the word whisperer

Make It Worth

2006-09-15T12:37:00.000-04:00

Just thoughts about how I feel about myself sometimes and my not-so-good characteristics.

Buzzing and struggling through
Torrents of emotions
Like a fly caught in the
Web can see sunlight free
Sense fresh air around but
Trapped in darkness, choking
Like a leaf spotted, curled
Up from a disease can’t
Stop the wind from swishing
Me against the plastic
Window of the play house
Pink and yellow – little
Girls are sweet when not spoiled
Don’t grow up to be me
Solve your problems, ensure
Your principles, life is
Worth living even when
It is miserable

MAKE IT WORTH

Pink Gossamer Gowns

2006-09-15T12:35:00.000-04:00

pink gossamer gowns
floating downstream past
fields of corn and wheat
banks of goldenrod and clover

angels

crochets and lace
pearl buttons and ribbons
carried by murky waters
nipped by curious fish

virgins

eyes cast upward to the sun
reflecting puffy white clouds
and the deep blue color of pride
as it fades into content

spirits

seen by maidens, scorned by lads
floating downstream past
memories of teardrops, smiles, and kisses
pink gossamer gowns

YOU

2006-07-23T23:35:00.000-04:00

Eh, another darker one for now... I don't really know where this one came from. Perhaps after a movie...

You gaze at the glass
Orange lights reflected in the window
Undetermined images - not recommended

Your eyes ignite my heart
Oval splashes of red on the white rug
Unsatisfied sobbing - not allowed

Your fingers clench the bottle
Odious air in the purple room
Unnecessary changes - not tolerated

You inhale cyan mists
Offer your breath to give me life
Undying love - not worthy

Chaos (or That's Ok.)

2006-07-19T14:26:00.000-04:00

Perhaps a rant of a careless lunatic named Sarcasm??? ;)

Dusty floors and cobweb corners,
That’s ok – I can still sleep
And not mind my frequent sneezing.

Sticky gum and greasy napkins,
That’s ok – I’ll still step around,
Garbage cans take too much space.

Rotting wood and leaky ceilings,
That’s ok – I’ll wear a coat,
Perfume needs a certain purpose.

Jeans with holes and paint-stained shirts,
That’s ok – laundry, ironing, pains in the neck,
Clothes get dirty anyways.

Diet cokes and fat free chips,
That’s ok – I don’t lose weight, but they’re supposed
To help achieve that without need to wash the pans.

Life is bad in any case and we can’t
Make it perfect, so let’s just
Watch TV, fuck, eat, and sleep,
Hope to die and hope to be,
Worst of worst…
Preaching peace, yet wearing
Skull, bones, chains, and black,
Be egoistic and inhuman,
Walk away from common sense –

Nature’s always an obstacle
And loving people is impossible,
I, me, my, myself, and mine,
Blow up the earth – I’ll stay to see
What it is like to live in rubble –
Rubble other than my life.

Return Anon, My Muse!

2006-06-14T21:25:00.000-04:00

This is an experiment using Shakespeare words, i.e. "olde English." I've been reading some sonnets lately and got into the mood to try this out. Can't promise there are no mistakes though! :-)

A Poet's Calling to a Muse

Thou hast been gone a fortnight,
Whither I know not,
Thou hast not said good morrow,
Nor kissed me sweet farewell.
What meanest thou, my Fair,
By such impetuous conduct?
Hath not my shrift of love
Been warm enough to touch
Thy pure and gentle heart?
Nor hath my lips awakened
Thy fire of trust and faith?
Hath not my pen delivered
Truth’s testimony clear?
Thy visage floats before me,
As if to say good-den,
But wanes once darkness falls;
I prithee, come anon!
For I, my coz, have greatly
Struggled to produce
Words sweet and soft as dew.
There is no strength nor spark
Within my spirit left
To dip my pen in ink;
Thy absence – such a fray
To quench creation’s thirst
That hours turn to days;
Without thee, like a flower,
Too weak to lift its head,
I bend for Nature’s sake,
I call to thee, I sing,
Anon return, my Muse!
Return anon, my Fair!

