a hand to hand
through bleak train

in a dim
green willow

the whirl of sands
and north sun tears’
unwinded, spilling
from shadow to
our fragile shadows
as dawn was crumbling
into purple
healing stars

a calm collapse
that signed your name
along soft cloud-fabric
and lifted dust
off autumn oak leaves,

torn maps
across the floor
and flooded walls
and ruined ceilings

and now us,
in the burning room
by our own memories





(yelena 2015)


incense of piano dusk
in a dragonfly daze
of wild water eyes
to wintered bridges.
closer to sky, whole,
as too beautiful
is gentle light,
a zephyr whisper
and beyond
the raining soul.

harmony stays
where verdant clouds
are heard
and hearted with
deeper forest sounds,
each instant
of the flight
to be sutured.
to be starred
homewards, unbound.

how fragile,
the texture
of a flaming wind
the house of ache
to smithereens
yet this..
is a way season
breathes anew:
a litany
of moon-painted
the firelit flow
of pale notes
in a quiet
submerged blue.

i won’t say a word.
yet when shy evenings
again i’ll wither
the burning, You.




~your words~
like a crescent of light
casting the silver sea
from nectar space
upon the deep-ached,
tidal earth
when the winds are
hauntingly tender
and a vessel of peace
unveils the visions
of a vagabond sorrow
and chrysalis mirth.

~your words~
like a whisper of heart
shaping a cherished nocturne
near the moongate
for the quiet opening
of secret garden doors
when the hope is
dreamfully purple
and a chalice of miracle
cascades ether serenades
along lavender fields
and barren shores.

~your words~
the softest essence
of lunar songs




(for Martin, with gratitude for your light)

read his beautiful and soul-stirring poetry at My Dream Garden

a wish


i wish

to take away his pain
when he, fevered and fragile,
breaks through ghost letters
on ice-jailed windowpanes
that steal too many sighs of breath
and the haunting sky of past
lands on his shoulders.

i wish

to gentle his fall
the way snow soothes freezing air
when with winter-numb kisses
he wipes tears off weeping sky’s eyes
yet his soul is afloat
shaping a slow budding sun
from somber skin of nocturnes.

i wish

to be a tiny island’s summer
that doesn’t burn but warms and heals
with a touch of home he looks for
tracing remnants of valley stars
and aura of old back-alleys
along the realm of his misty soul.



(yelena 2015)

spring angels

the woods are dancing
softly to the skylit tunes
of daystar’s melodies.
the blue-hued world
is drifting
in the daze of myrtle scents
and sylvan whims.
i hear the song of elven rain,
a cradling pitter-patter
of a chambered shimmering,
and from afar
the flutter of
azure, lucent wings.

two splendid angels soar aglow
along the nascent season,
their eyes are vernal stars
and childhood dreams.
their hands attach
the scent of lilacs
to the wintered houses;
they write warm lights
on valleys, pathways, streets
illuminating every land
to welcome spring




(for angel Susie and angel Linty, with gratitude)


the pianist

is a relief of rainy pianos
whispering to earth
the unfading essences
of vulnerable sky

his hands
are too soft
and interrupt
a melody

(are they tired
or do they just long
for one more flight?)

and he still feels
how a silent ache flows
along the weathered wood,
spills on cold floors
that strive to forget
her steps
and her light

the clouds
are only crying

the dawn
hesitates to arrive

you are not alone

(for N.)

i’ve read a love’s breath
along soft layers of ancient clouds,
a place of the poem’s homecoming
where gentle oblivion appears endless
and cradles the subtle shimmer of hope
reflecting a joyful sunset on cyan domes
as you heal the wounds
with your light shining candles of the soul
and words that caress a lonely shore
while summer ocean waves
lull a prayer for your smile
uniting the lost earth and eternal sky.