February snow,
Crocuses and I make bold;
Time wears many coats
Of blossom, rays, rain, and ice,
Thus, my words will don them too.
Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
Category: poem
To Sweeten Bitter
Pain tasted bitter,
So, breath’s blades and sugar-canes
Spun honeyed braids of auric air.
Bitter and Sweet
Bitter and sweet,
Zest, pith and pip,
The sun on my back,
The tang on my lips,
In wide blue horizons
I silently slip,
In old cobbled streets
Where kind strangers live,…
Experience (#writephoto)
Experience I will not speak about the greens Painting the sky with varied hues, I will not draw rose thorns To try to show you Or talk of the riot Of violets and blues, Quietly, I will close my eyes And experience this with you, Where you walk unseeing Yet surely between soft lines Of…
Dream Wash Multiplex
Dreams, like water-coloured paintings, wash away when days are raining on one Mary Poppins pavement on another London street, children play sticks along the railing in grey sleet, mascara eye streak. Antonia Sara Zenkevitch first two lines prompted by Reowr again art piece by the same name:
Calling All Poets, Thinkers, and Writers
‘Under ashen skies, unknown lullabies’
Where could we take the line together?
The Rhythm
The ocean murmurs to the beach and all the grains of sand of each tide’s potent transience, listen; silt and shingle understand time tumbling through liquid hands, shipping news, travel plans, lost civilizations and then that next great, ingulfing wave expands beyond where you think it should, globes in grains, mumbles in wombs as…
40 Fragments
I cannot count them, these broken pieces of possibility.
But they haunt me, oh, days cantering by they do,
and I am whirlwind in a storm box,
High Street Quatern:
I know the high street’s doing great, Why would you require our custom? Don’t try to mend that broken lift, It’s forever since it broke down. I know your workers’ jobs are safe; I know the high street’s doing great, Why would you let me look inside? Bar all ‘disabled’ doors with crates. Make…
Out of Necessity (Prompted by Cubby)
A hero is born not from the laurels Of glory but from deep necessity, Each hero’s born in the midst of quarrels But rises above them to abhor ills, A sense of justice their actions instill, There’s no label for their identity; A hero is born, not from the laurels Of glory, but from deep…
Antonia Sara Zenkevitch 