LIFE IS A THEME PARK
PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA
“Lâdo lē, Lâdo!” – I Still Chant!
I am born in a country when the rose is
a symbol of national pride.
The rose oil is treasured more than a gold.
Rose - What it is? A flower? A spice?
An herb? A healer? Or a pretty scented face
bursting aroma in the vase?
We harvest roses in the early morning,
when only skylarks and nightingales sing.
We make preserves from the petals;
syruping cakes, baklava and pastry dished.
Rose-hips tea heals
delivering abundance of Vitamin C.
The rose is the Queen of Love.
Yes, rose is the one that spices and sparks
love in the heart - every time,
not only as a Valentine’s surprise
like in the West. In the East,
maidens adorned with entwined blooms
in their braids and scented rose wreaths
dance under the full midnight moon
cast spells for The Prince to come.
“Lado le, Lado!” the prayer is sung.
It is a broad range of events,
but the most beautiful one is to look
at the glorious fence with dancing bees
and sip from a cup of a morning rose tea.
“Lâdo lē, Lâdo!” – I still chant!
Note: Bulgaria is world-wide known as The Country of Roses and has a valley named "Valley of the Roses". Its economy contributes 1/3 of the rose oil and 1/4 of the herbs and spices in the globe.
KHAN OMURTAG’S WISDOM
The Mighty Khan Omurtag carved on stone:
“… a person may live well, but he will
die and the other one will be born.
Let the person who reads this stone,
recalls the one who created him”
The legacy of the wise Khan is treasured
in the hearts of his distant grandsons. Man
lives as long the memory about him goes.
As long as his wisdom and work
mark the time on the ancestral land.
We all have given life-span, but
good or bad – the time will judge.
PEGASUS ON STRIKE
(The winged unicorn is called Pegasus, a winged divine stallion,
a symbol of poetic inspiration.
Its flight is an allegory of the soul’s immortality.)
I was sitting at my corner this morning
thinking to write something poetic,
Something for love,
Something that melts the heart,
something that burns the imagination.
And…I wished myself very good luck.
My Pegasus was curled on the floor
resting next to my couch.
I hoped he’ll get up and fly,
I hoped he will glide,
But… he said “I’m on strike”
And pointed out the dazzling chandelier
with his twisted sparkling horn. Oh, Dear!
My pen began dripping blood.
Heavy blue cloud darked the sky
and purple hell began drumming on the path
of my creative imagination.
Then, came the flood of useless words,
a tornado of unfitted verse after verse -
with no rhythms, no rhymes.
The page became thin, almost transparent.
My magical feather made whole after hole;
scratching deep to the table.
I was thinking: “I’d better
write on paper tissue”.
My stallion nodded his horn: ”True”
and went back to sleep.
How I deserved this?
– He telepathically read my mind.
“You abused me every day and night.
From sunset to sunrise, you write
and you write, and you write…
I am hungry and tired, I cannot fly.
That’s why, I’m on strike. It is already midnight.
At least you can share with me glass of wine.”
LIFE IS A THEME PARK
Life is a theme park. People
hanging around on the Merry-Go-Round.
The roller-coaster sometimes scares to death
that you might go to hell.
With same enormous speed your brain
stars casting prayers and you repeat
gasping for air. Then, you slide
in a water. You know you act
like a fool, but on the end,
you enjoy the splashing effect.
You may land in a swamp. The pony
you ride trots in a circle. Life.
THE COLORS OF THE MID-NIGHT BREEZE
I carved my celestial violin
from the full silver moon
and it raised crescent tonight.
I made the violin’s sparkling strings
from the stars’ rainbow glimpse.
I polished it with a magic
rainbow dust of the Milky Way.
I tied a bow
from luminous spinning quasar.
Then, I’ve got the ruby-red tunes
from the galactic nocturne.
The clouds dropped
shimmering curtains from above,
dancing a silky waltz.
