Poetry
Winner: National Hardbound Anthology A Celebration of Poets publication, Creative Communication Contest
“One of my passions is poetry. I find language so beautiful and also musical in a way. My great-grandfather, Mikhail Matusovsky, was a Ukrainian poet and songwriter, and although I never got the chance to meet him, I feel the poetry in my blood.”
Nikka, from a Spotlight Interview with From The Top/Behind the Mic
What If
And as the sun pays its daily debts,
Behind the ocean, the twilight sets,
The waves crash upon the rocky shore,
Reminding what was there before;
I sit alone on the jagged cliff,
And I know it’s all what if, what if.
Although that time has long since gone,
I like to think that moment,
Those treasured, seconds potent,
Will make me smile and fawn.
Instead, it makes me weep;
What one can sow, one can reap.
I sit alone on the jagged cliff,
Still dreaming for what if, what if.
Before the stars descended, long ago,
We’d spend the nights on this very plateau.
You’d hold my hand, and I’d hold yours,
Like the embrace between sand and shores.
But then came the tide, creating divide,
The lunar torrents moaned and sighed.
I sit alone on the jagged cliff,
Still begging for what if, what if.
The wind a whisper in our ear,
Thumping heartbeats we could hear;
The gentle air stroking our faces,
And our shared pulse quickly hastens.
The smell of salt, the touch of dew,
And thus, the night was no longer new.
And as the sun pays its daily debts,
Behind the ocean, the twilight sets,
The waves crash upon the rocky shore,
Reminding what was there before;
I sit alone on the jagged cliff,
There is no more what if.
I stare upon on the violent sea,
No more hope for what could be.
Crickets and Freeways
One Summer Night
I went for a walk in the starlight
But I couldn't see the moon
I hope I'll find it soon
Suddenly, there were footsteps behind me
They were too familiar, pattering in the same key
Approaching in the obscurity like the sea
There was nobody there when I turned around
But I swear I heard a sound
Singing its song is a lone cricket
Chirping woefully from the swaying thicket
The darkness is delicious, I want to lick it
The freeway moans in the distance
From the mountaintop, I observe its mundane existence
The traffic rumbles, miles astray
He's in one of those black cars, driving away
His body surrounded with a white bouquet
Why, him, did life betray?
My heart crumbles, he was never meant to stay
Crickets and freeways.
Come, Sweet Death
And as I kneel on the church’s pew,
Right on time, as if on cue,
Her spirit walks the aisle anew,
Pure translucent bone and sinew.
An ethereal whisper, “Come, sweet”
And thus, my life conceded defeat
Those two words marked it complete
I follow her and ask her name
I don’t believe her preposterous claim
Yet, still, I’m enchanted by this dame
And only when it turns pitch dark
Do I accept her grave remark:
“Life is not a circle nor arc
I am the end of your lively spark
I am the beginning of your blackness depth
Many people christen me Death.”
Should I label her the same?
Is that really her proper name?
I don’t know, but I’m losing my breath
To this woman who calls herself Death.
Barcarola
Do you remember
The moon’s pale beauty
Painting us in hues distemper
The nightingales singing tutti?
I remember.
We were but a single drop
On the canvas of the night;
But your spirit made reality stop
A beacon of delight.
We thought we were the only riders
Of the midnight Venetian canal;
But then we saw a few boat guiders
Who were singing a sublime chorale.
The black water was shimmering
Beneath our drifting gondola,
Reflecting the stars glimmering;
And we listened to their Barcarola.
We pressed our bodies together
I inhaled your smokey aroma;
Our hearts were tied with a tether
And we swayed to the Barcarola.
Now, years later, I’ll never forget
It replays in my mind like a haunted victrola;
The taste of your cigarette
And we kissed to the Barcarola.
The Most Beautiful Place In The World
The most beautiful place in the world
That is possible to be observed;
It’s always windy there
Against my cheeks, I can still feel the air.
The most beautiful place in the world
Surrounding you, the forests curled;
It always has a scent
I can still feel the smell and its intent.
The most beautiful place in the world
Where all life, I believe, emerged;
It’s always sunny there,
I can still feel the heat caressing my hair.
The most beautiful place in the world
The heavens, suddenly, obscured;
And many a cloud, wraps the sky in a shroud,
Nature, for the final time, has bowed.
The most beautiful place
Has vanished without a trace;
Because when you lose someone,
Everything around you becomes none.
The Mirror
First Prize Winner: Laurel Springs Poetry Competition
How I wish I had a confidante
Who’s blood I did not share;
But one who had a pact of trust
And filled my hole of despair.
How I wish I had a sidekick
Who flies with me like a dove;
And when the times are rough
He still says my name with love.
How I wish I had a mirror
To show my goods and imperfections;
But even when my faults are clearer
He becomes all of my corrections.
How I wish I had a shadow
Always by my side;
With reciprocated feelings of adoration
And dried my eyes that cried.
Autumn Memoirs
I’d like to spin the globe backwards on the tip of my finger
To make the moment linger;
And return to the time, with nature in rhyme,
When Autumn’s at her prime.
Naked trees reflect on the lake that slept
With a blanket of fog to protect;
And a dizzying mist, decides to persist,
It’s hard to know if you exist.
On the ground, lay the leaves, that sway in the breeze,
The air, not yet blowing a freeze;
And a whispering hustle of the branches that rustle
When life seems to cease to bustle.
An assortment of hues, with an absence of blues,
Make up Autumn’s views;
The colors crackle, as my feet tackle,
The Autumn winds that cackle.