offstage-euthymia
Just Enough Words
perhaps a journal, perhaps nonsense
- Croatia - 22 -
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offstage-euthymia © 2023 by Marko Tivanovac is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0
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When i was younger.. a child.
Grandma showed us a big seashell.
She said if we put it on our ears we could hear the sea.
The sounds were exactly as the sound of the ocean when i listened.
And there was later on explantation that when you isolate the exterior sound with the shell all you can hear is blood vessels from an ear produce similar sounds to an ocean.
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Musashi Miyamoto from Vagabond by Eiichiro Oda
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Perhaps culture shock is difference of normality between nations according to perceived accepted norms.
Maybe the thing about environment is sickness within... The rotten stench of normalcy.
Culture is about accepting.
The so called 'underground' are people who suffer their consequences.
Trying to accept themselves for who they are.
Because the system in-between for people does not work... So they need to make their own culture and group.. tribe.
The new ego, perception and drawing like-minded people who relate to insufficiency and their lack of needs met .
Maybe that's just one example of those who are suffering.
But this isn't even a scratch beneath the surface of the deeper problem within.
Solving those problems is the key... But nothing will and can be perfect. There will always be people who can't relate to the norms accepted by majority.
So as everything is ever-changing.
Even culture.
Just like language.
New challenges are solved and new are yet to come... And many are yet to be overcomed.
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Hunter Waldera aka Snacktoast (American, based Santa Clarita, CA, USA) - Through the Window, 2023, Paintings: Digital Art
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Rocks, like pebbles.
Heart makes a sound
Rocks like pebbles drop down.
In the river down with the rest.
The heart pounds with the slope.
Flowing rivers with fresh depth.
A cold shiver from the deep down.
A reflection on the surface.
Along with the sun the vibrant colour rose and shines.
Come rain, come shine.
The shower of the fall and the rainbow window.
A play between the shower of water drop sprinkle and sunny rays of wisdom.
A depth here and there makes no sound.
On the ground a silencers muse absorbed the shout.
A place safe from the rest of it.
A place for rest.
Where river flows and shivers.
By Marko Tivanovac
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Cavern.
I suppose an old hedge shrub shows up.
Beneath the old cavern in a spot.
In the basement where it shivers.
An old hole and a void.
Buried beneath in the cold snow.
An old saying of and old impulses.
And other curses.
By the river in the current..
Current temperature is slightly warmer.
And the snow melts down sooner.
Who would have thought that flowers would bloom so early.
And the birds that warmed each other sing and fly all over.
In the cavern i saw those old skeletons.
The treasures and instruments.
Beneath the surface of the rotten skin.
A broken skull sings with the help of a breeze.
It sings a song of someone who was here.
It sings of someone who was there
Like us, like others and of those who will cross the path.
Who step on the same overgrowth as they did, not so long ago.
Abroad, an old cavern hidden in shrubs
In trees and bird nests.
Hidden from an eye of a travellers.
Hidden treasures, hidden regret.
A silent gem.
By Marko Tivanovac
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Pure black and no sugar.
Do you recall the good old chamomile tea.
Each morning at the same time like an early bird.. with the white fumes of cigarettes and other herbs.
Perhaps an old notion and a newly adapted habit of rolling cigarettes.
Do you remember the good old golden water.
And a sunny beach.
Listening each wave crash on the shore while sitting by the table in a lounge coffee shop.
Pure black and no sugar.
By Marko Tivanovac
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Sand.
Dark notion..
Matter of matter.
Somewhat a substance substitution.
For ease and relaxation.
Down the ladder.
I climb up again.
In a matter of seconds.
Latter I might've been the other substitute.
I've become this double decker full of possibilities.
I might be the mad hatter.
Or deck holder.
But im nothing but a passer by and wordplay molder.
Perhaps perceived blasphemy.
Noxious and obnoxious ..
But i still see the gap of light on the endless ladders.
For another letter to write and speak out.
In this substance.
Light is pouring down like a sand.
Like time and almost as it falls on my face...
I can collect the traces of the substance of what I could've been and what i will become.
Hopefully it won't cut short of breath.
But that glittering light still falls down the ladder .
And i smile.. because i can feel each grain on my face..
On my hands and dusty coat.
Perhaps it shines bright for me.
And on me.
By Marko Tivanovac
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Spectacle of immersion.
Perhaps weathering and corossion.
Somewhat contradictory leisure.
And chores and dusty drawers.
Few vases and dried roses.
Petals and dust.
Perhaps a wind to wind.
But open the window.
There's dust.
Dust to dust.
And a spectacle of clean up.
Makes me wonder.
How i solve my own and other voided troubles.
Empty the vases and bursting the bubbles.
Foam from the dish soap.
And other hard stains.
Polish the stains and surfaces.
Lace up the places so it shines in a new condition.
And perhaps the spectacular dust will settle down.
Firelight and ashes
Nothing left to clean than the furnace.
Ashes to ashes.
And it's ash-full drawer.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
An open window brings another wind at particular particles.
Wind to wind..
Chills and fireplace..
A sofa to lay down to after the work is done.
To heat up and sleep with the sound of cracking firewood.
By Marko Tivanovac
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Možda ta težina riječi može nešto spriječiti.
- MT
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Letters staining the deck
Pages bathed in ink.
Perhaps like a tattoo, permanent.
Until flesh is burned and buried.
Lest bridge that still stands in charcoal wood.
Slowly descends down the slope.
In the river...
Where my inked liver has dark pigments
In the flesh of pages turned...
Perhaps i haven't finished the book.
But pages are slowly ignited by candle.
And i look how even candle has it's own time.
Perhaps i look how it slowly shuts it's flame down.
And letters dissolve down the slope in the stream.
Down the river, down my liver.
My condolences.. even if i barely know you.
By Marko Tivanovac
#writing#poem#writeblr#poems on tumblr#poetry#write#writers and poets#poet#spilled ink#writer#poetic stories#writerscorner#writerscreed#smittenbypoetry#literature#lit#poetryportal
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