And voilà! My divine violin tonight
plays nocturne intertwined
with all-colors bliss
of the sweet mid-night breeze.
I AM IN LOVE WITH THE RAIN
Don’t you know? The rain
is my funniest friend,
the first that I’ve even known.
In the Summer days it washes away
the shadows on my messy face.
It makes my smile clean and shine
as a diamond. It tempts my eyes
to look up at the sky
and make me clap my happy hands
with the singing joyful clouds.
The playful drops rinse my hair,
and combs it soft like a silk.
The precious rain soaks my feet.
I can see in its floating mirror
the same happy kid,
who I once was, indeed!
I don’t run away from my cheerful friend,
because I know,
he was looking for me all day.
- Hello, hello, my dear wet friend!
Do you like my new umbrella?
- Hello! Hello! Are you ready to play,
my sweet grown-up Cinderella?
- O-oh! Of course, of course!
We can even dance! And you know,
I’m in love with you forever!
THE PAINTER AND THE SEA
He comes every weekend on this rocky place,
sits on the boulders and stares away;
talks with no words to the running waves.
He puts big canvas on his left knee
and starts the portrait of the morning sea.
The painter mixes the paints on his hand
and then magic starts, stroke after stroke.
The sea is his model; the sea is his muse.
The sea waves sing to him mysterious songs,
The waves whisper stories made on the shores.
Sometimes impenitent, sea changes its moods.
Sometime the sea gets ugly and mad.
It roars and throws his furious waves.
The painter whispers “Good bye, my friend.
In the morning, a new painting is born
With two souls in one on the canvas in frame.
ANNAPŪRNA, THE GODDESS’ PICK
After one year of intense training,
selecting clothes and testing gear,
we are finally here,
at the last high-altitude base.
Chasing the myth, chasing my dream
I want to succeed.
Kathmandu, the “Namaste” camp
and the sherpas are already far behind.
In my head I still hear the Śamāna’s chants.
The turmeric scent and the taste of the rice
are still in my mouth.
In this gorgeous day of May, I can say
that Annapūrna gave us her blessing
to enter the last gate to her divine dwelling.
What weather she’ll cook for us?
The wind starts chasing
the crispy-white clouds.
The air is thin. I breathe in and breath out
trough the oxygen mask…
I am glued to the wall like a lizard.
My crampons pierce the rock.
…Grasp a small hole, all muscles burn.
My hand holds the sharpened axe
- my very old
trusted and most loyal friend!
It’s almost the end…. I’m so close to the top.
Only few meters left.
I coil and tide the hardened rope.
…Just few knots…I move slowly my ‘cats’…
Lift my body…up, up, up!
Here it goes! Fresh breeze of snow
kisses my face and then, it stops.
I adjust my gear and count my last steps.
Yes! Yes! Yes! I am here!
My heart beats with a flock of emotions!
Yes! Yes! Yes! I am here!
On the pick of 26,545 feet
above the clouds, above every sea,
above every ocean
where only the Goddess Annapūrna exists!
Notes:
* Annapūrna I, Pick - 8,091 meters (26,545 ft) high, the highest of Month Annapūrna.
The 10th highest mountain pick in the world.
* Goddess Annapūrna - Anna (अन्न) means "food" or "grains" and pūrṇa (पूर्ण) means "full, complete and perfect”. Annapūrna is the Goddess of Food and Cooking.
* Śamāna - (शमन) in Nepali – shaman
* ‘Cats’ – crampons in alpinists’ common language
BEHIND THE BLACK IRON GATE
My soul resides here behind the iron black gate.
This is a dwelling of my witch ancestral clan,
in which every girl is blessed with a mystical craft.
Every girl carries a heart of a “Mistress of the Mid-Night”.
Under daily light, I collect in my palms the healing power
of the mighty San. Listen to the whispering woods,
gather magical flowers and dry herbs, set spiritual fires,
make bitter-sweet balms to heal visible and invisible wounds.
