JAGnięcy szept / AGNus whispers

L.  (on the day Bowie died) Oh no, don’t say it’s true Why don’t you rise Mr L I bid you to, again You don’t know who I am I have no job, you didn’t make it Wind has dusted starry ashes Leaves clinging off the tree Little pieces of immortality Failed solitary flicker Somewhere on the third floor Behind the door there’s a path Leading to where the ground Under and above has no control On the rocky terrace Offering has been done on this stage Purple skies are saved, free The two figures meet in a labyrinth In a promise of come-union Behind these old blocks On a cemetery with no graves I am eighteen, my looks won’t cheat you Dirty illusions of mature infinity Flow from a broken chalice Sordid follow-up lets down And no-one took your place for that trip up No-one will dance, not me... Where are the winds that carry my thoughts away C’mon my hands, feel and caress the clay Until you form a better me And I’ll put your mind in

New Year’s Sonnet On days like this one sadly ponders how Fragile becomes our immortality. These dusks that hurry dawns for us avow That even grave ends in banality. My innuendo shouts to seize the fruit And squeeze until the breeze of life is out, Which never gives up, but since time must scoot You have to shut it inside or it’ll sprout And give another fruit to someone’s grace. Vivacious wheel of esse goes at will Abandons those who fail to keep its pace. It only offers rush, no peace, no frill. Yet I admit it is worth every breath  Each blink is infinite in spite of death.   photo in the frame: Jerzy Bednarski