A Bowl With Tears

Silently, nimbly, effortlessly,

Inkpen with thin ending

Gently scratching and sketching the feelings,

at the bottom of nothing

of the bowl of tears.

Full, complete, beautiful,

and nothing more to say,

drop by drop collection from the falling rain.

Bottomless bowl

with a sieve ending of scratches

endless collection let’s say.

Full, completely full and prstine

small lake in a rounded palm,

Settled, calm and quiet like a falling rain.

Looking again in that mirror

I see my heart,

washed again and again,

washed and empty with pain.

Irina Kassabova

Spill

Spill, the imprint from the bottom of the cup of coffee

on my brown working jeans.

dust particles fallen,

remind me of Horton,

something fragile

I am not going to say “we are” or what 'n' where,

as if my favorite coffee spills will vanish forever.

White dust from my dusty hair,

something dies, something revives...        

Another spot, a spill, I don't know

from what and where, a little bit darker-

concentrated, listen carefully.

My eyesight is moving down further inside,

down the road, the brown on my cloth-covered leg.

White flowers on a black grass,

I reached my soul and my socks on flowers on the bottom.

Something makes me more sensitive,

feeds the air- the rhymes.

The spill, half circle of japanese brush,

something spontaneous like a wash,

squishing in the brown background

of the cinnamon shade of the rust,

is whispering something velveteen.

Chestnut, brown, red wood, burnt umber.

My coffee is hot forgotten

on some of my spots at home.

Some bitterness...

Washing machine rumbling,

quiet invisible voice.

The poetry is over.

The spills, they disappeared.

Irina Kassabova

Craquelure

(About a Violin)

Dark dye

Varnish viscous

Dry paint

Underneath

Smooth the surface

Second time

With dye

Layers ties

Dull color

Ancient call

Layers, secrets

Craque the code

Irina Kassabova