I become one with nature’s creatures, rivers, and waterfalls;
kiss the breeze, hug the trees, run barefoot on the scented fields.
I ask the Earth for blessing and power to heal.
At midnight when the full moon rises the tides,
shadows dance on the walls their dark waltz.
I chant over the pentacle light, cast spells for luck and love.
Anoint candles and wise tarot cards guide my celestial path
to the unknown universe. I swirl naked among the stars.
Silver sigils pulse blending the past and the future in one.
The crow is my best friend; a guard of the astral gate
reads scattered runes, throws dice after dice.
Under the rhythms of moon’s shamanic drum,
my cauldron’s flames dance with midnight burning steps.
Can you hear the mid-night song of the old wise owl?
My soul resides in this mysterious house-pantheon,
where the dark secrets for many broken hearts
are kept forever UNKNOWN.
C’MON, LET’S GET TO OUR SPACESHIP, MAN (futuristic)
Humans no longer exist on earth.
They populated other moons.
Sun’s oven already burnt their place.
Sky flames chased away the clouds,
water is long-time gone. Earth’s skin hurts
in deep woods from hitting meteorites.
Cracks run like veins. Only crows exist
to fortune-tell irreversible dead.
No whisper of refreshing wind, no gliding breeze.
The creepy shadows of their wings
dance on the dry unhostile land.
All seasons became one long-lasting inferno.
Once upon a time there were
generous clouds that floated on the sky
and dropped showers of long golden rains.
An ocean of lavish endless green once covered
the fruitful land. Every morning, trees awoken under
fragrant silk-shear breeze. Rivers and lakes
were the mirrors of happy dragonflies and
dancing birds. Everyday had a seasonal dream.
Yes, today is year 2403
and on Earth, humans no longer exist.
Once it was their planet, but…
C’mon, let’s get to our spaceship, man.
FIELDWORK BIRTHDAY
Sommer time. I am back for my fieldwork
- my favorite Transylvania track.
These eight weeks are my favorite time,
and my birthday. Oh, I don’t mind
to listen the chorus of Carpathian waterfalls,
nightingales in the morning
or the rivers in the magnificent Gorge.
I don’t mind instead candles
to look at the stars; instead of a cake
to pinch a chimney bread with honey;
and at midnight, to admire
the full moon under velvety sky.
My way of birthday! Perfectly right!
I KEEP STITCHING MY HEART
I put a sign “Please, no more romantic affairs”
and locked my heart for long-time repair.
Since the time you had shuttered my heart,
I am still stitching, trying to connect every part.
The pain is still there.
It changes the rhythm of my pulse.
I feel the piercing pin going true, as well,
but this is ok, because I’m healing.
I’m learning how to smile, when you pass by.
After a while, I will be fine because
the pain will end. I hope the scars will blend.
I hope my brain will destroy the bridges
built in time while being in love.
I SING EVERY VERSE TO THE MIGHTY UNIVERSE
I wrote my song with words gathered
from the whispering evening breeze.
The rhythm I got from the ocean’s weaves,
something calm, sometimes wild.
My notes are like flocks of birds,
dancing on the rainbow’s lines
and singing high in the clouds.
They waltz, they swirl, they glide, they dive.
I compose my song with love,
engraved it in my heart with flaming knife;
sprinkled shimmering dust from the midnight stars.
I sing every verse to the mighty Universe.
I’M A GODDESS AND HIS BRIDE TONIGHT
Full moon. Frosty night.
Mysterious silence.
The large silver coin
of the moon shines
in the magical mid-night sky.
The galaxies shimmer
in their celestial dance.
Crispy-white owl sits on the log
of an old fallen tree.
In this magnificent night,
He is my psychic guide.
Full moon. The bells in my heart
ring nine times.
Covered with veil
of Milky Way’s dust,
I cast spells. I chat
for fortune in love and health.
I feel light like a snowflake, I dance.
From Him I gather
wisdom, power and strength.
