Cubic Words

I am not a silent poet

There are hues of

blue embracing those of red

to vibrate in harmony.

There is a sense

of their movement above

the limits.

There is ceaselessly

a feeling in the sense.

The feelings can be objects.

..

Conceivably, the things have

a beginning,

because we believe it,

and maybe

there is neither beginning nor end.

..

In the spring rain,

there are kissing statues.

In the lulled lodgings

emblazoned with

shadows of shabby objects

on the walls,

there are lonely people

meditating about their life.

There is a measure of vulnerability

For everything that is good

..

and for the starving birds

in searching for seeds everywhere

as for those cancerous youngsters

having unimaginable pains,

still yearning to be cured

not till experience.

In the coverings,

there are riders of the history

dressed in armor

to enter the mind’s imagination and

all that is not the mind’s imagination.

..

In…

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The Chill of the Wind by Marieta Maglas

I am not a silent poet

The soul of this wind needs

No rainbow

But only desperation for a crushing blow.

He blows and blows and blows

Over the life

Of the seeds in the fruits,

And blows again

Over the purity

Of all the creeds.

Much more, he blows

Until everything around bleeds.

..

This wild wind needs to feed

His inner fire, which is a bloody furry

For a sunless time,

And fights an uphill battle

Against any existence.

..

His chills gather speed

While coming down from the hills.

He’s wild enough

To get the naked trees riled,

..

He has been blind

But never mild.

This wind has never been a child.

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and at your young age by Martin Clementine

I am not a silent poet

and at your young age
you don’t get it
what mean living like girl in Nomad tribe
what mean become women
what they want do it you
and for which reason kill your pleasure from creating life
days go very hard in Somalia desert
and people die very easy
without protection of basic right
and you saw your sister what they do to her
how they cut something inside her womb
blood go out to hot sand
and how stitching with pain
scream at tears at bloody tears
and father came
and said i have husband for you
you were 13 you were girl
and you run from land of pain
where women don’t have voice for themself
silent society what hold pain like spell
litlle girl go to slaughter
old husband smell like hell
and girls are not make love they are rape

and world don’t see and world is far away

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Guarding Herself by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

She guards herself

constantly

against perceived aggression-

mental wraiths with shimmering swords.

her life filled with battles-

rest finds her only beneath the covers

late at night.

her breath rising and falling slowing

rhythmically-

her face softened

her beautiful eyes closed.

peacefully resting

unguarded

looking inward

at what only she perceives

within her heart.

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