The Song

2006-06-14T21:23:00.000-04:00

Small rainbows in facets of a diamond
And bells ringing pure as drops of rain,
Inhale aromas – rose and almond,
Soar northward, echoes, like a crane;
The heart, the voice, – one breath of the soul –
Pour forth, then hover, like crimson lips
In search of a little brass keyhole:
Come in, water the dreaming tulips;
The voice – silent, the song – long faded,
But nothing can end the presence created.

Taller

2006-06-14T21:21:00.000-04:00

Pink capris and polka
DOTS
Sparkles on her top

She muses at her reflection
WHITE
Bows and pigtails

To puppies on her socks, she
TWISTS
And turns, popping her heels

In and out, head cocked
LEFT
Then right, or up and down

Proud or cross, a
MOMENT'S
Satisfaction ending with

Pursed lips, wide stance,
HAND
On hip, one eye shut the other keen

Pirate blood is hot
RUSHING
For an instant, then calm

Eyebrows raised, hands crossed in
BACK
And toes turned in

Innocence is mischievous
BUT
Finally, elbows and triangles

A frown of determination
PRESSED
Lips and dimples, a sharp sigh

I’m going to be
TALLER
Than my bro, one day!

Decisions...

2006-05-15T12:29:00.000-04:00

Decisions… whirling into her mind,
Haunting her existence,
Whirling up a tornado of emotions,
Shattering dams of tears
And sharp, echoing sounds
Called sobs, convulsions, despair –
You, stranger, lend her a smile,
Leave a violet within her cupped palms,
And disappear so she may have new hope.

Decisions… fading out of her mind,
Following her heart,
Inspiring a garden of smiles,
Adding fragrance to her every word
And song and breath
Called life, determination, peace –
You, stranger, shake your head,
Show a letter from your lover,
And walk away, so she may have new sorrow.

Headlights...

2006-04-25T18:19:00.000-04:00

Yellow and red mingled
On the highway - tedious -
Words floating in my head like boats
Empty, but the safety vests
Scattered on the floor - useless, orange...
Floating away through my eyes
Dispersing amidst the charcoal clouds
That have sucked in the last rays of sun,
Getting ready for the night
To settle in.

Earphones - the press my ears like hands,
Transporting me to a world
Where I can think and exist alone;
Let the bus carry me on
To the place where I can speak and know
That someone will understand,
Someone will smile because they love me,
Bring fresh daisies when I wake,
Or wish me pleasant dreams of tulips,
Yellow and red...

Red Tulips

2006-03-24T13:53:00.000-05:00

Red tulips blooming in the field
They sway ever so slightly
Whispering secrets of beauty
So only the swooping swallows
Hear them and sing to the wind...
Flowers of love - memories cherished -
Will always be dancing amidst
Red tulips - friends forevermore.

The Question

2006-03-16T17:11:00.000-05:00

All right... Just one more poem that I wrote in February. It kind of started after I watched a couple of Jane Austen based movies, like Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility, etc. all that good, healthy stuff about love. "wink wink" "rolls eyes" Here are my personal views on the subject...

Each man who holds my hand
I ask a simple question:
"Pray, tell me, what is Love?"

One says it is a song
Of Beauty and her flower
That never withers up;
Another calls it Lust
And gently strokes my neck
Whispering sweet phrases;
The third declares that Love
Is God Himself when living
Within the heart of man.

I ask a dozen more
And get twelve different lectures,
Including shoulder shrugs –
They all see Love as hard
to understand in truth,
Yet, it is so simple
When they do not veil it
With fifty silken scarves
And thirty-three perfumes!

The man who truly knows
The answer to my question
Won't wave his arms to try
To fill the silent room
In absence of right words,
His thoughts devoid of sense.
This man will grasp my hand
And press it to his heart
So I will feel its beat
Echo through my veins
And blushing in my cheeks,
Joining my heart's rhythm.

I'm back!

2006-03-16T17:07:00.000-05:00

Sorry friends that I've been neglecting to update my blog lately. It's been a while...

My Muse felt like taking a long vacation and nothing really valuable get done without her! ; ) Anyhow, check out the two posts below this one, titled "Kisses" and "Pines". I hope my contributions of two different forms will be enough to repay my laziness for the time being. ; )

Please let me know what you think - I'm eager to improve!

