Laps of innocence
I swam through the snow
I swam the laps of innocence
The laps of an angel by my side
The sound of laughter by my side
The happiness swimming abreast of me
I rolled down the hills of light
I rolled unrolling the scrolls of innocence
The scrolls of all the white by my side
The hues of a multitude of smiles by my side
Joy cries joy screams abreast of me
It was so easy so easy to swim
So easy to swim the laps of innocence
The laps of an angel by my side
The sound of laughter by my side
The happiness swimming abreast of me
So easy to roll down the hills of light
To roll unrolling the scrolls of innocence
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I'm an EQ test personification
stranded on percentage foot of untrodden
ether one spleened across the city streets
(they run arteries to fast for me bells
dingillee dongelleethey ding too loud)
ether two vast across the skies
bluelike blacklike spilling clouds of white
call
call through the curtains falling sideways
speak
speak like curtains folding an actor
too naked to declaim the text
call
call like curtains falling apart
a silent choir to veil, unveil
in an unknown zone zero emotion pronounced
by frozen lips stammering teeth and feet protruding
left and right scattered my step gave in
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Sophia The Psychic She Lived Down The Road
Sophia the psychic she lived down the road
She knew the roads she knew the souls
An Antipythia of the broken heart
Wept ‘don’t know thyself ‘tis too deep’
Know thy paths not entangled they are
‘spread like lilies’ not needing the truth
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
Sophia the psychic she met me one day
I looked into her eyes compassion I smiled
Yes, she started, and she could not stop
Against my smile her intermittent sobs
Sophia the psychic centuries echoed
Tormented by knowing too much
‘Tis passion Sophia I asked
Why are you telling me what I already know
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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What moves through the cracks of the walls
Infant broken cries cast to milkless mothers
Who live in those too tall buildings
Buildings cloud sky scraping
Ant hole noisy towers
Rustling like leaves of an autumn yet to come
Center decentered beehives
And blind blinking traffic lights
Street arteries bleeding pulse beats
Underground prayer of too busy trains
Lined upon the city palm
A hidden message there was you thought
Build boarding flashlights its beams torn apart
This is a place of a used to be
A place of will be bridges towering
There are too many tears the river will cry
There is too much water the ocean will roar
But quite enough to cover it all
Thus will declaim the hounds
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Polly puts the kettle on
Polly puts the kettle on
Snakes rattle on insane
Round the kettle rattle on
All she puts is in vain
Polly bottles water deep
The taps mocks her ‘bravo’
But water steam stubborn peeps
The dishes clatter NO
‘The steam’s too high
Up on a ceiling
It winds too nigh
To a broken feeling’
‘What’ asks Polly
‘Hiss’ say snakes
‘What’s at stake
When kettles break? ’
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Top Shirts Are Ironed In A Big Shot Style
Top shirts are ironed in a big shot style
Disinfected fingers disinfected smile
Hand in hand polished policies acquire
Cliff cut hairs when the straights are dire
Tuxedo models in top toxic fashions
Red catwalk marches upon the blood
Is it possible to fulfill the passions
Of mud stained shoes diving in the mud?
‘Politics- they never pose naked’
Sure Vishnya true they always fake it.
Regardless of country tzardom or empire
It’s always the same blood sucking vampire
Old tzars hanging in emperor’s new clothes
Germany, Russia, America…or new
Nutsi Nazi, Comrade Parade, Yankee Hankies… or who
Old aristocracy playing democracy
Playing on the earth playing on the moon
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I'm April the seventh
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
with drops of rain beating my heart away
with drops of wine dried in my mouth
and tango I've just danced
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
sitting in the dark room
after a head over heal night
and the tango I've just danced
it's April the seventh
I'm April the seventh
Lazarus's Saturday and children's bells
all tinkling across my street
all tinkling across my heart
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I quote the mornings/Citiram jutra
I quote the mornings and awakening
And a sunbeam exploding in a treetop
I quote an old hope between my lips
And the fall of the sun down the abysses of the twilight
I quote the fire that cannot be extinct
In the torches of a cave-like current
The mark of the light on the palm of my hand
And the ashes of my future
I quote the passion of an eye
Destructive and horrifying
Fearing eyesight
I quote the alphabet that goes beyond words
Inexpressibility of every alpha and beta
Gamma and delta
I quote a life
And within my bosom I quote a fear
That everything will remain just a quotation
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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That Night Was Longer Than My Breath
I threw the questions down the streams
From the pale apple of the Moon’s eye
I tore the sights of the world
With the bare boughs of my own fingers
I dived into the breathing of hours
There was with me the treetop of mist beating
Carried the moonlight bough glow
Across the woods I whispered the cold
Hidden within the gorges of the world
Down the abyss of my own lips
Pushed down
That night was longer than my breath
And when the dawn sweated over my brow
Hints cracking alongside my hair
Could not patchwork the morning smile
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Wind The Pregnant Sky
wind the pregnant sky
like old clocks rescued by a magic mechanism of time
for the future it's got to eat
vortex pages history lame
walking through the gusts of wind
forgotten names spelled upon the moonbean
say them aloud
in fingertips breathprints
in eyes closing down
and to a beheaded lion rising
to pronounce again his own death
a baby griffin groaning at his paws
'I am the new desert of those sworn
on ashes for us to find the sandclock
you may tick me off tick me off
still the death I'll guard
tenderly like a mother lap and kiss
soulfully like a wound below the heart
know not the depth the secret and the claws
that ruin this mighty shrine
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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