Month: April 2020

Behind the door

Published by Ondrej on April 22, 2020

A howling whirlwind
just as you open the door
“what’s wrong” is not a good question
nor was it the best decision
to ask what’s going on
behind the door.

Upon it, wheels and locks
like on castles, or in clocks;
intricate machinery, thick iron
making your stomach churn.

Lest we forget
no tools are needed yet
it is with simple words,
(human musical chords)
the bars fall loose
slowly shattering
with a shrill shriek.

You’ve opened Pandora’s box:
what on earth do you seek?
Couldn’t you have left her alone,
left her troubles her own?
Safely stored away
kept deep within
kept deep at bay.

On second thought
except those moments when she sought
seclusion, running away from her fears,
in a corner, unable to stop the tears.
When the world crumbles,
its supporting pillars tumble.
Halt!—
A ray of light
stops the rubble falling
a new hope is calling
a rushing spirit
a light glowing bright neon
for you’ve asked
“what’s going on?”

Be aware of a likely torrent
muddy, stained memories
bloody, pained—no longer secretive
like a nostalgic fugitive.

Fill your soul with empathy before
and she will be grateful for evermore.
This one fight will be won
For you’ve asked what’s going on,
you’ve had to implore,
what’s going on behind the door?

If only she knew 2

Published by Ondrej on April 22, 2020

Note from the author:

This poem is a continuation of or ‘sequel’ to the original If only she knew.

Holding that strip of canvas
a faint, distant smile.
Plain to see—a result
of weeks’ dedication;
wherefore has this been made?
The colours are so beautiful too—
if only she knew.

Steps back, a lady depicted
bright, ripe colours
fertile, lush greens
with deep, rich umber
and glowing blue;
if only she knew.

The cloth falls onto the ground,
a mind of its own.
But from a distance,
such a small shred
grows—north, south
in every heavenly path.
Fills the room;
now there are two;
if only she knew.

The painter, elsewhere
a sweating, nervous wreck
pulse beating on his neck.
He hopes deeply
almost beyond hope itself
that the message will come through
and she knows
what he feels is true;
if only, if only she knew.

Beautiful lady is perplexed
thankfully remains unvexed.
Wait—a gasp—she sees it;
her heart, matches with a flit.
She’s been looking in a mirror:
make no mistake, this is no error,
this glorious canvas
painted with such tact, class
heart now a chargèd rod.
This painter—oh god
such a charming gentleman
his affectionate way definitely can
stir up the wildest feelings inside of me
ones even I have not managed to see.
Such beautiful emotions of many a hue
That was the moment,
that was the moment she knew.

Thoughts

Published by Ondrej on April 22, 2020

Shh! Lower your voice
to a whisper.
Don’t make a sound—
else you’ll be found!

Who will find me, you ask,
and it is no small task.
Those who look deep within
searching for answers.
They’re all fighting
their own battles:
an endless chattering rage
fighting to get out
of a self-imposed cage.

What’s going on inside
these soldiers’ minds?
Even the wisest do not know
neither does their mortal foe.

You gasp—who could that be
who could be performing this internal robbery?
Hush, child—
you still have much to learn
I say, with my face stern.
Before you know how to look
into your head’s every cranny and nook.

Lost

Published by Ondrej on April 22, 2020

Searching for everything and nothing
looking for it all;
can’t seem to get
to the bottom of it all.

Peering into the darkness
from a porthole onto fog
not knowing the hidden rough sea
is just the beginning of the prologue.

This ship should sail far
to a secluded island or the highest peaks
away from this wretched endless rush
to find out what my heart seeks.

This journey, I must embark on alone
for the deep crevasses
and fast-moving sand pits
need not your caresses.

Your caresses, glue to the shards
scattered through my being;
perhaps there is one hope
or a ludicrous fantasy I am seeing.

Quarantine 5

Published by Ondrej on April 22, 2020

What day is it?
A greyish blend
An endless pit
With no view around the bend;
but this time
is well spent
making words rhyme.

Others find it less so,
they’re taking it badly;
A shame, because there’s much to know
they look at it rather sadly.

For this is now week five
indeed, it does deprive
us of our friends
and our partners’ beds.

Instead, we can finally see
Those who we’ve been living with: our family.
It’s really not that bad
unless you check the numbers
—and now they’re more than sad;
So many people entering eternal slumbers
For their sake and ours,
Let’s hope this lasts only a few more hours.

