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Poetry

Prose poem: Sunbeam

On the snowy horizon, a sunlight stripe is glowing, contrasting sharply with the black edge of the forest and dark thick clouds in the sky. Unstable, like an early waking, it now appears, then disappears, until dissolving in the sunshine that floods all around.

Life is a sequence of awakenings, a blinking of light on a forest road, a break in the clouds reminiscent of clean sky, a quiet sleep of grass under the snow ready to sprout, a forgotten thought hidden in a secret place where all are alive.

The bones of peoples who inhabited this land before us lie in these fields the sun gleams over, on the slopes of the hills where sprouts of spring slumber, in valleys where cities spread out, shrouded in fog.

The word collects together what is alive, and even when it dies down, it’s still here, hidden under the snow of nonexistence, silently waiting for a spring sunbeam.

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Poetry

Prose Poem: Spring in the Air

The spring is in the air, still imperceptible, like a subtle smile, like a fresh young voice barely audible above the buzz of the crowd.

We don’t know what we’re asking for, but the Spirit himself pleads for us silently, in a breath which has yet to find the right words, as the soul finding the body.

The voice of the Spirit is heard from afar, a song with only scraps guessed: the time has come to heal the brokenhearted, to set free the oppressed, to return sight to the blind.

Just as mountains rise on the horizon at a sudden turn of the road, so too a time comes in life when the hidden becomes manifest.

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Poetry

Free Verse: The Power of Words

Just as a key matches a lock, so too the right word reveals your truth. After this word sounds, there are no doubts.

As a boat slides over the water’s expanse, as a river flows, embraced by a bank, as a moonlit path trembles on a clear night, so freely the spirit breathes in truthful lines.

As fallen leaves die to feed the earth, as seeds sprout to become bread, as vines stretch to the sun to bring a feast, so gently a sequence of insights changes a human being, intangible, like a bird’s line of flight.

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Poetry

Prose Poem: The Day of Possible

I’m staring into the new day, boundless, impenetrable, unpredictable, like the clouds of fog crawling across ground, snatching out and hiding again the most diverse landscapes. All therein is still hidden at the roots of the Earth, behind the veil of haze, beyond the known.

My train is waiting for something, and waiting am I, and waiting are the endless foggy fields where everything is possible. The fog gives birth to giants and gnomes, opening countless doors to the dungeons of the soul. The gnomes know where the gold is, but to hear them, I need to unlearn knowing.

The day when everything is possible. Do not know, do not judge, do not believe the customary. See the invisible: a glare of light hiding in the blackness of a roadside cross, a brilliance of diamonds dancing in the depths of the Earth, a blue gleam shining through a heap of clouds, a way out of the circle.

The day when everything is possible.

Categories
Poetry

Prose Poem: The Hidden World

In the past I liked heavy snowfalls, but now I yearn for the sun. Even noonday heat wouldn’t feel unpleasant to me. How amazing it is, that there’s pleasure hiding behind the negation in the word «unpleasant».

Isn’t this the light born in the darkness, the light that the darkness cannot overcome? Isn’t longing for joy hidden in suffering, freedom in restraint, health in sickness? Hasn’t it been said: «I am come to heal the sick and deliver the captives»? So summer is hiding in winter, sunshine in a gray sky, miracle in everyday life.

The question: why is the miraculous invisible, truth unobvious, God hiding himself?

Perhaps, this world is not the final point of evolution yet, but is a still moment of another world emerging, one where miracles and truth will no longer be hidden from our eyes? What we see with our inner vision and feel with our heart becomes visible, and this transition to the new world takes place here and now, in every single moment, between inhale and exhale, between life, death, and new life shining through it again. Shadow, suffering, and pain are only mother’s dark void the new world is born from to become pure light.

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Poetry

Prose Poem: Time for Peace

The forests glow in a milky sunshine, treetops finely silvered with frost. The faraway mountains float, groundless, on a white, bulky pillow of fog.

Hidden are the unspoken secrets of the soul, hidden in gloomy firs, all that’s forgotten and lost on my forest path.

The frozen world says: now it’s the time for peace. All things should stay still. Let the renewed force grow in the roots of the earth, in the depths of the mountains, under the sparkling ice of the ponds.

It’s a day of magic born from nowhere, a healing power flowing from the ancient wizardry of words, a childhood memory of the mysterious physical presence of a miracle.

Everything done is done, and everything said is said. The only thing left is joy.

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Poetry

Prose Poem: White Sun

White sun is bathing in the haze of the frosty morning. My freedom is as far away as the sun, unattainable and inviting—a diamond with thousands of sparkling facets, shining with rays of opportunities, each of which is capable of plunging me into the darkness of exhaustion.

Look through the glittering facets, into the depths, to where the mystery lies, to where the force awakens, into the emptiness from which everything has been born.

The eternal dance of the world is created by the one who stays in the motionless center of the circle, the source of all movement. Every bend of the dance returns to the center, every ray leads to the sun, every glare of the diamond witnesses its depth which only gives strength to its glow.

Categories
Writing

Freewriting before Christmas

What a luxury it is, to write with nothing specific in mind, for no one in mind. To watch silently how the fields spread out before my eyes, covered with the first snow’s silver, how the birds soar to the sky where my conscious «I» gives way to a voice that knows where the truth is. There’s a short stretch from Christmas to Easter ahead of me, before the sun wheel makes another turn. There’s room only for the truth — the truth about who I really am, why the world is worth living in it, and how everything is good the way it is. About Providence which keeps our paths safe, about our dreams which always come true, about the fruits that ripen when the time comes. About the Spirit breathing where he wants, bringing the power to heal, to liberate, to resurrect. About how God is the one who comes in the end, when everything is said and done. About the power which is always with me, with you, in between us. About the holiday that will come and we will be surprised at how we could not remember about it. When snow will cover the plowed land and all warmth will be extinguished, a star will light up in the sky. Then everything that happened will turn out to be good as it was, and every voice will be heard in a song that will never end.

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