Portrat with a Ladybug

Recent works

Fire in Appalachia
Ihre neues Leben
Late afternoon with moon

Family ties


Anger


This one is not finished yet. I let it dry (oil on canvas), and work on it a little bit now and again.

Morning

Yellow


Grass - yellow dog's fur
greets rare viewer in gray day.
Car horn yells at me.



a repeat:
Pink

Pregn'nt, sodd'n clouds carry
Low, brushing heads of red trees,
In row, like children's.

Spears of evergreens pierce them.
It rains. Warm as mother's milk.

looking through some old files

i have found a few old poems and stories. i am not ready to edit or share the stories. as for the poems, some of them are quite old, some are based on true, some on made up events, inspired by others.



darling,

until that conversation we had i felt i knew you somewhat.
after that, i felt i knew nothing, feared more and was a bit lonelier all about.

you weren't a close friend, nor a fiend, i admit,
but now and again by your light my day too was alit.

what i feared was not knowing if you saw clearly where i stood
and from where i looked, and if why i reacted was understood.

there never was a personal offense that i took - i took many, myriads of days ago
and didn't mind- was not pleased, but what i run on is not ego.

i value dogs, i appreciate camels, there isn't an ant that i'd step on without sorrow
but people are alive too. and i just don't expect them to have a hallo.

they can be noble, but they're dirty, cruel and ugly too
let’s not pretend that they are not also among us, and you

i've been bit without question, without warning or a remarque first,
so i know in this story yours is not side with angels either and without an angry thirst.

i took you for who you are, expressed my thoughts but that didn’t diminish love
it bit my heart quietly, and i regretted our sweet acquaintance couldn’t stay above.

so, can you see, until those conversations i felt i knew you somewhat.
after that, i felt i knew nothing, feared more and was a bit lonelier all about.



Borders

I went to Borders today.
The café was full of empty seats.
But that was fine
Since my heart was full.

It was Friday morning, so of course
The chairs were empty.
But the one you sat on
Was emptiest of them all.

Autumn, again

Autumn is here.
In street corners.
Sidewalks.
Leaves.
In windows and shops.
Everywhere.
Sky alone is still resisting.
No one gets to tell it what to do.

One od my freshly unfinished pastels

Morning

Pink

Pregn'nt, sodd'n clouds carry
Low, brushing heads of red trees,
In row, like children's.

Spears of evergreens pierce them.
It rains. Warm as mother's milk.

This scene from a month ago http://tetoviranosrce.blogspot.com/2008/04/each-one-of-these-late-gloomy-mornings.html is still with me. This morning I wrote it a haiku like poem posted above. If I want the flow I desire, first line has more syllables than the sounds they make, so the mathematical grammar (if such thing exists) would say 7-7-5 7-7. To me, however it sounds like 5-7-5 7-7. But that's the way I like it right now.

Night of Half-A-Camping Trip

He said he wanted to see the stars.
He wanted smores too.
So we came. But saw none.
Cabin was too dark, and sky a bit cloudy.
But smores with orange flavored chocolate were scrumptious.
Sticks crisply broke under our feet as we walked and collected them,
And then squeaked their last cry in fire…

And now I am sitting in the darkness,
In black-brown, musty cabin unused since last fall,
Feeling so isolated
(And what a night to get sick!),
Mosquitoes and flies my only companions.
(Even moths seem asleep.)

If I dare in this wet, cold feel of my abdomen I’d crave
A bathtub full of hot water.
Already. But I am separated 700 feet of sheer darkness,
A sleeping child, and three boxes of supplies
From my car
And a dream of tomorrow I do not intend to loose.
So I suppose it will just give us a reason to appreciate civilization on Sunday.

“Aaaah,” I told him,” Evening in Nature, at last!
Just the two of us, and trees, and birds, and… CARS!!!”
Indeed, throughout the night, the sound of seemingly meaningless, endless fly-like
Movement is dully intensifying and disappearing.
“But, mama,” he once told me,
“Maybe the fly is not flying heedlessly.
Maybe the fly is dancing.”

