Morning Picker

I heard an empty voice
from the wind: appears
obey nature. 

A song; enough
for sleeping lion  
birds whistle in the night,
— the silent eyes.

I close the door;
smiling behind season
— an oak tree has fallen.

Moscow, June 2020

A Black Coffee

I drink a cup of black coffee
nobody’s at the cafe; silence is better
rather than mourning eyes.

A cup of black coffee enough
for life; no poverty, no poetry.
But without both,
—like dust on the table only.

I drink a cup of coffee,
more than anybody;
thinking and waiting here
—let it be empty.

The darkness appears
the wind blows to the east.
Suddenly, a Wiseman enters,
sitting behind my nest.

A Man with Crumbs

A tree top twig
   Beneath the empty sky
I look among
   The world’s connected strings
From a lofty view
   That's twenty stories high
It’s here I see
   The flutters filled with wings
This morning’s hush
   As Hudson’s sparkle comes
Around it flows
   With autumn’s remnant leaves
The pigeon sky
   Above the man with crumbs
As they flock around
   And eat his cake like thieves
His hands still move
   But nothing now is heard
He made a pledge
   With truth that sounds like lie

Crow within the Yellow Leaves

Successive years of falling leaves, as gold-
Enameled flowers flitter out, around
The garden nook, with simple stories told
To fragrant crowds at play on dampened ground.
This time we sipped a cup of coffee cold
And spoke of speckled, thinning hair once brown;
A crow called out, as if a black-winged scold
That hits its mark and pulls us twisting down.
Through God we came from chaos to earth and skies,
And painted all that’s dark a color bright,
As child-like wonder shows through gleaming eyes

Subscribe to RSS - philosophical poems