to J.G.


For the first time and for the last I beg you:

take me away from here, somewhere

to the islands, over the sea, over the hills,

to the edge of forest, to flowery meadows.

Please, lets move once more

- perhaps the last time, I am dying here

from the lack of air and imagination.

It suffocates me, this crowd

of oblivious and proper people

between eight and four

from Monday to Friday.

2006/7†††††††† ††††† ††††††† ††††††† ††††††† ††††††† ††††††† †††††††  



variations on the theme

of J.S. Cotter "Memories"



The burnished leafs of an old gold
and Autumn's hue of yesteryear.
How do they paint an evening soul
in shadows gleamed of love desired!

A starry shower and blossoms bloom
brings fragrance of forgotten youth,
of rosy lips half open petals
that brushed my timid flower.

Surrey, October, 2008 










The flickering lights of houses perched on nearby shore,

itís reflections in peach black waters brings promise of dreams,

longings to unnamed feelings,

vistas and half forgotten memories.


An ancient mariner watches from birdís nest atop

tall ship. His eyes misted from fog and memory.

Will there ever be a warm night by the stove

with wood alight? A hand on his arm as he watches

ship passing by through a mighty bay?

Ship full of hopes, longings, dreams of lands far away,

exotic harbors bursting with laughter and life?

A flickering lights.

Like pigments of imagination. Young mariner

atop a mast and aged gardener below an apple tree

dream alike. Dream of themselves.

And their dreams are just† flickering lights

mirrored in dark waters of an ancient sea.


February/November 2007





Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Godís Grace


After the Deluge I sat and wept

why was I spared as others didn't

was I the Just one, the Pious, the Good?

Was I not as others - my foes and friends alike?

Was I not jealous of my lover,

not greedy in things and obese in thoughts?

Damn you, o Mighty, Powerful One

Damn you,  for Life with Death abundant.†††

July 2006


Your hand floated for a moment

than stopped in midair as if to

suspend an unanswered question

- a word half-spoken half-whispered.

A desire not truly realized,

flower bud before bloom,

lips curved before kiss.

Such is the true timid work of a poet;

to say much more than possible

in conversation with a world,

yet, never reaching the truth.

Dropping words like rain drops

over a meadow o possibilities.

A poetic sentence ends with a colon, not a period



† Vancouverís ĎRose Gardení,† 2009

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