It's Time For You Escape
in concrete houses
in concrete silence
nobody can not hear
your call
concrete houses are
sinking more than once
in the wine
when the clocks
are hitting
at the morning hour
concrete hearts
being getting cold
are slowly undergoing
the life
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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A Purple Chequered
Do you remember this blanket? Soft, purple,
chequered was, wiped in the corner.
At the picnic mosquitoes cut and not
helped moves with hand to drive them away
You have always had fairly good
ways.Under the blanket,
covered entirely, only
underit, we started breakfast.
Our stifled giggles heightened a sound
of insects. And with evening, in the circle
of smoke candles lighted, the supper
on a purple, smelt of the night.
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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I like the rain
when I met you
it was a heavy rain
approached there my train
was a beautiful summer
on the platform the drummer
drummed and a sun
came out a fun
of hot rays began.
I didn't get
onto a train,
stopped me eyes
it was a day really
exceptionally nice .
and our fun
lasts as soon,
as is lighting the sun.
I am going to the platform
and I am waiting
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Steam And The Solo
there is an
unwritten agreement between us
we aren't getting ourselves in the way
and in this way
we aren't stopping by at ourselves
after all, quietly for ourselves
we sometimes try to imagine how it will be
like .. when unintentionally we are
on the same path, I know it.
what will he reweigh?
reason
rough quiet nature
the mutual sympathy
or the resignation from
what very well is smelt
I am collecting strong umbrellas...
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Change Tonality
you would like
a lot 'to have'
and to be known
well to have
the pass to the moon
and always a wind
at the back
by in one piece
one's life
not to know
what conflicts
mean to be
convinced
that the fate
is bringing
only wonderful
things for you
you don't know
whether
the tomorrow
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Passing Fashion
not yet it's
the first snow
of the season the sun is still coming out
from behind the clouds
and we are taking out from wardrobes
jackets, mini jackets,
coats, spring coats,
overcoats, fur-lined overcoats and winter furs
and covering to severe
frost and strong winds
with thrill of emotion
we are looking at spring
dresses
the last swimsuits
summer shoes
bought,
on the first day of the autumn
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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and I said... no, no...
I wrote the sonnet about the spring,
and suddenly he, nice,
high flier as gladly,
like super star from the screen.
tshitrt the white put, and he had
trousers, of the same colour.
and hair like the tar.
in the sun a colour gleamed black.
I stood in the door, into him stared.
when he charmingly smiled,
and asked - whether for Madam, will be
willing to buy tickets... to....
farther... I didn't hear.
him star, unfortunately, dim.
my the muse escaped,
and I said... no, no...to him...
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Do It
make your confession alone
before yourself
'in front of a mirror
you man weak
with the will, and the act,
do it
make your confession alone
before yourself
without the priest
put the candle
and beside mirror
even rather small
clean your conscience
more lightly
for you will be
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Direction Beach
I am walking along a street, on soft asphalt, and
I am sticking heels into the zebra.
of the marquise on the other side firmly heated up.
the crescent shaped bun stuffed with the chocolate
is swimming in the shop, from the warmth,
one moment, and I will wet my legs at the edge,
and then, I will catch myself crests of wave
swimming of up on down, and I will feel blissful chill.
now, one bend and...welcomes me auriferous familiar
sand.your glasses, are covering with half a face.
but I can see the smile, from a distance, it is not...
a duplicate...
poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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Delay
now, we have the September.
is clear and solar
but he likes the July,
not to say the August.
then everything is so kind,
all warm and cosy.
oh well, a September
it is a September.
doesn't worry about it
isn't taking over.
is taking the other
wall diary out
of the drawer is.
he is hanging up
and he is placing
the appropriate date still
and is raising
oneself spirit.
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poem by Maria Barbara Korynt
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