World On Canvas

Wonderful World

Muddy brain hazy vision

dry -- nostrils

Fire emission. Ask for compassion!

Competition, Computation

Indignation inclines


The monstrous Monotone

Struck weird

Mono world. Design Utopian

without existential

Dynamic diversity of man taken

into consideration!

There Can Be Unity Only in Diversity.

Absolute Conviction --

Author's Notes/Comments: 

No one can deny facts of nature. Multiple --

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dimly lit

this night of sweet farce

word and thought


to make time dance

gay entrails of sparkling


a near do well chance


enrapts  only further

this wonder of

my mind

leaving all else

half heartedly behind


such a strange


a constant comfort

and agitator

folded by the wind

and flapping

even when motionless

in the yet born subconscious


(written Sept 19,2003 2am)

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In germs of purity

We await our infinity

Faintly existent

Yet, illogically present

The fetus will cry

Begins to die

Outside the womb

Astride its tomb...

Time dims the light

Again the night

But time was never

And now...it's over...

To fight for purity, we chose

But germs must decompose

So pray to the Trinity

To give us infinity

Fold those coarse hands

But see the fine sands

Sift into our graves

Designing our staves

We die in our mystery

Our malignant crude history

And before we can run

....follow our sun

Our life is dying

But our nod is denying

That we've lived at all

Outside our skulls

And before we can ask it

They've nailed our casket...

(Do I try to infer,

That we never were?)


Maria Lia Grigore

                                                               pusblished in univer. newspaper/71


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Only saddness surrounds me;

Everything gray, everything gone.

Maybe maddness inbounds me;

My memories diminshed, but pain replenished.

I will stay here forever.

From whence I came

I know there was grief there,

yet I don't remember why.

No love here, no warmth, no one else

just me and eternity.

My existence unites with nothing.

Not a soul will come and no one will hear me.

For who knows where I am?

Where is this place?

Gray.  No light, no darkness.

No one, just me and eternity.

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Disasterpiece Cremations

The moth is but a staled butterfly

With graceful flight

Lusting over the sweet perfume

Companion of the endless night

Like a star that burns lukewarm

In the belly of a cave

Clearing out a path provoking

Spitting in the sun’s cruel eye

Blind him so slightly

For the moth is but a butterfly

The bat is a bird

The moth is but a rag

And you throw your darts

Like torpedoes set a-flight

And pin me to the wall

Grinding your sands between

Your salted teeth

I shy away


For I am but a moth

Blackest bat about the cave

Blackest sun upon

The shore’s cruel lips

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They march along the clouded earth

The frosting grass, the mischief

Following the sun, his harp under arm

His humming dance, They march like ants

He’s a spade, he’s so gray, he’s so old

Watch his face unfold over the kingdom

Marching away the day

Marching away the riddle of the shade

Of his humming dance

Of jejune expression

The hauteur of penguin parades

The sorcerer of the eye, of his face unfolded

Of his face so cold, his face to mold

Of his knuckled hands aged to the bone

Watch his face unfold, like a get-well card

Like a newspaper, like a bedtime story

On a cold rainbow

Sleeping away the day

They drop their trades without me

March in dusty snow, in the vision of the sun

A penguin parade marching without me

Marching like a cold,

Like ants upon a hill of destiny

A destiny without me

As I sleep away the years

As I dream without a care

I’ve missed true love a hundred million years

I’m stuck in this dusty desolation

In the clouds of their trade

Creating a path to destiny

Forbidden like my past

Forbidden like the sun’s bearing stare

Why do I care?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is about slacking off

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seducer of butterflies and wind

you know your one true calling


every man woman and child alike

long for your appearance

on the happy horizon's shelf

such love affair is grand

seekers of your golden pale ribbons

to wrap themselves up in

gather by the beached horde load

to paint themselves tan

greedy baskers are they

in your radiant atmospheric glory

faithful worshippers of your life

bleaching light

all organisms reach and grow towards

your regenerative delight

happy receivers of your water trading


Osirus loved you so

and anticipated his return to your

golden thrown

but for most today

you are seen as a roughly kind faceless


life making

life staying

life saving force

one who's duty alone

keeps man harnessed to this planet

'til his own time here's gentle end

In my penned praise

allow me to say

I bow to you


here deep beneath the clouds

(Aug 14,2000 830pm)

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From here to eternity is just a title, which will be forgotten like speech problem. Walking on a hill that was once an island, I was touching the tree leaves, recognizing the healing herbs, listening to sounds dripping down a birch.

There will be sea here again, than drought, finally hills and dust. Some pets were edible, some weren't - and that has been the only difference for a long time. Later we learnt to be disgusted by the difference and then we started keeping steaks in a cage.

Not one of these things is important and perhaps it is good that way. The canary flew off with a flock of sparrows to the rainforest and never appeard again. Sparrows dopped by sometimes. They got tired of it later. Then they flew away, flew away.

From flour once bread was made and we ate it. It is happy fable about wheat and secret police services.

The awareness that an echo lasts longer than the person groaning, only tricks us. But it tricks.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem is from my new book of poems "Sacrificial Book" 2003.

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The old priest on TV spoke with a sigh”

“It’s not the lack of housing  and of roof,

As  “Homeless Folk” so many qualify,-

All those deprived of shelter, care and love.

“Consider now the home for kith and kin,

The seedy home of guzzler Frank John Doe,

The strangest things go often on within

Its fortunate the neighbors do not know!”

“The toddlers slink away  and duck and cry

The  guest, an auntie, looks a little lewd,

The children fear her too, but know not why

Their kin folk think her querulous, but prude.”

“They all do feel a certain  homelessness,

But youngsters leave the Home and seek the street,

To find that selling grass can bring success,

And learn to love the king pins of the weed.”

“A homeless man,- the old priest said- is he,

Who sits with a catheter full and rings.

And has no view back black and white TV

Urine overflows,- the nurse is loitering”.

“Thus homelessness, -it really does - extend,

It’s met in losses and adversity,

That does befall good folk in every land,

Although they have a roof and can drink tea”.

And homelessness is in the Nursing Home,

Where sheltered people suffer martyrdom

And in the ward psychiatric few are kind.

With sheltered people that have lost their mind.

“Great is the longing of all people for a Home,

To dwell in and to serve their every need,

But strangely, off-spring does prefer to roam

The darkest corners of the city street.”

“We do we put the “Homeless” with address?-

The stunned bereaved  who hold a box for mail,

And even own a key, but nonetheless,

Fight for existence daily tooth and nail?”

“Gone is the “Home”  of mutual support,

The chilly place yawns hollow emptiness,

Gone the dependable and bright consort-

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