So tonight I sit in complete darkness,
With mosquitoes, flies and spiders,
and dull sounds of cars on hwy in distance,
But most of all at this moment in company
Of my last night’s dream.

More photos at
http://picsfromhereandthere.blogspot.com/2008/05/prince-william-forest-park.html

Yesterday's Haiku

Spring flowers dancing
In circles, furiously
With garbage and dust.

Such is life too. In circles
We dance, then dry out and die.

Explanation

Why I did everything I did, why I said and didn't,
I don't really know.
There are thousands of words and reasons
I can try to explain it with, though.

Life is a multiple choice question
where all the answers are correct
in percentages, like German traffic accident faults:
causes and effects more and less indirect.

Mirror

That world class photographer.

I observed it this morning, and it made no mistake,
except for excessive fondness.
It was a gentle lover,
soft lighting and a silent touch.

This morning

Sun washed cars reflecting blueness of the sky.
Birds chirping (even off my walls), monopolizing morning,
while my voice is getting lost.
Viral infection of spring
injected its silent stories into me.

Hibernation is over. Over! Over!!!
Indecisive winter of 2008., I am so over you!

Look! Life has texture again.
It's glossy,
and it's fuzzy,
and it's matt.
Rough, and soft like child's fingers.
Its fine threads weaving our dreams again.

Flowers on pillows.
Hay in her hair.
Pictures drawn by shadows and sun on curtains.
Full laundry basket smelling of cleanliness on the floor.
Wrinkles in sheets.
Wrinkles on our faces.
Wind chasing leaves over concrete.
Leaves moving slowly like mice,
uncertain of safety of the other side, across the street.
Fresh air ghosts moving silky fabric off the windows.

What a beautiful, good morning.

Darling, I miss you so.
It was so simply, indescribably good to see you again,
even if just in dreams.
And suddenly,
it seems to be enough.

It's much too personal to know
if rainbow in raindrop will glow
for every beholder, and will it be the same.
These words, gosh, they are and sound too lame.

Yet some simplicities do not grow old
and don't really get beaten by fresh and bold...

Yet we do prefer at least to see something new-
Yesterday's rain smells stale, give us some morning dew.

Still unfinished - Jos uvijek nezavrsen

... old pastel painting I was trying to finish yesterday. I will not give up, though. Actually I'm wondering about the background right now. I like the window, but the rest has to be low key not to mess up the portraits. And yet, something is missing.

... stari pastel koji sam pokusavala dovrsiti juce. Sto ne znaci da i necu. Zapravo se pitam kako da nenametljivo dovrsim pozadinu. Prozor mi se dopada, ali fali jos nesto.

A little something for Laloofah

We just went out and picked some blackberries in our neighborhood. I wish you were here, and that we could share them in reality. Today was our almost completely vegan day, with taboulah, brown rice with mushrooms and berries, and I thought of you. Thank you for the most precious of the gifts - your warm friendship, and for not giving up on me. A long time ago a beautiful lucky cloud from one of your photos brought us together for a moment, and look where we are now. :-)

last week - prosle sedmice

i did these drawings last week. i was away, and the only materials i had for the first couple of days were a simple ink pen, a pencil and a few sheets of computer paper. later i got a small sketchbook. but then it was time to leave already.

nekoliko crteza koje sam uradila prosle sedmice. nisam bila kod kuce, i jedini materijali koje sam imala su bili nekoliko A4 papira, crna hemijska i obicna olovka. onda sam dobila malu svesku sa papirom za crtanje. ali tad je vec bilo vrijeme da idem.

your portraits, dear ;-)

portrait of a lovely sea maiden, cute as a button.


portrait of a lovely sea maiden, running, scared.


portrait of a lovely sea maiden, bust.


double nude portrait of a lovely sea maiden.

Two portraits - Dva portreta

a new one (novi)

and an old one

i jedan stari

A bit tired of myself and my old songs
I think I'll lay myself off
And turn a new page
Whiter
Cleaner deeply
But on page 429
It looks rather like a printing error
Than a new beginning.

* page = month

Imprisoned in cage of life
we still occasionally dare
to open the unlocked door
and head to wherever hope leads us.
But heart conserved and entwined into our caged nests
and fear from return to a locked door one day
demarcates "the sane" from "the insane"
and holds tighter than cold metal.