Through His wizard eyes,
I see the spirits of my ancestral tribe.
“Hoo-hoo”, He sings His song.
“Ai-Yâh”, I call tree times.
In our rhythmic trance,
we both became one. Entwined…
The beginning and the end blend.
The nine bells stop their song.
I’m a Goddess and His bride tonight.
PROPOSAL IN THE ALPS
(humorous, based on a real event)
After two PhDs in physics and math,
the time was right for him to start a new life.
He had the ring with an impressive price.
He practiced in front of the mirror
hundreds of times, even how to get on one knee.
He chose the place - high in the Alps,
in the open cabin, up in the ski-lift
under the moon’s silver light.
He chose a brilliant time to fit - in the New Year’s Eve,
exactly when two clock’s arms strike at midnight.
All went perfectly right. He opened the box,
he opened his heart and popped the question
exactly as planned. He was happy and proud of himself!
The snow began falling from heavens
with a little bit cold. How romantic and sweet!
But...in a blink of an eye, the lift cabin got stack
and jumped. So, did the ring and…the gravity took its part.
Flying and sparkling like a shooting star
- Blink-blink, blink-blink! - the gem on the band
dived deep in the snow. O-o-o, no-o-o! O-o-o, no-o-o!
Both were hanging up there at 200 meters above in the air.
Silence was ruling the whole Universe. The rings of Saturn,
the nebulas’ turns and the Milky Way could be heard.
Cold began frosting what was left from their breaths.
She said at the end: “Marry you?! No way! With two PhDs
you’d better arrange how to get rid of this hanging bench!”
IN THIS AI AGE
Moms and dads say: “Go to school
and stay there until you walk on stage.
Differ from the crowd and make us proud.”
But in this electronic and AI age
offspring has different mind.
Nobody dreams about dangerous flights
in space, not any more. They all want
to be famous YouTubers and bloggers.
To be successful and rich.
Don’t blame them. These ‘new kids’
teach two generations born before them
the money generating computer games.
JUST SAY “HELLO!” TO THE OLD TREASURE-HOUSE
It is now quiet and lonely. Its walls
whisper tells from other times
when everyone used to run around;
when, on the porch, everyone gathered
for afternoon tea; when the dinner
in the hot summer nights was lightened
by the lanterns of happy fireflies.
The house witnessed the first snowdrops
pooping up courageous noses
in the first aroma of spring. Their bells
used to ring melodies in unison
with the icicles’ songs from the roof;
the humming dance of the bees
and firs birds coming back to the old nests.
The porch whisper family tells
of winter blizzards with blades,
when only the scarry crow used to outstand
and the snowmen used to guard the gates;
the warmth of the shadowy blades in the fireplace,
the kid’s happy laughter in the slays
the crispy air, and the star in the sky
in a magical Christmas night.
The house whisper stories from the time
when the rain put down
the dancing shimmering lives as a worm quilt;
when the harvest was gathered
and evening songs run far away with the breeze;
when children gather bouquets
of golden sunflower heads;
when the grapes turned into wine.
All now, are memories intertwined
with the waving staircase inside. Some lay on the shelves;
others stay quietly behind the dusty curtains,
waiting to come out. There are treasures
hidden in the attic’s chests such as many
enigmatic maps of lives. They sleep deep under the dust.
Can you just open the front door
and just say: “Hello!” to the Old Treasure-House?
THE LIGHT COMES FROM THE HEART
Light comes from the heart
and brightened the world.
It sparkles in the eyes, warms the touch
of mother’s palms while singing lullabies.
It glows in the father’s desire
to work hard and provide in every-day life.
Light lives in the heart
and makes beauty in the face that smiles.
Light pours from the stars
and dance like a cosmic quasar.
Light inspires us to fly in another galaxies
- light that comes from the HEART.
