Prose Poem: Spring

The green spring haze is ready to birth all living things
as soon as the word sounds.
I am the word.

Just yesterday I was laughing with happiness,
flying up on a swing over a spring pond.
I am spring.

I learned to walk on water —
the way to go, neither by foot nor on horseback,
neither by land nor air.

To exceed yourself
and be above your own expectations,
that’s what it takes to be yourself.

Green haze shrouds trees and sprouts leaves,
dissolves in the sky and opens mountains.
Fields flash with colours, birds soar into the sky.

To be happiness in the patchwork of life.
To be bright joy that transcends everything.
To live in a world beyond control
where miracles are possible.


The Night When Spring Comes

I look into the sky,
changeable and immutable, like the Spirit himself.
Eternal castles shine high in the air
over my soul’s frozen pond
where clouds were shivering in summer,
and on Christmas townspeople skated so merrily.
But now its thawing ice is unsafe, deserted.
A sole bird screams on the shore announcing
the night when spring comes.

The boy who became a man
and lost all his secrets
but found true love.
The wanderer who went around the whole world over centuries
and found nothing better than home.
The shaman who moved to the city
and cooks breakfasts in his magic cauldron,
but did not abandon his craft —
to give shape to words.
The warrior who stood the fight and came out with a victory
and a wound he never forgets.
The lesser your strength, the higher your spirit, —
the riddle worth solving.

I wait, and the tears dry,
and the ice melts in the pond,
and stars illuminate
the night when spring comes.


Prose Poem: Blue Writing

All shades of blue stretched over my head, from azure to ultramarine. A silver-blue hoarfrost covered faded meadows. Roadside trees are tinted blue, and the running train’s trembling shadow gleams blue sapphire. My day, what will you be about?

I wish I put my thoughts in order, but they are all about freedom, about the triumph of the sublime over our plans and expectations.

Wet asphalt shines blue at railroad crossings, and frost-powdered fields are framed by distant blue mountains.

All things are good the way they are while I’m chasing my train’s shadow, trying to catch that only mood worth to live with today.

The azure sky shines brighter through gloomy trees, anticipating the celebration of the horizon framed with distant bronze-illuminated mountains and a belltower standing in a sunbeam among morning mist. The sky opens, the truth hides.

Blue is the color of ancient truth, the sign of possessing a faraway, rare, celestial knowledge immutable amidst changes.

My writing is a form of divination by an arcane book the world was created with, the book whose only law revealed says:

«There are no laws, no plans, no rules besides the secret power in your glance. The truth is what you’re writing now: become yourself, face the rising sun, make all things new today.»


Prose Poem: Writing in Jardin du Luxembourg

A feeling of incredible happiness, peace, joy, serenity, confidence. By the end of the evening the sun peeped out from behind the fog, illuminating by its dim, warm light the palace’s pale yellow limestone, colourful figures of people walking, white paths, pink, purple, yellow flowers bordering lush green lawns.

Something is subtly changing in me, it just happens without any effort. It’s amazing how could I not remember who I am all this time. The light grows brighter and brighter. A white dove lit by the evening sun paints a semicircle along the row of statues; the shadows of the trees, becoming longer, lie down on the green lawn; golden sunbeams are slowly creeping along the palace’s roofs and walls. A moment comes when it seems that the colors cannot become any brighter—crimson scarlet, fiery yellow, sparkling green … and at this very moment they fade out.

The coming evening breathes cool and brings magic. A stone bowl and marble statues nearby start glowing at dusk, as well as the very paper on which I am writing—I see a faint shadow from my pen’s tip on its pinkish-white surface. The light moves inside things, fading on the surface but flaring up in their depths.

Suddenly it flashes again with a bright bouquet of colors. The blackness of a crow’s wing, the pink of some petunias, the blue of a monastic habit, the pale green of a sunset sky that looks like antique glass, the thick blue of the clouds on the horizon…

The evening lasts, and the joy lasts, and the waiting for night is easy and pure like the waiting for a miracle. A miracle is being born from within, it’s just happening, like a forgotten language coming alive in memory. The light turns pink and fades out, my paper becomes brighter again. And when it seems that night is irreversible, the windows of the building opposite me suddenly flare up in the twilight with a dazzling, unbearable brilliance—the sun sends its rays into the garden for the last time, a promise of tomorrow.


Free Verse Poem: Manliness

When you search for manliness,
you search for force of a special kind.
As a water spring born deep in the earth
that calm force begins with peace within.

As calm as forests, teeming with life,
as silent as rocks, amplifying your voice,
as quiet as trees, whispering your name
with a gentle voice of Spirit, full of knowledge.

As still as age-old ponds
holding the heavenly abyss.
As silent as thunderclouds
eager to become light.

When you search for manliness,
you search for the truth, to stand for.
Be yourself and transcend yourself,
bowing before the sacred.

Sing, dance, laugh, cry, jump for joy, be savage.
Breathe the wind, hug trees, listen to roots grow, name stones.
Watch sunbeams dance when the wind shakes the forest.
Wander with the clouds, gazing in the sky lying under an oak tree.
Walk with the sun, stay awake with the moon.

Nurture and protect life.
Go for your dream further than anybody ever has…
and return home.

Dedicated to Czechia Men’s Circle


Free Verse: The Art of Writing

The word is born out of the silence, so the beginning of writing is to master the pause.