Mint

I put my face into the flourishing mint plant
in the window,
and I closed my eyes...
There was so much love
in its soft carress
on my eyebrow, forhead, nose...
I opened my eyes
in the melting closeness.
And suddenly,
I understood.

Dreams falling apart - Razbijanje snova

Portrait of a young artist - Portret mladog umjetnika

I jedan stari crtez.

Stunned

I am stunned by beauty
Every single day
I will cry
And I'll die
But I won't throw the day
To the lions of the past
To the tigers of today
To my god of life
Of mercy
Of love
Of beauty
In everything and anything
For all and for one
I will pray

And who you be
To tell
That I fell
Who you be
To judge
If I ought to budge

I fell many times
Yes
And it hurt
Oh mother did it hurt
I crawled and I cried
But I also smiled
And I laughed to tears
And lived in silence of the prey

And even if I didn't get up
There are always
Lions of my past
Tigers of my today
And most of all there's a bird in my heart
The flight that cannot be denied

So who you be to tell
What I am, I shan't and what I shell?

p.s. Sound is a bit better on this one http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCy8-o-mBdU&feature=related , however embedding was disabled.

Twisted Tale

On a big farm in a land of freeze called Wisconsin there lived mother, father and a daughter. Mother got sick (and tired!) of farm and house work, so she wrote a farewell letter and moved to West Virginia where she found a pleasant job in a coal mine. She promised she'd be back now and again to see her girl, but had to try to make herself happier elsewhere.
When she read the note, daughter cried many salty tears, which father quickly collected and cooked on stove, turning them into valuable salt, for they were a “no nonsense/no waste” kind of a family of German background.

Now, little Wisconsina was a fine girl, but she just didn't know a thing about cooking. After a long year of solitude and stomach problems, father heard of this healthy widow downtown, who could bake best cakes you could imagine. Of course, she did have two daughters, of which you couldn't tell which was uglier and which was meaner, but poor man was lonely and hungry, so he decided to marry her.

At first everything seemed to work out just fine. But then two stepsisters got really really jealous of Wisconsina, who happened to be quite a good looking young woman. The evil stepmother, in order to please her daughters, made up a story about Wisconsina keeping the family up crying all night long, and kicked her out to sleep in barn.

Poor Wisconsina. But then again, she had more fun and love sleeping on hay, surrounded by cows, chickens and turkeys than with the mean stepmother and stepsisters. So every day when she finished the housework for the family, she’d retire to her barn, and having nothing to do, she milked the cows, and learned to make cheese.

Mean sisters laughed at her, saying that people who eat and make cheese stink, and that from that time on her name would not be Wisconsina any more, but Cheeserella. You see, they only liked to eat brownies, cookies, chocolates and cotton candy.

Cheeserella didn’t mind her new name or job at all actually. That is, she didn’t, up until she overheard her sisters reading their junk mail, and one of the letters was an invitation for all women in the country to a presidential wife seeking campaign party. For a good president needs a good and prosperous wife in order to represent his country and its values right.

Cheeserella, that brave girl, started to dispair. She just knew that she had to tell him her ideas about prosperity and good business. But she didn't even have a dress to wear to the party, so she couldn't go. And who would look at her in her apron and a cheese cloth dress under it? Certainly not Mr. President.
But on the day of the party, Cheeserelly's godmother who worked at J.C. Penny's departant and rental store happened to stop by to see how that poor child was doing. Seeing her so miserable, she came up with an idea - if Cheeserella could return a dress from the store by midnight, since that was all she could afford to pay for, her godmother would bring one from the store.

Cheeserella made it to the party, met the president, told him all about potential of production of cheese in land of freeze as passionatelly as she felt about it. But she had to leave by midnight, as planned. So when the clock rang twelve, she run off. She did accidentally lose one of her slipers, and the president, who fell head over heels for wise little cheese maker, used it to find her. He looked up and down through the land of freeze until he found her again, and made her his Mrs. President. And the land of freeze got a new name too: the Land of Cheese.