Yorik

Kisses

2006-03-16T17:06:00.000-05:00

I sit by the fireplace, typing on my laptop to the crackle of wood. I think of you; perhaps, far away across the ocean, you are thinking of me, too. Warmth spreads over my limbs and my toes. I do not move for fear that my dream will fly up into the chimney, and disperse amidst the stars.

Silence in the room, I notice the curtains open. The tall windows are hauntingly black; I hate that, but I am too lazy to get up. What if someone is watching me? I freeze, but then imagine you peeking in, smiling at me, and I beckon you, overjoyed to have a visitor this lonely evening.

The coals shift and, too soon, I am awoken from the reverie. I watch the tongues flicker and the smoke waver. Sighing, I blow a kiss to the fire.

Catch it, darling, from the stars, and may it bring you peace.

Pines

2006-03-16T17:05:00.000-05:00

Tall damsels dressed in green splendor
Their arms and skirts swaying
To the music of the wind

Swallows circle o’er the beauties
And they sigh... fragrant tears
Flow…crystallize…soft jewels…

Their skirt hems sweep over the rug
Whispering to the earth
Verses sent from the white clouds

The sweet perfume drifts through the air
To white camellias
And hovers over the pond

The sunset tints the green with red
Dewdrops glisten softly
The pine grove in mid-April

Raindrops

2005-09-17T20:57:00.000-04:00

Karen stood by the window, watching raindrops roll down the glass. She traced their paths with her finger.

“You always visit me on Tuesday, don’t you?” she whispered to the drops. “Tomorrow is my 13th birthday. I want to get my ears pierced, but I know Mother won’t let me. What do you think?”

A drop slid off the pane.

“You don’t want me to, do you? But why? I promise I won’t wear them every day. It’s just for special occasions,” she implored, then after a pause, raised her voice. “You’re just like everybody else – don’t care what I may think! You think it’s easy to live, knowing that you’ve got little say in your own life? Always forced to be in the middle of every argument? Pretending not to notice hurt looks? Trying to change the subject to cheer up the atmosphere? What do you think I am, an ungrateful spoiled brat or something?”

The wind hushed and the raindrops froze.

“If you keep silent, why do you come at all? Go to those flowers outside. See, they’re thirsty!” she cried, tears forming in her eyes. “Go on, leave me! I want to see the blue sky, the sunny field; I want my window to be clear. You do nothing but bore me!”

But the drops paid no heed to Karen’s sobs. With all her strength, she smashed the glass. Blood oozed from her fist and Karen bit her lip in pain. What’s Mom gonna say?

Just then, the rain came and wet her wounds. Karen gazed onto the drops as they mingled with blood. The wind soothed her pain and Karen smiled – someone understood her. Footsteps were nearing the door.

“See you next Tuesday,” she whispered.

Sonnet #2

2005-07-14T20:48:00.000-04:00

Call me when the birds
Will sing their first Spring song;
Call me when the trees
Will wake and bloom in green;
Call me when the streams
Will gurgle through the woods;
I will come and dance,
And bring your soul a joy,
A heartfelt song of peace,
The gift of love – a kiss.

Sonnet

2005-07-08T16:05:00.000-04:00

Raindrops rolling down the glass –
Crystal memories of time
That passed unseen and,
Like the drops of water,
Left no printed trail,
Save a sparkling streak,
A rainbow in the sun,
That vanished to eternity –
A world where dreams come true,
Where angels laugh and play
Their golden instruments,
Eden for the lost,
Rest for those who labour,
Creation in its bloom,
Where love and hope unite.

Statues

2005-07-08T16:01:00.000-04:00

Some verses that came to mind as I toured the ruins in Rome, Italy.

Philosophers age-old
And gods long forgotten,
Ye stand in your might
Robed in fine marble,
Beheaded by time,
Neglect of earth’s life,
And nature’s dark storms.
Ye’ve lost many features,
Yet withstood all errors,
Gove to the living
Your knowledge and light,
Passion and beauty,
The salt of true faith,
And breadth to the view.

