Tag Archives: creative writing

Truth of Nostalgia


For all those years gone away,

The home I have left behind anon

where the sun lingers in the west

draped in the soft fluttering chiffon

of the twilight of the mystery unknown

beckons me with memories of mirth

that are lost beyond the innocent mist

but I can’t go home again, not now, not ever.



melody of hope


The old pictures I have drawn

With colors and shapes of

The images I see in a vision

Thru the eyes of the Bluebird

on the balcony of a bastion

of solitude in the soft sweet

twilight with the pale hues of

the sun lingering in the west

beckon me with the promises

of the Stars yet to arrive from

the Milky Way across the Universe

with the dazzling radiance of Light

that the Bluebird, the troubadour

has once seen in a flight of fancy

to deliver tweets of Hope in melody.

treason of fate


The stupendousness of darkness

In a vortex of chaos in treason

Against sovereignty of ambition

By divine immaculate conception

From the union of Psyche and Eros

In the spiritualization of sensuality

thru the enslavement of the Sense

into the ecstatic hands of desire

for absolute adoration evermore

touching the soft tissues of delicacy

of the latticework for the casement

of the soul thru which her majesty

is seen spinning a wheel of mystery

with an eagle telling her the world

he has seen, diffusing the wind of

wisdom to his beautiful solitary queen

whose heart thrilled, reason satisfied

defies her freedom of Love and Reason

and keeps her in his cellar of isolation.


P.S. What has happened to the departments of the cerebral control tower? Common Sense is falling out; Cogitation is shaking; Memory is debilitating; Imagination is trying, and Estimation is fumbling. Is this case of Aphasia? Or in the worst scenario Dyslexia, even? If so, then let it be. But memento this. Writing is not a prerogative of the pedantic. You can be boastful of writing excellent prose with a talented assistant of the brain, but never be full of yourself of touching the more excellent tissue of the heart with passion. Shakespeare was of small Latin, less Greek. 

My Bluebird


I walked in all wither in the dark alley

A long, narrow, serpentine labyrinth

Of fake hubris, false hopes in dismay

as Reason began to revolt from within.


Then I heard the melody from yonder

High over the mean concrete fences

Like a dryad’s melody from a flower

twinkling twilights on her wings.


There I arose from the dark slowly

And walked into the sound of light

In the felicity of the unknown suddenly

Beckoning me with the promise of delight.


As I came to the corner of the maze

Beyond the alley of another corner

There it was in the distant misty haze.

I saw a bluebird waiting for me pretty, ever.


P.S.: The bluebird, as a symbol of hope and happiness because of its fanciful prettiness and rare presence in nature, has been a popular element of folklore. Albeit the French version by Mme D’Aulnoy is famous, my choice is a Russian version of the bluebird, as called upon by Anton Denikin, a military leader of the Volunteer Army in the Russian Civil War during the ill-fated Ice March. And this is my version of recreating the bluebird as a paragon of beautiful hope, the last saving grace for the forsaken left in Pandora’s Box, twinkling like the stars in the Milky Way embroidered on the nightly sky.