Cheeserella regularly went to see her mother and father on holidays, and organized big gatherings for family and friends. Her two stepsisters however got so consumed with vengeance and envy, that they never came. In their pain they started to eat even more sweets to help them soothe their anger, and lived heavilly ever after. Soon they couldn’t do a thing but lie in their rooms, eating more candy and watching TV, yelling scornful comments whenever they saw pretty Mrs. Cheeserella President on it, who developed her business to a world wide level, and was pronounced the Queen of Cheese.

Near by golf club, Nov 11.

another old one

'90

Autumn

Autumn


Leaves are yellowing again.
Inevitably, everything changes.
Time's sliding down our skin.
And what, in all that, have I done?

Another thought, another happiness,
sorrow, another day, another night,
perhaps a sleepless one...?

Some wonder!

So, forest became more beautiful again.
So, gold and blood it spilt over the world....
And where, where, tell me, where is it going?
And it arrived to - what?

In same direction, in new nuances
of this charade in which only love
and laughter, unaware and children make complete sense.
And that is all...-that?

Well, that gift of life is everywhere.

It's up to us just to unwrap it
and say thank you!

And a new one

Though there probably will be some changes on this one.

A couple of old pieces I found in Bosnia. They date probably back to '90 or '91.

.

Rumi

In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.

You dance inside my chest,
Where no one sees you,

But sometimes I do, and that
Sight becomes this art.

My father probably knew-
He saw me looking at the moon.
I saved it hid it preserved in silence
Of needless words
And common living.
Enjoyed observing
And toying.
Today it wishes to come out,
And I know now that the end is beginning.

My father probably knew-
He cried his tears on the inside too.

Portreti

Reverse

Reverse

I parked in reverse
to look at trees
while speaking with you,
Words small and big,

while they poured
from your heart to
my ears,
like water in well they hummed
to my thirsty soul,
my darling.

I live in reverse
ever since I've known you.

And nothing yours is empty to me,
a breath, nor a sigh...
Your voice is murmur of a spring-
it takes me to labyrinths and forrest paths,
it takes me astray...
It calms everything in me
and puts it in its place,
and refolds.

I parked in reverse
to look at trees
while you're kissing me

with syllables broken and entangled

I'm mixing days and nights.

(as for the date and place of this one, it was a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away)

Guarding

Guarding

I, who always was afraid,
paranoid, terrified,
at night to be alone,
locked doors, prepared traps and obstacles
for possible intruders,
today am not afraid of anything.
In peace I lie down at night,
like I never did,
and feel that you are guarding us
from the other side of the planet
better than any german shepard,
armored vehicle, uzi, or a team od special forces.

Bosona

Bosona

For thirty two summers I walked in this world,
With large burden and misery heavied,
I walked in white, in wide, in black world,
I walked too bravely, unimportant and unknown,
With soul by stars to sky riveted,
Bleeding long, slowly and heavily,
Falling and rising again,
For a crumb of peace and a drop of beauty beggin'.

And at the end of that, that
beautiful, that terrible, that nauseating, that wonderful
world
I found that my illness carries
her name.

Words

Words are only just words.
They touch.
They move.
They dig out.
And dig in.
Words. Those self-satisfied bitches.
That trap of human mind.

Don't cover my paths with gold,
nor with rose petals.
I prefer a mouth full of soil,
that carries life.

I prefer color that licks me like a dog's tongue,
faithfully and tenderly,
without too many explanations.

I prefer one little hand on my back
that kisses the soul
and laughter that shatters like bells into
thousand pieces, and lights day and night,

even if they die when my breath stops,
than to them, pretenders and liars with potential
to tell the truth like clock that has stopped,
to search the meaning forever.

Spring

Spring

Each year it comes
at a different time
Moodily and tender
Pink and snowy
White
Rainy
Blue-skied
And common-eyed
green-eyed
And green-legged.

At times I waited long and impatiently
Like for a beloved person after a long aloneness.

This year it came without me.
I woke up one day
And looked.
And saw.
Winds didn't whisper secrets to me.
Robins didn't color the nests.

Or perhaps, I just didn't hear them.

spring 2006.