College Essay

2005-05-23T20:38:00.000-04:00

This is the essay that I wrote for the college applications. Thought I'd share it with you...

It was in my early teens that I began to seriously consider writing as a possible career. By then I had become familiar with ancient classical stories, the Greek myths and historical legends. My childhood foundation for writing was based on readings of such authors as Robert Louis Stevenson, Alexander Pushkin, George MacDonald, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Lewis Carroll, and C.S. Lewis, as well as some of the contemporary writers.

Having been home schooled since second grade, I had only a few real friends, for I did not participate in many social activities. I grew up with imagination as my best companion and a loving family to support my development. Writing and literature had always been my favorite subjects, and I enjoyed composing short prose, mostly in the form of reflections. This is a major way for me to express my emotions and troubled feelings. In addition, I loved poetry and created simple rhymes as gifts. However, as I journeyed through the world of literature, discovering Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, and other more philosophical writers, I yearned to find an author whose style would be the ultimate model for me to follow.

In 9th grade I had a wonderful literature course that consisted of a compilation of short stories from around the world, and there I encountered the work that introduced me into the world of Thomas Wolfe. It was called “ The Far and the Near.” Upon reading the story, my reaction was of complete shock: never before had I imagined that one could write with such piercing clarity and moving emotion, yet maintain complete control over language. The writing was lush and flowing, the words and meaning were a declaration of reality. Moreover, there was real, simple truth in every phrase.

I obtained nearly every book of his after reading that story, and my initial feelings were proved: Thomas Wolfe was a genius. Reading him is like listening to a beautiful piece of music and not wanting it to end. It is like taking in a painting and not being able to marvel at it enough. Likewise, when I read Wolfe, a “thirst” builds up within me that I cannot quench. I yearn for the writing to live in me, to pour out freely from inside like poetry in prose.

In addition to pursuing this desire in college, I plan to follow another important aspect of my cultural life. Like Wolfe in his semi-autobiographical novels, I, too, feel the power and importance of holding fast to my roots. Although I was born in the States, Russian was my first language and I continue to speak it fluently at home. My dream is to combine my love for writing, literature, and these two languages in order to dedicate myself in helping other young people to discover and develop their talents. By passing on to the next generation the inspiration that I received from Thomas Wolfe, and many other great authors, I hope to enrich my own knowledge, talents, and experiences in support of the belief that true art is indeed immortal.

The Stallion

2005-04-29T13:08:00.000-04:00

A free spirit running the plains,
His hoofs beating on golden ground,
And leaving a trail of dust,
While racing to meet the unfound;
Searching for water to splash in,
Searching for towering canyons,
Thrilling at neighing of echoes –
His truest, closest companions.

Determined – his ears are pinned back,
His mane floats along in pure play,
His nostrils flaring in passion,
His massive legs pounding away.
The stallion, the sign of the free,
The brother of winds, waters, skies,
Symbol of Nature’s deep beauty,
A spirit, once loved, never dies.

Wronged Genesis

2005-04-29T13:06:00.000-04:00

Walking down the boulevard,
Passing life of centuries,
The Earth seems like a card,
Of printed memories,
Like a broken record
That only God can fix.

Reading history we learn,
We see mistakes and changes,
Ideas bring concern
In many diff’rent ranges,
But when existence strikes,
“My” life comes before “yours.”

Like weather, man’ll falter,
From blue to cloudy skies,
But weather doesn’t alter
From man’s implied disguise –
Deductive reasoning
On human state of health.

Yet, since God created us,
You can see we’ve gone askew,
So let us stop the fuss
And start our lives anew,
Shake hands in proud defense
Of you, wronged genesis.

Waterfall

2005-04-22T13:55:00.000-04:00

Rocks of slate – a rugged road,
White streams – rays of broken hopes
Washed away in a cascade
Past wooded trails and green ferns,
Watchful eyes of glist’ning banks–
Illusions of the smoothness
Forever sought through life;
The water, clear and sweet,
At the changes of its course,
Won’t turn bitter while it lives,
While nymphs – pure souls – will hover
Every night above the mist,
Blowing kisses to the streams,
And laughing in the moonlight.

