Sometimes the last
And smallest
Matryoshka doll
Is merely a wooden nubbin
Barely carved into a shape and
Unpainted
What a disappointment
As we pull apart each doll
And eagerly gaze at the form and colors
Only to find an undeveloped
Imperfect lump of wood
Rattling around
In the penultimate doll
But
Sometimes she is complete…
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
You whispered my name
And every favorite song
Heard throughout my life
Played in succession
As time tattooed its image
On our breathless skin
In tune with my pulse
A musical memory
Love’s exhalation
How I adore you
As we two slowly dance through
Vast circles of time…
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
False faces
Propped up store fronts
Shadow goods piled high behind
Shiny windows welcoming shoppers
Elephantine condos blocking the river view
Try to enter but what is this?
No one home
Abandoned before it began
No backs for buildings
Merely wooden slats
Holding up the façade
Of higher property taxes
For the already working poor…
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
(Image: Brendan Fitterer, Times – abandoned construction Main Street)
Eight crates of crap and a car: all I own
Wait! Forgot my computer and smart phone
A closet full of boots and clothes, also
Seems ok for when I’m ready to go
Own no furniture or even books now
Amazon keeps them on a cloud somehow
Music is stored on a flash drive player
Like me, the rock stars became much grayer
Friends and family are virtual too
Clacking our keyboards is what we all do
When you think of me, please try to be kind
If you search your heart, you’ll see you don’t mind…
I kinda like portability, see?
Helps me when moving, just gotta be me
Move down, clean cups, shouts out the Mad Hatter
Begin again, nothing much will matter
New World coming but are we really brave?
Pixels won’t soothe us when it’s touch we crave
I cram this stuff in my car and then leave
Driving who knows where, but I will not grieve
There’s the horizon line beckoning me
Drive faster, don’t care who knows where I’ll be
When you think of me, please try to be kind
If you search your heart, you’ll see you don’t mind…
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
Today’s sources of DNA
Were once considered mystical
To the Romani people
And other cultures
Consider:
Blood, saliva, urine and hair
Were used to counteract o jakhalo
(The Evil Eye)
Bodily sources containing
The personal code
For a particular person.
Somehow, before learning
The art of reading and writing
Or the science of genetics
Our ancestors already
Perceived and located
The essence of our being
What are the other secret ingredients?
Our cauldrons demand
A dollop of Science
A ladle of Magic
And a dash of
Rhythmic stirring and chanting
To create an evolutionary recipe…
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
Everything ultimately comes down to the music
Once thought if I had to sacrifice a sense
Wouldn’t want it to be my eyes
How not to ever see trees and
Birds dark against a cloudy sky
Celestial bodies inviting tidal
Wax and wane on Earth’s stage
Yet, cannot imagine never hearing
Never hearing music again
The promise of music
Is in rock and folk and ethnic
Is in jazz and classical and flamenco
Is in every instrument:
Electric violins, Gypsy violins, Cajun violins
Indian sitars, African drums, Scottish bagpipes
Acoustic and electric guitars, Blue Grass banjos
Tambourines, tablas, castanets, keyboards
The pull of love and sadness
The fullness of heart and soul
No matter one’s age, the promise seduces
Reduces us to panting, hopeful puppies
Waiting for our windy ride in the car
The promise of music always fulfills…
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
A Dream Within a Dream
By Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Sitting by the sea, hands smoothing the sand
With an airy caress of sun or moon
The blending of elements like a band
When it produces the most perfect tune.
A sense of humor creates a balance
Crucial when thoughts spiral out of control
There is no room for any allowance
Force your mind back to the center, be whole!
Stop the clacking of your brain and relax
Passivity should not cause a scrimmage
The good life examines all of our acts
Acceptance will not damage your image.
Feel the rhythm of water’s gentle tide
Let balance and harmony be your guide.
(c) 2014 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja), from Madame Sosostris Explains (A Poetry Patchwork)
Dr. Scholl’s sandals
Gave way to Reeboks when fire ants
Swarmed me in protest
After I blindly
Stumbled through dirt-mound homes
In barefoot pain
Reeboks were ok
Until I slid in the mud
So then tried clogs
Teetered too much so they gave way to
Black, nail-studded combat boots I wear ‘til today
Racing rattlers scared
Making their “S” shape
Indentations in shifting
But dangerous sands
Nature determines
Footwear and dictates dress codes
When we cohabit
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
(Why we Gypsies and Slavs bring bread, salt & a broom into a new home):
Moving day, what can I say, I move all the time
Seeking perfection, not soulmate defection, relationships sometimes a crime
Burn barrel takes, my latest heartaches, as I toss away possessions
Now I’m down to eight, plastic crates, getting rid of old connections
Stuff crammed in a backpack, because suitcases I lack, keeps me portable
I own lots of boots, and old workplace suits, for which I’m sometimes thankful
The universe is insensible, ignoring my tears is reprehensible, I am all alone
But then I recall, a faithful thrall, my domovoi home chaperon
I must persuade, the guard of my enfilade, to happily accompany me
There he will rest, while doing his best, to protect against an enemy
I cannot forget, that he must be tempted by sunset, or he will readily desert
There are only two treats, bread and salt but no meats, his attention to divert
When these element-bound delights, that make him contrite, are brought to a new home
The domovoi eats, and gladly repeats, his promise to protect when I roam
Salt of the sea, sprinkled lightly, on his temptation meal
Bread of the soil, dipped in salt and oil, makes the new home real
A broom is also joy, to drive away a rival domovoi, beat the wall and shout
“Begone to your old space, you are in the wrong place, please get out!”
So whenever you move, be sure to improve, your chances for protection
Remember the recipe, so your domovoi will be happy, and show his affection.
© 2015 ViataMaja, Poezija
