Just a Couple of Poems

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Magic

For a rare moment

I was captured

by the magic of the sun.

Away from the harsh glow of screens,

from oppressive pursuits,

I found my peace.

I felt life

and felt alive.

I felt my body groan.

It creaked,

and I marveled in the sound.

I am alive,

as part of the scheme

as the small green tomato

Ripening in the last rays of day.

For a moment

I was captured

by the magic of the sun.

By the feeling of a cool breeze,

By the soft sigh of rustling leaves.

I am not dead

and had,

for that moment

Escaped the haze of grey.

I said

I am alive,

and it was a joyous sound.

For that briefest of times,

so scarce among others,

the man behind the curtain

walked into the spotlight.

The phantom of the opera

experienced applause.

 

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Voices of the City

The man of action

and the thought,

walked hand in hand

that day.

An unlikely friendship,

but the strength of the union

could not be denied.

They sat down,

heavily,

in a green wicker chair.

The thought spoke,

the man laughed,

and all was well.

A happy companionship,

keeps the black wolves at bay.

When loneliness encroaches,

the man turns his back;

he drowns himself in action,

But the thought does not

admit defeat.

The voices of the city,

cry out in sad harmony.

The man and his thought

seek solace in each other.

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Echoes

They speak to me,

these angels,

of the deep, dark

shadow sea.

They speak of bygone days,

of treasures lost,

and memories gained.

They speak to me of timelessness,

in which all fades away.

They speak,

but offer little;

no answers to eternal mysteries.

They are the long lost,

once forgotten,

now recalled.

I sit surrounded by specters,

an unwilling participant,

in a haunting storytime.

These whispers of insanity,

they bring me to the brink,

but in their hurried tones,

it is never quite clear,

What lies over the edge.

The experience of windchill,

offers its own comfort,

as the voices whisper,

of past and present ills.

I am driven to share,

but to share one must know.

Their secrets escape understanding.

When they speak,

the tangible rings hollow.

The tapestry they weave,

comprises my reality.

They are unchained,

free to rain down destruction,

but they just want to speak.

They seek connection,

with what is.

I hear,

but cannot be their voice.

My dues have been paid.

They are saddened

but conscious,

of my limitations.

I go to my rest,

and they oblige me,

with reluctant release…

-Artem Potemkin