Railroad of Fate

2005-04-13T17:01:00.000-04:00

A short poem that I composed today while looking at one of my railroad photos. Kind of wanted to play around with the rhyming pattern, away from the usual ababcdcd or aabbccdd patterns. Anyways, here's what came out.

The path of gravel stretches far ahead,
The wooden ties, some rotten, some like new,
Peek out from underneath the sooty ground,
Massive iron bolts firmly bind the rails,
An endless gleam of rust upon Earth’s bed,
A road, a search for hope to brave and few,
To find escape or in distress be drowned,
A voyage on dry land and without sails.

Call of the Suffering

2005-03-08T22:47:00.000-05:00

The cool night’s breeze was flowing through the window where, upon a desk, there stood a candle – her heart and soul of fragrant wax. For several hours she had served her master, but now he slouched in his chair, his head on the desk, deep in slumber, all his energy laid in front of him upon the numerous sheets of paper.

The candle stood in peace, wondering what the world was like, her child-like mind contemplating on the thoughts written by her master. The shades danced as her flame flickered to the singing of cicadas. Then, a moth flew in and lit upon the table. The candle curiously examined the creature as it lay panting.

It looked like a gentle living thing whose life was full of adventures. The fragile body and silken wings were its great treasure, while the bulky form rested on tiny legs. Its life seemed perfect, pure and joyful.

The candle diverted her attention to the master’s cat, as it approached the desk. He was white and fluffy, with mischievous green eyes. The tip of his tail twitched ever so slightly and he seemed to contemplate on action.

Suddenly, he leaped up onto the table. Frightened, the moth flew up, the cat’s eyes alert and his paws ready to catch the prey. But lo, blinded by the flame, the moth flew right into the scalding fire. Scarred, it lamely wavered down to the surface and lay panting once again, letting the remaining whiff of smoke glide away from the wings.

The moth struggled to rise, but its legs doubled underneath. After a pause, its wings fluttered, striving to lift the body into flight, but the scorched silk quivered and, after one more rise, the moth collapsed.

The candle gaped at the creature that once fascinated her by its delicateness and beauty. Now it lay dead, burnt by life’s misfortune, misguided by its fate, nothing but an object that the man will throw out the window when he wakes. A wax tear trickled down and plopped upon the paper. The shadows had stopped playing.

Flying Tales

2005-01-05T13:11:00.000-05:00

I encountered this and thought some of these stories were kind of funny. Enjoy!

Occasionally, airline attendants make an effort to make the "in-flight safety lecture" and their other announcements a bit more entertaining. Here are some real examples that have been heard or reported:

1. From a Southwest Airlines employee: "There may be 50 ways to leave your lover, but there are only 4 ways out of this airplane..."

2. Pilot: "Folks, we have reached our cruising altitude now, so I am going to switch the seat belt sign off. Feel free to move about as you wish, but please stay inside the plane until we land ... it's a bit cold outside, and if you walk on the wings it affects the flight pattern."

3. After landing: "Thank you for flying Delta Business Express. We hope you enjoyed giving us the business as much as we enjoyed taking you for a ride."

4. As the plane landed and was coming to a stop at Washington National, a lone voice comes over the loudspeaker: "Whoa, big fella. WHOA!"

5. After a particularly rough landing during thunderstorms in Memphis, a flight attendant on a Northwest flight announced: "Please take care when opening the overhead compartments because, after a landing like that, sure as hell everything has shifted."

6. From a Southwest Airlines employee: "Welcome aboard Southwest Flight XXX to YYY. To operate your seatbelt, insert the metal tab into the buckle, and pull tight. It works just like every other seatbelt and if you don't know how to operate one, you probably shouldn't be out in public unsupervised. In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will descend from the ceiling. Stop screaming, grab the mask, and pull it over your face. If you have a small child traveling with you, secure your mask before assisting with theirs. If you are traveling with two small children, decide now which one you love more."

7. "Weather at our destination is 50 degrees with some broken clouds, but they'll try to have them fixed before we arrive. Thank you, and remember, nobody loves you or your money, more than Southwest Airlines."