Maybe one day

Published by Ondrej on April 20, 2020

Stepping onto the stage
the applause grows
grows louder
now a roar,
a standing ovation.

Curtains wide open
spotlights like stars
only much closer.
Showing perspiration
as the victory chords
ring out in glorious succession
across the auditorium
reverberating, echoing
dancing—in tandem
with the cheers and claps
a victorious couple,
entwined, a cosine and sine,
soaking up the crowd
the atmosphere,
the joy.

Suddenly—a snap.
And silence.

Stadium, gone.
No yelling,
no standing,
no longer.

Back to reality
reality of real life.
Maybe one day, says father,
hand on my shoulder.

Dear Christoff

Published by Ondrej on April 20, 2020

A winter field
the fog, lurking
not a budge,
not a single movement
not even a breath
makes a dent, such
places; lots of death
in times long past.

Torch flickers, snuffs out
a silence of sound
the stark noise of absence around
enveloping, sealing, like cold wax
just as these soldiers’ fates; buried in stacks
their lives – a lost whisper
heard in the still breeze.

Would they have been better off
was it a good idea, dear Christophe?
Regrets, maybe a few;
not like you can say anything new
‘tis a century we’ve been blue.
This is not because of you.

The men in suits—curse them!
Wretched pigs, can they not
put aside feelings from their cot
must others, innocent ones, answer
questions that they themselves cannot?

Ah, dear Krzysztof,
all your names
succumbing to the same flames.
Wherefore do you lie here
so far yet so near.
Into the dark, we can only peer
long time ago, dear,
now a shadow in our minds
staying put as long as history binds.

Wardrobe 2

Published by Ondrej on April 16, 2020

Note from the author:

This poem, Wardrobe, was originally published on 8th April. This is an improved version of the original, containing the addition of two new stanzas. My heart goes out to Felix S, thanks to whom this poem would not be what it is now.

Folded in stacks,
hanging on wires
rolled up socks
into shapes like tires.

Stiff and lonely
yet fully coloured
bright pastels
left abandoned,
deep blacks
like drawing pencils
or a blunt axe.

But despair no more!
For life is breathed in
to these clothes once more;
when they’re worn
they’re no longer forlorn.
Their colours radiate
as if newly born;
their beauty’s innate.

A shirt, dull grey hanging
One hand in, sleeve now plump, no longer sagging
almost resurrecting, making proud Jesus’ father.
As you wear it, a shining pearl of white
a knight’s armour in all its might
ready for a day in the office; oh, the bother.

At five, taken off, replaced by a tee
thrown in bag, a sprint to the metro.
Home, all you needed to see
the pile of clothes in the washing bin: that’s now retro
taken off, that shirt is again like stone
lifeless with no single colour tone.

The trousers, jumpers, ties in there;
in the wardrobe, stored neatly, ready to wear.
Simply left hanging on these hooks,
waiting for the pretty ladies’ furtive looks.
Whose lives’d be more exciting if they were
not spending all of them waiting for monsieur.

A glint in your eye

Published by Ondrej on April 16, 2020

There’s a glint in your eye
perhaps a furtive glance
or a smile
you’re ready to dance.

Dance, we will,
till the sun rests
And sing, we will,
till the moon’s in the sky.

That lubricious look you gave me
full of passion, desire – and there was one thing
one in who’s recognising I’m only a trainee
it’s one that made my heart so dearly ring.

You can feel it between the short breaths
between the needed gulps of air
a pang of fiery warmth
through a curtain of her hair.

This is a world unparalleled
as we reach the romantic overture
where words are of no use, where telepathy prevails
an experience, a feeling to nurture.

As the beating drums switch to tingling triangles,
and oxytocin tsunamis turn to tender embraces
understanding the words behind each fond caress:
‘tis adoration for one another we here possess.

Wim’s waiting

Published by Ondrej on April 11, 2020

What’s wrong with wanting
when we’re wackily wailing
while waiting with Wim’s whim.

Wonderfully windy winters
whenever we wish
when we want!

Wonky wands with worn words
without Wim’s whim.
Wonderland was wryly wrong
wavering, whisking,
wondering whether Wim’s whim
wherefore, was worth waiting?

Why won’t we whisht
when winds whisk
wrongly waiting Wim?