Starts with the a drop, hardly visible to human eye;
migrating through phases, changing shape, evoking sounds.
From below and from above together
becoming river; running unmercifully through
heavy stones and soft sands:
it’s a burble in the nearby forest
sometimes is a messenger of a tempest, cobalt-sparkling weather
when at last, becomes an ocean
remarkable and vast, yet infallible and modest
the giver of life, the purpose of any notion.
Maja S. Todorovic
It had a triangular shape – reminded me of a miniature souvenirs you would find on the crowded streets of Cairo..But it was light as feather, as a snowflake resistant to melt on my fingers. It had the color of sinking west Sun. The skin was crisp and fragile. I played with it in my hand for a while. It’s cookie like any other cookie you are eager to eat. But this one, instead of delectable white, sweat cream hid just few words I was reluctant to read.
Everybody believed:
The truth, curled in this little floury shell is just waiting to hatch out like a baby lizard from its egg, wanting to develop into u full grown destiny, a path that is a head of me?
“It’s a game, just a game!”…everybody cheered around me, but I didn’t hear their voices any more. From that moment I knew:
There is only one writer
of the unfolding book
of my life.
Maja S. Todorovic
Borealis bright,
counterpart,
deactivated:
encounter in between invisible lines
fragile in the morning with
glandular geomagnetic particle osmosis.
He likes rainbow, but
I, there is no I in threesome.
Journey to the fake space Odyssey during
Kp>7!
Longitudinal or Latitudinal?
Mmmmmmmm…
Nada! Usted comprendes nada!
Olive skin you get under:
trying to satisfy stormy weather.
Ultrasound inspection just under my feet acquiring
velocity of the Northern lights:
We need to be there tonight to
X-ray previously charged love.
You and I, preforming the language of stars,
zip-locked by sparkling green stain in the sky.
Maja S. Todorovic
Just like nature
succumbs to tree cages
sheltering green, bony weakness
as zoonosis attacks,
you have little part of you
that turns against you:
You battle,
extrapolate
closing all doors and windows,
drown, dreaming of sunbeams.
Maja S. Todorovic
You promised
Ocean rain –
do it clean,
police me.
A friend I call Desire
reads his words out loud:
“Oh, I like the way
you put me in the big house!
Your burning lips
on my finger tips..
Reciprocate:
this means nothing to me.
I’ve put my urge in the ice-box.”
If time is my vessel
(set the sail)
then learning to love,
is a change of skin.
Estuary,
won’t you take me?
Wasted whispers, faded secrets.
but no one could see the end.
Maja S. Todorovic
I want to tell you a secret
little secret, simple and honest –
You are the only
reason for your existence:
to grow
to glitter
to laugh.
You are the only
one who makes this prison
of negative persistence.
You are the only
one who can say: “No, I’m not a
quitter!”
Open your eyes widely
world that lies beneath you
is your home.
Open your heart kindly
let your dreams fly back to you,
wildly.
Maja S. Todorovic
As blank page stares at me
clock ticks in the rhythm of my heart beat.
Thoughts swarm like bees in a miniscule hive.
Shadows make patterns, hexagonal hive
they dance, trying to catch me
not skipping the beat.
I try to write, as my thoughts following the beat
feisty and seduced, like honey queen in her hive,
run from my pen, throwing syllables at me.
This poem will never be written: because of me, in this mindless hive, it lost its beat.
Cucumber, cabbage, cauliflower:
beheaded, without voice
swirl around
shorn of leaves, travel in pieces
without choice
bounce from ground to ceramic plate
Greens of the sweetness
curled above my moist tongue
test their fate
soft, crumbled blades dream of living
for a second longer, drunk
desperately among my teeth stuck.
Maja S. Todorovic
Air is crisp,
biting my cheeks.
Loneliness is present.
Maja S. Todorovic
Months for me are usually an easy ride. 28 to 31 days, it passes rather quickly.
But years are the long snakes that drag unpleasant months, we don’t want to remember and recall. In each year, there is an unforgivable month, snake’s mouth that just swallows all of your energy, time, existence and you end up wondering: “Life has a party on his own and I’m not even invited!”
I have that one particular year, when in March everything changed for me. In my country we call March Baba Marta (Granny Marta) and yes! March is a capricious, unstable, sometimes sleepy, sometimes rainy, rarely shiny: like an old grandmother who growls around trying to find her cane.
Through the window I could see the remnants of snow, her silver hair spread across the park. Small snowdrops, random teeth in that deceiving smile, were trying to turn their clumsy heads towards sporadic Sun.
That March wasn’t only the beginning of spring. It was suppose to be the beginning of new life for me. Instead, March brought the cruelty of the unknown, acridity of the uncertainty. Baba Marta was not in the mood.
April came like a young, playful girl, with the greenest eyes I ever saw; colorful dress wrapped her blooming body; teasing me, inviting me to join her; wanting me to forget awful Baba Marta.
Strangely enough, as the Sky was arranging tender clouds and Sun began to caress my skin, all I could think of is how warm was behind the cold, icy February walls.
Business in Rhyme 