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Stumbling-Towards-Mysterium Journey into the unknown... OR Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/eva-lewarne - poetry REVIEW It may seem that to find truth is a lost cause. And ditto for happiness. Yet to find both may be possible only when you stare into the oblivion of the blank canvas, hear the noises of the arriving spring mixed with muddy fresh smells or attune your mind to the raven's sacred song. In that confused nothingness of bountiful languages may very well lie the illumination that our soul is after--that beautiful fruit that fills you up while living you empty, that Magna Carta that holds the secret of pure life, pure thought, pure wisdom. In Stumbling Towards Mysterium, Eva Piotrowska-Lewarne introduces us to all this and much more. To read it is to become more aware. review by: Irene Marques, PhD (Comparative Literature) http://www.ascentaspirations.ca/stumblingtowardmysterium.htm |
a bird got my wings
a bird got my wings I lost them and a few other things when a gale blew me over, flat on my face, what a disgrace the bird preened awhile, then donned my wings and flew away with no regrets my soul, stranded roamed the earth flightless while ice lay threats making me lifeless awaiting spring, for the return of a bird with my wings to soar once more beyond the rain of sorrow I turn my face to the sun the soft warm breeze of tomorrow and tomorrow 
Bird Dance
HERE I AM
Here I am like every noon, my morning sitting in my well worn chair in front of my well used screen with my turkish coffee mug to the right, a dear friend praying it doesn't singe my keyboard again The screen, my friend that never talks back that laughs with me, not at me, trusty when working a path to a life I really don't have but hopeful someday I may Here I am again waiting for the end of rain for the skies to open to let me play in sunshine in happiness in peace, in bliss Away from the screen that burns my lids with tears telling stories of woes, killings and fears death, death, death, death, death and yet I turn it on every noon hopeful once again that it will deliver me from boredom and pain let me know my life as is, the life of a common man has not been lived totally in vain. |
poor but elegant poor but elegant was her motto a life well lived though never traveled farther than the corner store is that all there is she thought, no more? poor of material possessions she sat cross-legged with nothing to lose ignorant of any recessions looking inward as her toes hit the roof racing up to her brain and then back again until she went poof poor and invisible, to others and herself the others were afraid to look beyond her poverty and she, she knew that ultimately she wasn’t really there what was there to dress and who was there to care? poor of vitals and glands but elegant in the placement of her hands she sat awaiting her destiny to be free of responsibility, awaiting to become the sea elegantly she peered into nothingness discovering beauty in her vivid dreams and what she created on canvas with paint challenging herself to see more than the eye can behold actually blessed to be alive if all is to be told poor but elegant suited her lifestyle of stillness and space inside and out a hollow tube of air, lit and unlit unimpeded by the outside world |