Walk

A Walk

We went for a walk that day
You and I,
You, lovely as you always are,
We walked and we breathed.
Your smile and our youth colored the roses
And the sky and the cobblestone road

Forgetting who we are
And where we were going,
Smiling in peace and beauty of our young souls,
Darling you,
Sister by heart.

We walked up on the hill as we heard a thump,
Distant and dull.
It was a good time to jump.
It was a good time to hide.
But where,
Where from ourselves,
Sister,
I remember thinking.

And then we stood,
As a cloud of dust raised above the crash down the road just bellow us.
Mesmerized,
Hypnotized,
Not unlike the person that now lied underneath the dust,
Not quite knowing whether we’re dead or alive.

We better go now,
We said, lightheaded and stupefied by yet another thump,
Like walking on clouds, dreamily
We left,
Not sure if we should kiss good bye now,
take a harder look at each other,
Or just pretend to be all right.

I walked away down one
And you went down the other side of the hill

And sets of stairs that zigzagged almost to your home.

Another thump.
Another boom right behind me.
One in front,
And one to the right.
I bent my neck, tucked my head deeper down,
Thinking quickly and clearly,
Remembering the moment,
How no rules apply now.
I dared not to run
Because destiny is not something you can run from.
I dared not to sit or hide,
Because…you know, apply the verse from above.

I walked on, just as dreamily as before,
As if I could trick a grenade into not noticing me,
Crossing a tiny bridge made of boards,
And metal construction around a long quiet steam hose,
That used to hiss and smoke and defrost the biting winter air,
I went on,
With head and step calm and calculated,
And made it home
Just in time to hear the name of the man that lies today under the clear sky,
A bouquet of roses
And no more dust clouds,
And that tomorrow will lie in a much darker home.
And it all won’t matter any more, at last.

2005.

So many times I was heavied with other existences in me, and hurt.
And yet,
I kept starting over with a smile.
It's a bravery, isn't it.
It's stupidity.
Isn't it? Isn't it.
Humanity only perhaps.

Skin on my hands, it's smooth and yellowish.
Lovely, isn't it.
Red blood flowing in them, yet my veins look so green.
It's like a mist of my soul,
rewarded with thorns from flowers I received for trying so hard.
With thorns, but with flowers too.
I thank them for that love.

I am so small
under the yellow chalk of faded board of late afternoon sky
and moon's profile hanging on it as a senseless decoration.
So small I am.
How many existences is every grass blade hiding?
Or a flower?
And is it hurt by its' beauty?

It's easier to smell to everyone's taste sometimes,
than to save a special scent for some
and risk that they
close their noses to it.
Isn't it? Isn't it.

1995.

When you decide to speak about years that disappeared,
Please, don’t mention me!
No one should know hopelessness in you the way I did.
Don’t speak about distant coasts I connected like an ocean.
Be silent
Like you were to me.
And hope
That they will not dig through your insides
Like through an unknown cave
Like I did.
And I will sometimes shed a tear
Onto the bread that you will not eat
And shirt that you will not wear,
Like I kissed them before.

When you decide to speak about the years that are gone,
Don’t mention me!

'93 or '94

Everyone’s soul is crippled with its own burden.
And ennobled.
I knew people and dreams.
They laughed.
At me and my castle of life, smiles and mud.
But what does that matter when their soul
With pain was only crippled.

To everyone their castle:
From wicker, mud or brick,
From gold or from rock.
And to me mine:
Sky above it is cut open and red,
The soil below cold and grateful-
It caresses my steps.

I'll bow my head and kiss it.
Open my arms and embrace
Sky, earth, creatures and dreams.
I will open the door,
And they’ll be accepted
By my castle of laughs and mud,
That castle of my life
That I will offer.

Everything is possible.
Everything is possible.
A wounded heart awakens mind.
Of course dust will fall on some memories.
On some small words.
On some heavy words.
As it should.

As if throwing ice in fire,
steaming ashes will remain for a while.
And soul will smell by disappointment.

And of course that goal worth while can swallow the pride.
And it can swallow reasoning.
Half life perhaps.
Strength perhaps.