I write, as if stretching my limbs, numb after a long sleep.

The awakening of the word is like the action of light, which effortlessly manifests the hidden.

I write, as if climbing a steep rock wall where the foot of man has never dug in.

The land of the word is an anti-labyrinth: the paths are scattered, yet each of them leads to the goal.

I write, as if speaking a forgotten language that only the mouth remembers.

Controlling the word doesn’t bring the abundance that comes from a miracle.

I write, as if recalling an old melody dissolved in the bustle, remaining only as a longing for eternity.


Prose Poem: The New Beginning

Thoughts sweep through my head, but I’m waiting, looking out of my train window. A spark is about to ignite, a miracle to happen, as the forest suddenly ends and a vastness opens up—plowed fields, the white circle of the sun above the mirror of the waters, a city in a milk haze and blue mountains on the horizon.

Find, inside yourself, in your darkness, the path, so obscured from the outside. Abandon the habitable to make room for the Spirit. Become the black of plowed land, the emptiness of a spring sky, the inconstancy of a mountain river, the quietude of the roots of age-old trees.

The new comes imperceptibly, quietly, as grass grows under the melting snow. The old is no more, and the sun continues to rise above you, the sunlit air is still fresh, and the winged shadows of the clouds, your castles in the air, still float along the land despite they were being blown into tatters on yesterday’s wind. The fields are wider, the mountains higher, and cleaner is your sight washed by the spring. What was genuine in the soul did not die, it was only waiting for its hour, like a grain buried in the dirt.

A child in an azure coat is clutching a lollipop in his chubby fingers; a herd of sheep is grazing on a hillock; an old man with a dog, motionless, looks at my train passing by.

Everything hidden, unspoken, unknown inside my soul settles into the images that the road offers so generously. They form the unbreakable alloy from which time casts the dream bell with its unique note. At some point, it seems that I’m about to catch it, but suddenly the space between us opens up, filling fast with endless fields, and only the spirit, soaring up like a bird high in the sky, is able to briefly see its horizons.

To rise above the world—and stay in it, in the very thick of things, in tightness and tension, struggling for every inch on the way to the goal, where sweat and blood, pain and thirst meet. It’s our body that proves the truth.

A vast space opens up before my eyes again, with plowed fields, a city on a hill, and blue mountains behind. The meaning of all things could fit in one spot now, like the white circle of the sun caught in a pond’s mirror.

The world acquires its true dimensions—those of my childhood when I didn’t try to master it.

The eternal child in an azure coat is still blissfully clutching a lollipop in his chubby fingers, and still rampant is the despair of the mortal man who has crossed the midlife threshold.

The moment lasts forever. Generations come and go before my astonished gaze, and the first people, laughing, still stand in the city gates, meeting the spring sun.

The exiled gods return to their homes.


Free Verse Poem: Your Time is Now

Your time is now, pink cherries blossom. You are the truth, are you still true to it?

My train runs faster, raindrops slide down the window glass, and the thick rain stirs a pond, my soul, as I pass along.

A boundless sea splashed once where horses are plucking grass, and wet tiled roofs. on hillslopes bathe in clouds.

In childhood, tears flowed without shame, and laughter was a sincere joy. The rain poured down, you waltzed with her and were just friends.

And now you write poems, not crossing out anything, free as a bird and waltzing with your soul.

Raindrops slide down and blur the spring where horses are plucking grass, where hillslopes bathe in clouds, where your path disappears.

The smallest hills are ancient mountains. The tiniest pond connects to the sea. The most faithful way is hidden in clouds. You are the truth; your time is now.

The Rest

Poem: Your New Spring

Beyond the threshold of the known, in misty fields where herds graze, in wet forests where snowdrops whiten, your new spring is born.

Everything is familiar and everything is different. In every drop of the dew, life is pulsing. You don’t yet know your might.

There’s no story like your story, there’s no power like the one you’ve been given, there’s no way like your way.

Neither straight nor crooked, neither by foot nor on horseback, neither by land nor air.

No man, the messenger of peace, has set foot here for thousands of years, but children play here every day.

For thousands of years, dark mountains have risen where the hills were once covered with blossoming cherries and horses lazily pastured on green grass, where a boundless sea splashed before and the Spirit of God moved upon the waters.

The first spring of the world, your new spring.

Birds soar into the sky, wheat roots grow into the ground, fields burst with colors.


Prose Poem: The Spring of Life

The fields are sown, and green sprouts stretch towards sunlight. Crosses mark trees to be cut down this year. A gentle-gray overtone of warmth pervades the sky. A few more twilight chords, and the May song of love and roses will begin.

I bow before the mystery of life filled with light and shadow, like a sunny forest, like a sparkling pond where nothing happens, with the overturned sky shivering in it, and a merman smoking his pipe.

Things are good the way they are. The gods live here, in the ordinary world, and the stories our grandchildren will retell are rooted here. The fields are sown, and the invisible work progresses underground.

A paradise garden where songs, games, and dances fill the time. A boundless womb of ​​the possible, where whales and dragons, mermaids and monsters are performing their eternal play.

When stories are born into the world, they flare with glory, and one small deed becomes a miracle bigger than all things possible. And yet the everyday life is still the Mother of all I bow before.