A friend who calls a friend a friend,
He is my friend in darkness
My coolmsasa greatness
A man of unparalleled wisdom
He speaks words of freedom,

A song of freedom to me,
Of liberation true
Coming on the wake of
an even darker night.
When not even
noisy cicadas stirred
He dared

My muse, my won personal oracle
My inner heart he knows,
And with these my hearts strings
a miracle he weaves
my inner voice he hears,
and with its rhythm and beat
a song he writes
my woman hood he penetrates,
and with its sweet quintessence
a queen he fashions

my coolmsasa greatness
could I ever hope to touch him
on a cold key board
could I hope for the tips of my fingers
to glide upon the planes of his cheeks
and brush against
lush lashes of closed eyelids
could I hope that where he sat
he tasted me and smelt sweet my womanly
smell that could speak for me words that
these black strokes could never convey

He’s heart is hidden to me,
my friend who calls a friend a friend
My coolmsasa greatness,
A man of unparalleled wisdom
who speaks to me
his words of freedom,

"to luke; this poem may have a meaning or none at all, it may be called an abstract poem, it may not.

With abstract poems, the meaning is in the interpretation, it is for the listener or reader to decide, whatever meaning it may have to them at a particular point in time.

Someone once said a poem is not a poem until it has meaning to the reader, otherwise it is a useless poem, just words without essence.

I’d say it’s a dead poem, waiting to be resurrected by someone who will interpret it according to their, heart, mind and being. At any rate this poem, when I first drafted it was something else, in the final draft it turned into something else altogether different, hmm, it had a life of its own,

It is however dedicated to you, it may mean something to you, it may mean nothing at all. Maybe it will mean something, today, maybe just tomorrow, or even yesterday or maybe never. This is nothing it is only the difference between life and death, living and dying. The death of a poem what is it, in the scheme of things compared to the sleep of millennium year old mummies that lie in Egyptian tombs, and the departed souls, of kings, queens, emperors, warriors, and commoners alike?

So it may mean something to you, it may not, do not concern yourself either way.
Ps: still incomplete and yet untitled. Oh and the penetration part is probably metaphoric, I think I had to mention that."

a likgaribe poem - "listen closely"

Listen closely
A tale of my death
A tale of my life
My name is Vlad III Teppes
Also known as the impaler
I am of the Bela Lugosi
Son of Dracul
Son of the Dragon
When I was growing up
in my wild native Walachia
In the hills and silver forests
of my beautiful Transylvania
A dark shadow
came upon our lands
An evil out of the east
Pagan infidels,
with the blood lust
they worshiped
not the risen lord
Nor our old ways
I a Carpathian prince
slayer of the infidel
of The order of the dragon
The ancient house of Drakulya
was protector and avenger

on the night I met the
deceiver, I was in the chapel
My own personal haven
Out upon lake Snagov
he was only a boy
He spoke to me of his fear
Of his seeking sanctuary
He claimed my spot
Never mind he said
there’s just
two of us anyway
he had a strange accent
“the voice was soft and
infinitely dangerous”
those mischievous eyes
he was not a boy when he spoke
I had not seen such as him before
for once I was more interested
in someone other than myself
with a knuckle in my mouth I smiled
I listened hard and I watched hard
I could not breathe

On a dead night
A knocking awakens
From quite contemplation
In the distance
I heard the dogs barking
Or were they laughing
Such a night it was
I heard the incessant knocking
Not on my door who cares
The footsteps you see
Made the more loud
By the invisibility
of the apparition
“come and I will give
you knowledge
For ten thousand lifetimes,
Do not keep me waiting
If you will not come
I will come for you”
“you shall enjoy the eternal life
That only a few
beings can claim”
“I struggled not to faint
Not to go to him on that instant
And throw myself
on my knees before him
And not to put myself
under his hand”
and yet in the end
he did not need to come

Listening to stories
Listen closely
A tale of my death
A tale of my life
My name is Vlad III Teppes
Also known as the impaler
I am of the Bela Lugosi
Son of Dracul
Son of the Dragon
of The ancient order of Drakulya!!!

“The historian, by Elizabeth Kostova a chilly tale of life and death, that after reading left in me an intense hunger for life, the true full experience of life, after all that is what we all want.”
Someone said of the book, “Dracula is back – alive and well (or at least undead)”

a ligkaribe poem - "fish in the bowl"

There is a fish in the bowl
It is to be expected
Sometimes there is no fish
Expect the unexpected
It is not a fishbowl
“what is
is not,
what is not
is”

nothing is ever as it seems, we must not always expect that the world is in the exact coulers or shapes we imagine it is or even the ones that we see it in, it is not always to be as we expect or hope, we must be ready for anything, accept this anything equally at all times whatever it is, without surprise, shock, sadness, or disappointment. it is the process that counts not the outcome. We must observe and learn from the outcome. Inspired by my Zen.