8. "Your seat cushions can be used for flotation and in the event of an emergency water
landing, please take them with our compliments."

1. "As you exit the plane, please make sure to gather all of your belongings. Anything left behind will be distributed evenly among the flight attendants. Please do not leave children or spouses."

2. "Last one off the plane must clean it."

3. Overheard on an American Airlines flight into Amarillo, Texas, on a particularly windy and bumpy day. During the final approach, the Captain was really having to fight it. After an extremely hard landing, the Flight Attendant came on the PA and announced, "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Amarillo. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened while the Captain taxis what's left of our airplane to the gate!"

4. Another flight Attendant's comment on a less than perfect landing: "We ask you to please remain seated as Captain Kangaroo bounces us to the terminal."

5. An airline pilot wrote that on this particular flight he had hammered his ship into the runway really hard. The airline had a policy which required the first officer to stand at the door while the passengers exited, smile, and give them a "Thanks for flying XYZ airline." He said that in light of his bad landing, he had a hard time looking the passengers in the eye, thinking that someone would have a smart comment. Finally, everyone had gotten off except for this little old lady walking with a cane. She said, "Sonny, mind if I ask you a question?" "Why no, Ma'am," said the pilot, "what is it?" The little old lady said, "Did we land or were we shot down?"

6. After a real crusher of a landing in Phoenix, the Flight Attendant came on with, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain in your seats until Captain Crash and the Crew have brought the aircraft to a screeching halt up against the gate. And, once the tire smoke has cleared and the warning bells are silenced, we'll open the door and you can pick your way through the wreckage to the terminal."

7. Part of a Flight Attendant's arrival announcement: "We'd like to thank you folks for flying with us today. And, the next time you get the insane urge to go blasting through the skies in a pressurized metal tube, we hope you'll think of us here at US Airways."

8. From the pilot during his welcome message: "We are pleased to have some of the best flight attendants in the industry ... Unfortunately none of them are on this flight!"

The Muse Is My Companion

2005-01-05T11:40:00.000-05:00

You walk down a gravel driveway. The tall trees reach out to touch each other with broad limbs. Their leaves rustle above you as you pass. Up the wide stone steps you tread. Facing a heavy oak door, you take a moment to breathe deeply before entering my world. You push firmly against the entrance - it opens soundlessly.

A lamp with electric candles hangs from the ceiling, and your mouth opens in awe of the beauty before you: a circular stairway of dark cherry invites you to explore the unknown. You notice antique wallpaper with velvet embroidering alongside the curves, perfectly preserved for nearly 200 years.

Up on the circular landing, you are surrounded with tall oak bookshelves, packed with books. You discover a great variety: from children's classics (Huckleberry Finn, At the Back of the North Wind, Black Beauty), to treasures of the English fiction (Thoreau, Bronte, Dickens). More than half consists of collections of Russian novels by the classic authors (Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Pushkin). At the top, you observe large books of art and imagine yourself browsing the colorful paintings of Leonardo Da Vinci. The Encyclopedia Britannica catches your glance, standing solidly in its 30 volumes, and you brush your fingers over the smooth black leather with gold lines. Toward the very end, you find reference books on mushrooms, herbs, and gardening, as well as an elegant version of "The Wine Maker's Treasury."

Light coming from a window leads you to a little desk, which you find burdened with the weight of schoolbooks or buried beneath scribbled papers waiting to be typed. The 14" iBook stands proudly in the center.

A low stand with three oak shelves presents a view to the most treasured books. Among them are collections of Bradbury, Tolkien, Lowell, and several biographies of Glenn Gould. You pull out an old hardcover anthology of Thomas Wolfe’s short stories and inhale the sweet smell of the yellowed pages. My parents, looking 25 years younger, gaze from a photo standing on the top; the watercolor of a rose hangs well above it; and a bunch of fragrant lavender from the garden lies upon a shelf.

Your eyes seriously focus as you try to make out something on the chair. Do not be afraid – it is I, a spirit of creation. Surrounded by the light of knowledge, inspired by imagination, I sit in peace with the Muse upon my shoulder, secluded from the busy rest of the house. There, I can rouse the thoughts that sleep within my soul and indulge in the experiences that authors had lain before me, unite them with my own.