But not the awareness when it was all in vain,
Nor scream, nor silence that comes after it.
Because the empty space still has a transparent shape of that which left.
And heart is like a small animal that doesn't forget easily,

Since everything is possible,
In this world everything is possible.
1993.

No Name Poem

I have nothing to say.
A long time ago words were said
That meant something
And they were the first.
All others are just useless mourning of reality,
And not singing.

I have nothing to say,
And this, what I am saying now,
Is not a poem,
These are not words,
It’s just my futility.

I am fed up.
I’m fed up with big words,
Finished things, unhappy endings and great beginnings.

Breath I am breathing
And lips I am kissing
Are equally hot.
And I crave for water,
And air,
And sun,
For common words,
And common things,
And common people.

I’ve had enough.
Enough of magnitudes, of elevated feelings,
Of idiots, poets, warriors, bumpkins,
Intellectuals, oh god, Intellectuals for sure.
I want some common humanness, and jealousy.
I’ve had enough.

Enough of death and blood and sweat
Enough of all that terrible scent.
Oh, great human evil, and cheep goodness just as well,
I am fed up with you!

I have nothing to say.
A long time ago words were said
That meant something
And they were the first.
And this is only my futility.


1992.

Story About a Wild Rose

This is a story I wrote several years ago on my son's request. He frequently asked and still asks me to make him new stories and poems, and I do, sometimes with his help. However, it is easier to tell a story than to put it on the paper. This one suffered several versions and corrections, and I am still not satisfied. It does have one of life's lessons that sometimes comes with youth. I hope that those of you who didn't read it in earlier versions will enjoy it. I'd appreciate any corrections and comments to this, as well as to any of my writings.
Thank you! I hope you are having a heavenly day.

Story About a Wild Rose

Once upon a time, in a meadow behind a forest, a little rose was born. It was a wild one, but nevertheless lovely. She created a fine scent around her, as fine as that of a grown flower.
"Oooh,” she sighed. "It feels so good to open my eyes at last and see the world. I thought I'd never wake up from that boring dream. “
Did that ever happen to you in your sleep, that feeling like your eyes are glued together, and though awake, you couldn’t open them, no matter how hard you tried? Well, it happened to me, and surely, that is exactly how she felt.

As summer moved on and sun shone brighter the fragile little bud grew into a beautiful flower. More and more animals were attracted to her each day. Ants, lady bugs, caterpillars, warms, birds, animals small and big walked around her, smelling her, and even taking a bite. Fortunately, she didn’t taste as well as she looked, so they soon gave up on that. But they still came almost every day, sometimes just to talk and have fun with sweet little flower, who had a kind word for everyone. Those kind words served to protect her better then the thorns that only just started to grow on her stem.

Soon a lovely bird appeared among the visitors. The colors on his wings were beautiful, feathers clean, and his velvety black neck had a blue shine. He soared high up in the sky and dived down to the bushes, and fluttered around, and spoke just as flatteringly as he looked.
“My dear”, he would say:” You are the prettiest little flower around. And, believe me, I know this world well. It really is a shame for a beauty of your kind to be wasted among the common creatures like these,” he said showing her meadow, forest and animals around them. “Your beauty is a talent, you know. You deserve better audience. But, not to worry, dear, not to worry! From now on, I will be here to remind you of how deep the red of your petals is, like the sky in dusk above far seas (and I have seen many, oh, yes, that’s for sure!). And just how pleasant your scent is! Why it’s as good as the best French perfume! And I will be here, above all, to beautify you even more. Songs will be made about us!”

Little by little our wild rose became vain and full of self-admiration. From that time on, she rarely spoke to anyone. From day to day, she reserved her charm and smiles only for that bird, no matter how kindly or hard the others tried.

The summer didn’t wait though, and as it moved toward it’s end, the flower, her head too full of hopes and dreams of the fame to notice, started to shed a petal now and again.
Then one day, the bird didn’t show up. Rose waited patiently, confident of the bird’s return.
By came a lady bug, and said:
”Hey, little rose! How are you? Look what I found. It’s a dandelion seed. Would you like to play? Perhaps the others will join us too. And then we can make a wish and send it off.”
“Thank you, but no”, said the flower.” I am too busy waiting for my best friend. He will be here any moment now. And, by the way, would you please move from there! That is his very favorite spot.”
And so, the lady bug went away.

