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Sonnet - Shoulders of Giants

I dare to stand on shoulders of giants,
trudging up slippery foothills with ache;
I watch the peaks of mountains with defiance,
and dream of beauties that I too could make.

I’ve made it, or so my delusions say:
inhale crisp cleansed air, the Sun’s fated heir,
a deity of the Gods’ own chalet.
The filling of a chocolate éclair.

But giants take lumbering and far strides,
for which to grasshoppers, shake their small world.
The now dizzying heights brush me aside,
from feather to a rock, I become furled.

Having landed changed, to myself descant,
humility, even to the plain ant.

Free Form – The Wind Sings in Tempests Tonight

The wind sings in tempests tonight.
Leaves swirl ferociously.
Frost clings to every windowpane.
My fingerprints remain as I retreat
from its cold and glossy skin.

I sit here, at my withering desk,
and wonder what I’ve done with every grain of time.
I think of a dying species of which I’ve had no part of.
Where they read and wrote profusely, with mastery and obsession.
Where their words mattered, their lives mattered.
I find it hard to think they thought otherwise,
Although I’m told that they too were weak, and fragile.
I find it hard to think, maybe Kafka, the blessed soul.
May he find solace, may he know in the afterlife, that yes!
He is worth so much.

Some might say, see! See! He held the same insecurities as you
And wrote so much! And so well! And was loved!
Yes, wrote so much, and so well.
It is unnecessary to say much more about that.

No one can dredge the sorrow from my shivering heart,
and dispose of it in a lake of fire.
I must carry this incomparable weight forever,
figure creaking and malformed, bones grinding upon bone.
I have been overlooked by the cosmos,
as they chose to borne me in a time that is not my own.
In a time, where a species is dying, and I not with them.

Free From - Up from Hades

I recoil from that horrid sparkle
shining through the crowd.

On your breast, I glimpse the onyx pendant you were given as a gift,
resting between the inky strands of your hair;
your admirer (which one?) must have a fortune.

As you glide around the room, I begin to grasp your aim;
you wear these tokens of affections as a process of selection.
You forage for your (temporary?) king
with controlled behavior and learned wit,
calculated laughs to hide that you’re a misfit,
traveling the planet,
a drifter queen.

Hiding behind more prominent fellows,
averting myself from your knowing glare,
I find the footsteps you rode in on
and follow them out.
I urge myself not to turn back,
to the clash of champagne trays,
lipstick stains and sordid masks.

Free Form - Natural Course

An unrelenting blizzard blankets the ground,
tucking the grass in for the long haul.
Millions of flakes traveling, one by one, or together.
Some reach their destination
and some don't.

The trees receive a fresh coat,
the fashion of the season.
Critters strive for survival against
the barbed pellets, just like we do.
But they've been at it longer than we have,
and without technological constructs
plundered from the depths of Gaia.
I think they'll be alright.

And we,

we dare to curse it for turning the streets icy,
clogging up traffic, causing tempers to flare.
We dare curse it for chilling our bones,
for slips and falls, cherry noses and sore throats.

We dare to curse nature for running its course.

Sonnet - The Unworthy Man

A fire kindled inside his heart; a spark.
A dream began to form in his head.
Wanted to make a difference; a mark.
Something that will last long after he's dead.

So he perused the scribbles in his mind
for the idea that will make a change.
He made sure that no thought was left behind.
Accumulating wisdom like a sage.

He took a walk to catch his scattered thoughts.
He chased them but to no avail.
He could not set his torch aflame and wrought
a storm that sought to break his weakened sails.

Could never put his thoughts to writing or speech.
His graspings, forever, just out of reach.

Dragos Balan / Toronto

Dragos Balan    9/6/2021


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