Poem – Let’s Go to Live Forever

Let’s go, dear, to live together
and we should look eventually
what happen with such decision,
certainly we are growing fast older and downgraded
going to end, my sugar candy,
but we have been together,
that s sound finely, doesn’t?

So let’s keep living together.
No one warranted
what happened from such idea:
would we live in peace and harmony
or our life have been hurly-burly,
the whole one endless cacophony,
maybe we are both drown
with tsunami of troubles and problems
or we shall find way for harbor
our safety and harmony,
or our ship will moved to divorcee
and fighting for shearing joint collecting property.
No one know answers for that hellish questions
and predict future possibilities and revelation
in all its damned variations,
maybe love will thousand times cursing
and regretting and lamenting
for this occasion and acceptance
of long waiting meeting, suggestion and dance.

But let’s keep living together
right now and without any postponing
traying never miss each other’s
and we are looking for what’s happened later,
growing older and downgrade
but we have been live with you together
my dear sugar candy,
let’s, please, living forever.

Poem – The Deep Secret of Love

Our world was born from one genuine strong intention,
pressed in simple sentence,
one astonishing spelling out
the magical composed phrase
that deeply stressed frozen black matters
and born and expanded our Universe
with myriads bright stars
and galactics,
as a one wholly composure,
(where invisible and unmeasurable part and game
handred time more really and value
then what we could fixed) ,
have drifted to eternal motion
and come eventually to that unusual existence
with limitless secrets and powers in micro and macro realities
teeming inside and around us
in close and great distances,
with perfectly worked
and tuned physical constants and laws
as only truly vitnesses, ambassadors and heralds
of our transendence.

Try to do the same
on his small level.

Love also has
its hidden formula, cod and mission,
if you have a strong power and great passion
you might able to do it
relive and save for life
the dear one who look now maybe
as the world before its born.
Or try to resurrect our people and country
that too long suffered
from lack of perfect knowledge and love
for creating sustained and stable community,
pressed out by abundant black will, jealous and hatred
on the base of dack ignorance.

Poem – My English

It was very hard for me
to speak with West
through translators,
usually Russians
anchored by intelligent services,
KGB or related them
with such or others way.
Sometimes we have met Kyrgyzes mediators,
but they are also spoiled
by soviet or post-soviet propaganda,
hated our own cultures and nashient freedom,
heavily abscessed
by dyed glory and greatness of USSR,
ardently dreamed, poor one,
to return in that golden cage and Edem.

So damn all of them!
I want to learn English
for escape from
various interpretations and interpretators
and traitors and crack down
in the hub of crossroad
of Big Game.

Poem – The Wantaritencant 

It watched me in the cradle laid, and from my boyhood’s home

It  glared above my shoulder-blade when I wrote my first “pome”;

It’s sidled by me ever since, with greeny eyes aslant—

It is the thing (O, Priest and Prince!) that wants to write, but can’t.
It yells and slobbers, mows and whines, It follows everywhere;

’Tis gloating on these very lines with red and baleful glare.

It murders friendship, love and truth (It makes the “reader” pant),

It ruins editorial youth, the Wantaritencant.
Its slime is ever on my work, and ever on my name;

No toil nor trouble does It shirk—for It will write, all the same!

It tantalized when great thoughts burned, in trouble and in want;

It makes it hell for all concerned, the Wantaritencant.
And now that I would gladly die, or rest my weary mind,

I cannot rest to think that I must leave the Thing behind.

Its green rot damns the dead, for sure—that greatest curse extant,

’Twill kill Australian literature, the Wantaritencant!
You cannot kill or keep It still, or ease It off a bit;

It talks about Itself until the world believes in It.

It is a Scare, a Fright, a Ghast, a Gibber, and a Rant,

A future Horror and a Past, the Wantaritencant! 

A New Rule – Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi 

It is the rule with drunkards to fall upon each other,

to quarrel, become violent, and make a scene.

The lover is even worse than a drunkard.

I will tell you what love is: to enter a mine of gold.

And what is that gold?

The lover is a king above all kings,

unafraid of death, not at all interested in a golden crown.

The dervish has a pearl concealed under his patched cloak.

Why should he go begging door to door?

Last night that moon came along,

drunk, dropping clothes in the street.

“Get up,” I told my heart, “Give the soul a glass of wine.

The moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden,

to taste sugar with the soul-parrot.”

I have fallen, with my heart shattered –

where else but on your path? And I

broke your bowl, drunk, my idol, so drunk,

don’t let me be harmed, take my hand.

A new rule a new law has been born:

break all the glasses and fall toward the glassblower. 

The Long Trail – Rudyard Kipling 

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand grey to the sun,

Singing: “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the dover,

“And your English summer’s done.”

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song — how long? how long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We’ve seen the seasons through,

And it’s time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new!
It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun

Or South to the blind Hom’s hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate —

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp,

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail

From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea

In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her brows, dear lass.

And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and ‘scends on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,

It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”

And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

And the sirens hoot their dread,

When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless, viewless deep

To the sob of the questing lead!

It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Grinfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

That blaze in the velvet blue.

They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start

We’re steaming all too slow,

And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind

And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song-how long? how long?

Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And The Deuce knows we may do

But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re down, hull-down, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new!