A few ants passed by. They felt sorry for the foolish flower, so they offered her some sweet pie crumbs. But the rose turned them down too. Not that she could use a pie crumb. But some company she surely could.

Another time a bee stopped by and said:
”Hello! I am a worker bee. You probably didn’t notice me, but I saw you before. I work in this neighborhood, just right there on that clover. I have a job proposition for you. You and I, you see, we could produce honey together. You can give me pollen, and I can hive it. We could make ourselves useful, and have fun while doing it. I think we would make a great team!”
And do you think the flower would accept it? Not a chance.
“Me, work? Make honey? No, thanks! I have no time for dull kitchen jobs. I have a far more important task, like making world more beautiful by my appearance and scent. And in that, my friend bird is of far more use. Now, move, please! You are blocking my view.”
And so, the bee went away too.

Several days later, our rose, her petals now completely gone, still patiently waiting for that mischievous bird, overheard a couple of rain worms who were passing by talking. They were whispering:
“What a shame, and what an ugly sight! And not a trace of lovely flower she used to be!”
“But dear,” said the other rain worm: “that is why that bird left, don’t you know?”
“You don’t say!” said the first one, as they disappeared behind a rock. “That’s what she gets for being so vain. As vain as an empty carnation!” were the last words rose heard before their voices completely disappeared.

Oh, how sad, and desperate, and lonely she felt! “What a fool I was,” she shrieked. “How terribly I’ve wasted my life! Why couldn’t I just listen to those who were there and cared for me from the time when I was just a helpless bud still without thorns?”
But to no avail. Useless were those words now, when time for sleep has come, and for long winter’s nights. The sound of her sobs was dying away slowly deep into the autumn rains, and then from under the snow until it finally stopped.

Forest and meadow became still and quiet places, and except for some wild geese in search for food, not much was going on. All animals buried themselves into warmth of their caves, fox holes, tree trunks and cocoons. Only the strongest among the plants and trees survived and hummed their winter tune with the howling winds.

But as everything in this world comes to an end, so did the winter. The snow melted into water, which murmured in little creeks down the paths, recreating life with the help of sun.
Before long, a rose bud, in the same bush on the edge of the forest, it’s shy green head still unopened, appeared again. Insects and birds and all living things returned. Bees were buzzing. Ants collected the crumbs and bits of food, creating their network again throughout the meadow. Deer cautiously passed by now and again, their beautiful eyes and soft moist noses always alert and observant.

Slowly, bud began to awaken:
”Oh,” she said in disbelief.”What a beautiful day! This must be only a dream! Or, could it be that I got another chance? I am alive again? Oh, what a relief. I thought that my life was over forever. And, how terribly I behaved! Even if I never woke up again, it would be very destiny that suits my ignorant self! What a lucky flower I am!” she said humbly to herself.

This year, the rose grew even stronger and prettier. Also, she began to speak, and very kindly too, and sing, and play with other creatures and plants again. And they accepted her apology.
That made her very happy. She made small beds on her leaves in shade for the tired ants to relax there. She invited bees to a party as soon as she had produced some pollen, and asked that very same bee she turned down last year to work together now. And she didn’t mind an insect bite here and there either.

Just then, someone else returned too. Who else, but the pretty flatterer bird! All the other creatures stopped what they were doing, curious to see what would happen.
“Ohm, wild little frieeeend,” he was chirping. “This year you are even more beautiful then the prettiest cultivated rose. This year for sure I will turn you into a star.”
“Thank you, bird! But, I am kind of busy at the moment and don’t have time for chatting, so, would you please move a little? You are blocking my sunlight, and I really need it to be able to produce more pollen.”

“Produce pollen?” said the bird. ”I always suspected that you were just a common, usual, boring little wild flower. A bird of my qualities should never have bothered with a simpleton like you. And now involved in food industry? Why, that just does it!” he exclaimed as he fluttered away.
“Oh, what a nuisance!” said the flower, and smiled at its friends. The sound of laughter and sighs of relief resumed.

