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the word whisperer

Friday, October 29, 2004

Freedom: A Poem

Freedom soars just like a bird,

Yet it’s modest, never heard,

It can’t be touched, it can’t be seen,

It isn’t soiled: it is clean.

It can protect and it can kill,

It just depends on man’s own will;

It is lovely and it’s true,

And it is always there for you;

But God proposes,

Man disposes,

And how far can we all go

To feel the freedom’s blissful glow?

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Hidden Away

A house, a door, a staircase, and, again, a wooden door, now leading into a room that faintly smelled of fresh-dried paint and crisp washed sheets spread out to make a soft, neat bed. A bed that warmed and lulled a child to sleep when the world seemed to be at peace and only chirping noises of the insects were heard as they sang their songs upon the soft grass touched with the moisture of the evening dew.

It was upon this bed that stories were told and songs of magic places sung. It was the place where hopes arose and wishes seemed to suddenly come true. It was the place where truth came out and prayers fervently bestowed, and when the dreams appeared in sleep the world became alive.

When morning came the child would greet the ringing bell with stretches and then a deep pleased sigh, like that of one well-rested and perfectly content. She would lie there for a moment, relaxed in her little world of sounds and smells – all coming through the opened window, through which the warmth of sunshine glowed. The cozy sheets were then placed back and it was time to feel the lukewarm water on her face, the pleasant tinge of brushing hair, the touch of two newly-made taut braids, and the rustling sound of smooth cotton – the dress that she picked out the night before. The closet door squeaked as it was opened to let the child kneel and take her leather shoes which then she carefully put on one little foot and then the other, feeling gently the smoothness of the round glass buttons that seemed to know their way as they slipped through a narrow whole and joined the straps together.

Sitting alone upon her bed, waiting for the call to breakfast, the child reflected on the night and wondered what the day would bring. A times she lingered deep in thought, as though she were in another far away world, but then, when a friendly ladybug landed on her fragile arm, she burst out laughing, and the radiant joy of innocence would echo like the sound of a million beads scattering on the wooden floor.

At noon she had her walk with mother, who’d tell her different stories and how a girl should grow. When they would reach the wooden swing amidst the tall trees of an old pine grove, her mother would take up sewing while her daughter played. At length she’d stop exploring the softness of the grass, the delicacy of wild flowers, and the roughness of the pinecones, and lean against a tree, breathing in the sweet aroma of sap which stuck onto her fingers if she was not careful enough.

She’d dream away the time, imagining herself a princess and visiting exciting places. Then, gradually, a shadow of sadness would creep in and she would gaze fondly at a bird flying so effortlessly, or let a busy bug crawl on her dress. They were her friends, and ones who never gave reproach or spoke an unkind word.

Yet, she was alone, and her mother, when she called the girl to join her on the swing, didn’t notice the one crystal drop rolling down her daughter’s cheek. She sat down to watch the needle pop in and out, making crosses of a pale blue, while her mother softly sang, and, hidden in the girl’s innocent bosom, was a loving letter, written by her father on the eve he left them.

Saturday, October 23, 2004

Beneath the Rainbow

Upon a golden slope, underneath the clear blue sky, their backs resting against a grand old oak, sat a young couple in loving solitude. The breeze played with the tall, sun-burnt grasses and the leaves rustled gently. Oleg had his arm around Masha, holding her close, and gazing onto a tiny sleeping face that belonged to a newborn little body lying in her arms. Darling Sasha was wrapped in a lovely blanket and a hand-woven hat was on his head. He was only a few days old, but he was a very quiet baby. Masha carefully held his head in the palm of her hand while he rested on the length of her other arm.

His steady gentle breathing vibrated every energy of a new, pure life. His occasional sigh filled his parents’ heart with longing to protect their beautiful treasure from everything in the world. His soul was a whole world in itself, fragile and precious.

Masha gazed ahead at the overwhelming view stretching thousands of miles across the earth. The mountains, the waters, the forests, the rocks, and all that there was to nature, all were so old and experienced. They had lived through millions of changes, they had lived through so many joys and so many sorrows, and yet, they have survived. The world was full of millions of people, different people, kind and cruel, saved and suffering, wise and fools. But here lay a baby, a small and untouched soul who knew nothing of what was to await him.

Oleg and Masha gazed on, marvelling at the works of God, and, suddenly, little Sasha opened his eyes without a sound. His face was calm and his beautiful blue eyes sparkled as they traveled from his mother, to his father, and back. Then, for the first time in his life, his mouth opened into a radiant smile and he let out a small uncertain giggle. His father took his tiny hands into his big fingers and smiled back, whispering the baby’s name.

Friday, October 22, 2004

hello...

Let me introduce myself...

I am the Word Whisperer... but it's Yorik, for now. I love to read and write. I hope you do, too.

Autumn... It is a haunted, yet enchanting season of the year. We marvel at the richness of the shades of colors blanketing the hilltops. We cower by the cozy stove, listening to the howling of the wolves as they call out to the spirits of the forest. Sometimes something stirs in our imagination, whether from fear, joy, or surprise. Did you ever wonder why? The Word Whisperer has just passed by your window...

Thursday, October 21, 2004

"The Lime"

Captured in the frames of time,
Shown in splendor and in rhyme,
The image of a pantomime,
The painting of a sea-green lime.

It hangs upon the olive wall
Of the enormous dining hall,
And can be seen by short and tall,
As well as those who like to bawl,

For when they see it they go green
With “curiosity the queen”
From why the lime has not a sheen
Upon its peels to be seen?

Here comes dilemma, it is true,
For in our modern world of blue
We polish all, from old to new,
Can there be nothing else to do?

Autumn Spirit

She stood serene upon the cliff,

Her eyes kept steady gaze ahead,

She stood and saw where life had led,

She met with courage all it said.

Below, cascading over rocks,

A forceful waterfall poured down,

And shaped the mists into a crown

That splashed the cliff and made it brown.

Above, the skies were autumn blue,

White whiffs of clouds stretched far away,

Some pretty birds flew round in play,

And colored leaves lit up the day.

Though she felt saddened and alone,

Left there to shiver in the cold,

Her heart would secretly withhold,

The precious memories of gold.

Yet, she stood in silent waiting,

With her mind and soul debating,

Love and hope in troubled grating

Against the things truth is relating.

"Waiting" – a poem

Crystal drops of springtime rain,
Are trickling down the windowpane,
The door that leads into my heart;

But though leaves rustle from the shower
Within my soul a little flower
Is bent from secret, dwelling sobs;

All cold and dampened, night presides
And melancholy, shadowed strides
Of Love keep walking past frail hope;

And as it waits the future flies
While Love’s own innocent disguise
Is nothing but a shattered vase.