​​​the freedom exercises

June 4, 2014


Who can penetrate the swirling mists ahead,
so to read the hoary signatures written
upon seed droplets of fate well hidden? 

Who is our unseen lover,
who bears the dagger of our death?

Which Zephyr carries happiness’ sweat scent,
which false friend is our Judas?

Which companion do we invite within,
which companion is it wise to leave without?

Who begrudges our good works,
who feeds and shelters our bodies and souls?

Why believe in the figment called self,
why endure the one who loves you not?

With one person you find joy
with another you find sorrow.

Who can penetrate the swirling mists ahead
so to read the hoary signatures written
upon seed droplets of fate well hidden?

Not I, for sure, my dear,
but, even so, wisdom can be applied
so to find ourselves a good path
through the misty threads spun
upon the loom of Fates Three.

21 October 2008


A woman's warm heart is a summer butterfly,
wings painted in so many different hues,
brilliant sky blues,
luscious, Crimean red wines,
radiant yellows lilies,
moonless nights on the Steppes,
harvest orange pumpkins,
early Spring daffodils,
each crafted by careful, angelic brush strokes.

A woman's warm heart flies from one loved one to another,
as the summer butterfly flies flower to flower
from the ruby-red to the untainted white rose,
tending to the varied needs of husband and child,
giving to each her nectar of deep love,
for comfort, for courage, for growing to be more.

If God gave to me a summer butterfly to keep,
I would warm her with devotion and pure love,
feed and protect and honor her for all my life,
knowing that I am the most blessed among men.

Come my summer butterfly and give your love to me,
for without your love I shall surely wither awayType your paragraph here.

​27 September 2012


So many days journey lie betwixt us, sweet love,
endless kilometers of sky high packed snow,
to deep, to treacherous, to dangerous
to tread upon foot or upon mount.

The mistress of the wind taunts me each night,
her snarls and wicked whisperings
penetrating even into my bed,
her wish to damp, forever, my ardor for you.

This is a winter of winters,
a chill not seem since the dark times,
and my sweet Snegurochka,
who melts not from love, any more,
is far, far south of this lonesome forest.

Damn you Father Frost,
what good brings the howling
of your timber wolves,
do they mock my longings,
burning and crying,
no respite, day and night?

I dream of our warm bed,
you lying naked next to me,
fireplace flames burning brightly,
your heart beats interspaced with mine.

Oh, but, such are only dream fragments,
memories from months long past,
honey-laced, sweet buns and hot chocolate,
shared in the old café down the cobbled lane.

Can love return two hearts now apart?
I think so, I hope so.

Away Father Frost, come dear Snegurochka,
come to your prince, bring her to me,
Mother Spring.



Not once and not again,
the rolly-polly twins of Wonderland
were spouting off their foolishness.

One, the graduate of the Wonderland Institute of Technology.
One, the graduate of the Wonderland Theological University.

“Information is solely physical; pure mathematics reigns supreme,”
insisted Tweedle-Dee.

“No, brother!
Information is solely aphysical; contemplation is the royal road,”
argued Tweedle-Dum.

Hearing the twins from faraway thereness,
the Cheshire Cat could not but appear out of close-by hereness.

Materializing in front of these quarrelsome twins,
with his big, toothy grin and humor-filled eyes,
he said, most wisely and with full authority,

“Information must be seen as either,
information must be seen as both,
information must be seen as neither.”

And with regal thusness and smugness,
he took a lengthy toke upon his ever-present hookah,
exhaling seven interconnected smoke rings,
vanishing back into the hereness which is thereness.

His yellow-black striped body disappearing,
leaving only his grin to be seen,
he spoke, “You two nits need to get stoned sometime.”

And with that, he was no more

14 January 2013


A thousand nights, I lay
upon coverlets of Chinese silk and gold,
laid over ancient woolen carpets
woven on the looms of Persia’s past,
colored geopatterns, an oasis spreading
over cold silica, Arabian desert sands,
all enclosed within a Sheik’s Bedouin tent.

All this land was mine,
east as far as the Indus River Valley,
west into the Mediterranean Sea,
south to Arabia and North Africa,
north to the hyperborean tundra.

No army could withstand my advance,
not Greek, not Persian, not Hindi,
even the Olympians stood back,
for the son of Zeus was invincible.

At last, I rested for a thousand nights,
being sent the daughters of once upon kings,
peace offerings and treaty inducements
of radiant maidens from all of my lands.

Under an umbrella of stars twinkling
within a vast sea of onyx blackness,
I ravished one maiden after another.

Arabian beauties with jet black hair
and deep-well eyes.
Fair-haired, Valkyries burning for the thrust.
Oriental princesses, moist furrows longing for the plow.
Endless pleasures had I and them,
but, each I sent away at orange morning’s dawn,
for none had been the One.

On the night of one and one thousand,
the night air was unusually crisp,
ones breath generating swirling clouds,
the desert wind had nothing to share this night,
so silent, one could almost hear the moonbeams
striking the silica sand.

I was lost in random thoughts
and heard not, her grand entrance,
but there before me, stood a maiden
wrapped all around in shearling fur.

I asked who she was,
she replied,

I am from the land
where the Dnieper River flows.

My first thought, was she an angel,
come to tempt my soul?
Or perhaps, she was death,
showing me that my fame was naught?

With pursed lips, she spoke,
as if she could read my mind,
words flowing like honey through
lips stained with red rose blush.
I am no more than a physician’s daughter,
though for you, I am your medicine.

Her hair, red-gold yarn,
framing her high cheeked face,
gleaming in the flickering lantern light,
seemingly forged by dwarfs deep
within some mythical mountain.

Her eyes, lime green irises,
like those of the cat-goddess Bast,
calling onto my secret name,
sweet words, pulling me
as the lodestone pulls iron.

Without a word or sound, this cat-goddess
let her fur slip to the floor,
standing naked before my eyes,
her virgin loins as a child’s,
nipples firm from lust, not cold.

Alabaster skin, untainted by imperfections.
Ripe for remodeling with a potter’s hands.

I asked her name, she replied,
I am yours, my love to be,
called by your heart’s deepest yearnings,
I am your Calliope.

Moving gracefully, as the cat she was,
she came to me, sparkling sunlight
moving on the surface of still water,
her skin was light itself.
She knelt in front of me, smiling,
her face radiant with love’s pureness.

She leaned forward, her lips near my ear,
her exhalations, warm and moist,
she whispered, her words compelling,
take me my lord, I am yours
as you are eternally mine.

Bringing her lips to mine,
her heart spoke to my heart and
I knew she was the One,
and I loved her for I remembered her.

When the orange desert dawn came once again,
Calliope I kept, for she had conquered
he who had conquered the world.