MÂGHREBI TEA WITH A TUAREG "BLUE MEN”
(The first cup is strong as death,
the second is a sweet as love,
the third is lighter as the life.” - Tuareg wisdom)
Reading the Zodiac castellations,
traveling 14 hours a day
trough baking heat and vast sand storms
for 40 hard days, 100 camels and
55 Tuareg men are heading home.
The caravan is loaded with salt and gold.
Everything went smooth, no camel is lost.
Dogs are still making detours.
The energy of the new re-born moon calms
the caravan. After long nomadic day,
the camels will rest for a break.
It is last night before last trek.
It is time to make dinner.
Taguella, the bread, is already baked
in burnt wood that is set on the sand.
My fried adjusts his blue daraas scarf.
He lifts the tea pot high,
pours the honey-gold liquid from above.
Mâghrebi tea spreads wide
the sweet scent its Nana mint.
In the dark, I hear traditional Tamasheq tunes
of the ancestral dance
of the brave Warriors of the Dunes.
MY DESTINY IS THE LOVE OF YOUR HEART
I live in the sky, somewhere in the clouds
of my happy lavender dreams. I am looking.
below and try to find your shadow
tracing your steps in the crowd.
I live in the sky where the wind plays around;
it messes and twists in your hair.
I come very close to your sleeping face
and whisper love songs in your ear.
I’m the glimpse of the day that plays
in your eyes. I am the rainbow above.
And…I land on earth. as a thunder of love.
My destiny is the love of your heart.
THE ART ON THE SKY
The sky is the largest canvas you can see.
During the day, clouds make their diverse display
sometimes they are painted in white, sometimes in gray.
Sometimes they roll, sometimes they look like
a gigantic brash that makes strikes.
The sky is the largest canvas you can see.
Lights and thunders draw with majestic speed
illuminous nets. Can you hear the rhythm
of patinate tango, when the clouds rumble?
And when it’s over, a rainbow is painted after all.
The sky is the largest canvas you can see.
At night, billion stars and million galaxies swirl;
their colors blink, dazzle in celestial background.
The Moon conducts their moves until Sun
gets up and new fantastic palette starts the day.
POETRY HAS PERENNIAL DNA
The first poet on earth created a verse when
he sensed the rhythm of this divine universe.
Since then, in his cave, a hut, or a den
the sound of a verse, a song, a pleasant refrain
was created. The call-and-response with clapping hands,
or tapping feet, became a way to entertain.
Carved with chisels, rolled in papyrus, painted with clay,
under divine moonlight and the whispering sounds of dancing waves
words were created, in enigmatic way. Reading mystical flames,
shamans and oracles casted powerful spells for love and success.
So, if there is a poet, there is a way
to create. In fact, poetry has perennial DNA.
LITTLE BALLERINA
Tiny ballet shoes sparkle on you
and special fluffy tu-tu
floats around
as a shimmering cloud.
A princess crown sparks in your silky hair.
Your sweet little toes lift you up in the air.
Straight your shoulders,
get the ballet position; chin up.
Don’t be scared,
don’t be shy, my cutie one.
The curtain opens; the mystery light
accents your innocent smile.
This is your moment to be star.
Swirls and fly, my shimmering little butterfly.
No question - your big famous time will come,
but now, you are only five!
LIFE IS A PERFORMANCE
Everyone’s life is a stage performance
- they we perform regards the crowd
to clap hands, laugh, cry or even smile.
Sometimes, we play in team – fire dialogs,
pause, cry, sing, dance or be silent.
Some of us prefer solo performance
to appear in mono dramatic
or standup comedy style. We may play
some instruments or get
fancy theatrical clothes,
all because life is a stage performance.
We learn with every show a new way to act,
try to polish some rough corners,
change the rhythms of daily drums.
Many turn the life into a masquerade,
an ever-lasting clownade and go
behind the curtains with bleeding heart.
But overall, under the light we try
to catch the stardust and write on the sky
our shiny name. In fact, on the end,
it will be written on stone.
What kind of stone?
- It all depends on how we perform.
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