The green old maple peeks through the window throughout the seasons. The sunshine brings happiness, and a swallow wakens life as it perches on the wires. Melancholy seeps in with the rains, and an exultation with the thunders. The spirit picks up the sleeping pen. It thinks, it feels, it writes.

Here, secluded in this little world, the Muse is my companion and Solitude my guide.

The Moon

2005-01-05T11:36:00.001-05:00

What does the moon but shine these days?
Its smiling face and steady gaze,
Its roundness and its peaceful rays
Are all a call to keep good ways;
Then, when a shooting star goes by,
The moon reminds us from the sky
To make a wish; and don’t you try
To slight your neighbor who can’t fly,
For then the moon will hide the light
That shines upon the earth in white
And you will find no warm delight
In seeing clouds of gray and night
Edge the moon as a pillowed shield,
Shunning all, from road to field,
Daring then the ones who wield
Thoughts on which they once had reeled.
But to the others she is kind
And she respects a gentle mind
That doesn’t run away in blind
When something scares it from behind.
She likes to peek through frosty glass
And follow every evening class
To see how students strive to pass
The chemistry of air and gas.
She also looks around for those
Who strain their fragile little toes
To practice dance while music flows,
And how success at pirouettes grows.
At other times she listens well
To hear the little tinkling bell
That in musicians’ souls must dwell
And ring full strength inside heart’s dell.
On icons in a room her rays
Fall to reflect the coming phase
Of faith that makes all weekly days
More holy in correcting ways.
And yet, among her many cares,
She keeps in mind those who bring pray'rs,
Shields those of old and little years,
And journeys of all kind she shares.
In sparkling sky you’ll find her soon,
And sometimes at a blue high noon
A silver light will set a tune
And you will sing it for the moon

Adagio For Strings

2005-01-05T11:36:00.000-05:00

When I hear the poignant Adagio for Strings, Op.11, by Samuel Barber, I associate the piece with the song of a lonely and gentle, suffering heart. The grave prolonged melodies of the beginning reflect a powerful, pulling-like tension that seeps into the very core of life. The finely-made contrasts are truthfully effective, and the intertwining lines are incredibly lush, representing a fully understood sorrow.

The melodies are like waves, gliding smoothly over each other, every one ending in a piercing question. Each note has its own meaning – a meaning of reality unanswered. Wide-arched and soul-torturing, the questions build up like painful anguish with gradual, increasing tenseness, leading into an overflowing climax that suddenly bursts into meditative silence.

After a long, beautiful pause, chords of despair echo quietly. As the piece returns to the initial melodies, the high notes of the violins seem to be sadly delicate as never before, like the sparkling gems of a shattered heart. The sufferer is left with nothing but what he started out with, yet he has lost all strength to go through the same process again. He cannot keep on bearing such a cruel burden of pressuring pain. With the last few notes of a tottering strain, emptiness falls, portraying the agonizing reality of the outcome. The latter is faced by all: the composer, the listeners, the performers, and by the music itself.

The Adagio for Strings reflects the distressing years of World War II, and each instrument seems to be a part of this misery: the violins pass on delicate emotions of a frail, beating heart; the lush voices of the violas reach deep into the fragile human soul with questions of anguish; the cellos’ expressions represent the torture of the soul and the despair that is brought about; and the double basses symbolize the strained, pressured burden, as well as the echo of the grave emptiness that follows.

The Adagio’s tender emotionalism goes straight to the heart, for it came forth from the living nucleus, and the finely-spun cantilena envelops the listener with poignant, frail pathos united with the harmonic opulence of sorrow.

Freedom: A Poem

2004-10-29T20:38:00.000-04:00

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?

Hidden Away

2004-10-28T22:23:00.000-04:00

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.

Beneath the Rainbow

2004-10-23T13:56:00.000-04:00

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.

hello...

2004-10-22T00:41:00.000-04:00

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...

"The Lime"

2004-10-21T23:27:00.000-04:00

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

2004-10-21T22:16:00.000-04:00

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

2004-10-21T21:44:00.000-04:00

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.