 11, 2008

Up to my knees in water

Тhe dark clouds gazed intently at the
Earth lashed with incessant rain
On the horizon the cold sunset was playing out its
Daily drama
In splashes of icy blue and slanted rays
of the dying sun
Freezing water up to my knee
I was still standing there
Defiant, staring back,
Eyes to eyes
Among the silver spears
Feebly the sickly ashes clawed at the wind
The squirrel rolled its tiny body into a ball
But the hawk has already risen on the wing
Merciless and unstoppable
like death

March 2, 2008

Childhood memories

the thread is snipped

there is no end and no beginning
and only moment lingers for a while
a sigh
a twinkling of familiar smile
and scent
and sounds
of the abandoned nest
the darkness of the wall is crossed minutely
with pale and fleeting spots
of headlights and the clanking
of glass in dusty metal frames
and tremor under brown leather
of streetcars in the dead of night
the whispers and the odors yellow
that open spheres
to the dark blue sky
that bleeds the light of the unknown suns
anticipation, expectations

dream

a star fell down

February 22, 2008

Thread

A blind moiré weaves my soul’s thread
with ancient gnarly fingers
deaf and slow
And in her grip deliberate as midwife’s hand
I tremble head to toe
and hardly dare take a breath

Over the world a caravan of golden fleece
indifferently proceeds to the unknown point
The somber skies anticipating
decline and fall
of the celestial light
seep cold from the waters deep below
and noisy branches
frothing blossoms dream
is leaving
slipping
stops
the hand,
and thread
is on the brink of rupture
22 февраля, 2008

Squirrel

I am the gray squirrel
I apologize for being rash,
But you know – the family, children, the nest is leaking;
Winged horror above,
Cold wind in the night,
And obnoxious jays in pursuit of my peanuts.
I am watching you from up high in my tree,
I made a path to your doorstep,
I know your secrets,
I taught you to bring me treats.

You, just like me, enjoy soaking your hairless body in the sun,
Tracing the poplar branches as they rise into the sky
You know the hot lusty power of blood
And sweet pain in the nipples heavy with milk
You know the warm smell of the sleeping kit
And the gnawing fear in the depths of your stomach
When you think that something
Could have happened to him.

Now you, too, share my secrets,
My posterity will own this meadow

Mountains

Mountains
Silently rose to meet me
Dark, sullen, aloof
Frowned, bristling with black forests
Shoulder to shoulder
Steep cliffs and cold
pools mirrors of melting ice
and blackened tree stumps among the pristine white
The basalt bones
Rip open the soft velvet of soil
Leaf buds are still a-slumber,
Perching on frozen branches
A she-deer is slowly trudging through this field of whiteness
Spring is not yet come

The Rain in the Night

Creeping softly on the overgrown lawn
Caressing drooping limbs heavy with foliage
The night rain
Planted his transparent kisses
Breathing life
Where the hope of spring was gone
Shedding dry leaves
And sticking out sharp elbows
Of broken branches
The ivy stretching like a lazy cat,
Jumped on the fence and
Hunched there,
Untamed, attentive, fierce
The dark towering pines
Abjectedly turned their backs to the wind,
Slow, magical
Old witches
The rain was drumming with its tiny icy hammers
On the other side of the looking glass
Of my pond
I laid me down on the bottom
I am still waiting

Lights of Color

The lights trembled at the fingertips of graceful
Magnolias dreaming in a pose of a palace dancer
Chestnut trees barely awake
Somber
Stretched the pale candles of the new foliage
Tulips in complete abandonment burned their bonfires
The ravenous grass bit into the asphalt
And the sakura unfolded her foamy sleeves
Cold retreated in the face of this teeming life
Poured down as rain
Fell down as hale
And rose again as the foggy breath
On the lips of the waking earth.
A slug thoughtfully moved its semitransparent horns
Stretching its tiny body towards some private mysterious goal
A lady bug timidly moved its orange wings,
Dragging the black lace on the edge of my palm
I was the earth and the grass
In my eyes blossomed the constellations
Time has retreated
For awhile

Summer cannot possibly last

I say to myself summer cannot possibly linger
Yellow worry-free days
And peaches from a green plastic pail
Up to the elbows in sweet lazy juice
Warm shadows, and ringing
Of the trickling water from rusty old tins
Nailed to the heavily breathing dark wooden wheel
And fragrance of mint with a touch
Of bonfire

When August is bleeding to death
in the dust
the old shrunken cherries are still filled with sweetness
But the summer cannot possibly last