It was a tall and white door with the knob at the level of my heart. I knocked discreetly to enter in audience at the cross spiders tamer. A fat and redhead man, chewing his whiskers minutely. I was wet because of emotion and warm like a freshly hatched chick. The man spoke sneering from time to time, because it is known that death is not as serious as life. You just swallow a knot in your throat from the corner of the star still left for you. As if you drink hot milk after chickenpox. Sometimes only the sun remains for you and you die in winter. Other times you shake off the stars and the moon from your hair, like an autumn willow. You get so annoyed that your eyes roll in their orbits until the spiders stop jolting on your photograph upside down.
It was a perfectly ordinary day. Except for the fact that they sold more tickets at the county fair carousel. Nobody is perfect. Not even those who predict the weather.
I am from Romania, I write poems and haiku and sometimes I translate them into English. My poems and haiku were published in various e-zines or poetry journals and magazines in print in Romania or abroad. Poetry is for me like champagne poured in a mug. I discovered this site and I can say that I found many good poems here.
They hold each others’ hands Walking down the lane Their hearts beating with praise Was it the season of rain? The water begins to pour In the silent night The boy appeals for a dance, in the starlight Hands held
On one cloudy afternoon, the rumbling thunder along with the flashes of lightening, piercing cracked walls of a house in burning, cows died and fried, a school-girl fainted and the earth is washed out by heavy downpour.. A chubby charming