Just then, someone noticed more tiny green buds coming out of the same bush. How very happy our wild rose was to discover new brothers or sisters. Because, now she really understood the importance and joy that comes from love and sharing. She would make sure to tell them the story of a self-conceited bird and a silly little flower that got fooled by his flattery.

Just some old children's poems

Babies

Everyone is someone’s baby,
Even your mom and dad.
So when someone calls you a baby
Try not to get mad.

Everybody cries sometimes,
Even your grandma and granddad.
So when someone calls you a cry-baby
Try to keep cool and not turn chilly pepper red.

We all get scared sometimes,
And we sometimes get angry too.
So just remember these rhymes
Next time you don’t know what to do.

We all make mistakes
At one time or another.
Just count to ten and think of chocolate cakes,
And don’t let that be a bother.

Also remember that you are perfect
Just the way you are and were,
So don’t worry too much if you sometimes
Get in trouble here and there.

There are people who will love
You no matter what.
But please try harder next time,
And give us some respect for that.


Last year O. had to find words that rhyme with fall for one of his homeworks. Here's what we did:

The Troll in Fall

Once upon a time
There was a little troll,
Who only liked summer
And really hated fall.

So one year he decided
To go to near by mall
To find someone tall
To help him make a call

To a meteorologist, who
Could make the weather roll
Back to a summer
From this very fall.

But as soon as he walked
Into the mall hall
Screaming, yelling started,
And people did make a call,

A call to police department
To: "Get that troll
Out of our mall!"

Police came immediately
And yelled to the troll:
“Put your hands on the wall!”

He tried to explain:
“I only wanted fall
To go away,
So I could play
Again with my ball

You see, when it is hot
I can play with my ball
In pools, on grass, in forest,
And also in my underground hole.”

Police would not listen,
But someone else did crawl
Between their feet and jumped out
Right in front of that troll.

“Don’t worry, troll,”
He said :”and happily go to your hole!
Because in November,
When leaves from trees fall

We make here quite a ball.
We all line up right here
Against that very wall,
In our best clothes, dear friend troll.

Our cooks bring pumpkin pies
And our very berry jelly roll.
We bring it and we share it
With creatures big and small.

We dance and play and celebrate
The coming of the fall.
And after fall comes winter
When you CAN make a ball.

You take some snow,
And then you roll it, roll, roll, roll.
Now there's a ball that's super fun,
And it’s called a snow ball.
You can make it into a snow man,
Which is so fun to do for all.

So don’t you worry, little troll,
You’ll realize that fall
Is just as fun as summer
And playing with your ball.”

The troll smiled, and then he said: “Sorry that
I scared you by coming to your mall.
Now I will go in peace
And wait for November in my hole.

Then I will come to your ball
To celebrate our fall.
Thank you, thank you, little boy,
And I also thank you all!”



Moods


Sometimes I get cranky
Because the day has not been nice
‘Cause mama didn’t let me have candy,
And I first had to eat veggies and rice.

Sometimes I get cranky
Because I hate to stay at home-
And I wanted to check the playgrounds,
From here all the way to Rome.

Sometimes I get upset
Because we have to go to store
Because of things I never need,
Like bread and cheese. Oh, what a bore!

In the end, I must admit,
Even on rainy, busy days,
Mom and dad will find some time to
Wrestle, snuggle, kiss,
And play with me, always! Always!

Welcome.

This blog was created with hope that some day it will become my small virtual world and space, in which I wish to introduce my words and artwork, just an honest record of one among billions of others, a world and a home with door wide open to visitors, for conversation and exchange of views on life, arts, or whatever concerns us at the moment. As such, this blog is a diary of one may child, a may day in itself as a symbol of rebirth and change, as well as an S.O.S. and mayday - an invitation for openess, communication and human touch we seem to lack more and more today. I will maintain this side in English, and on my profile page and links, you can find my equivalent page in Bosnian, as well as a few other of our family links.

To all passers by I wish a pleasant visit, and a wonderful day and life upon leaving.

With love,

Merima Hopkins.
6/11/2006