Poetry

Clock

The old clock stands in the hallway’s hush, Its face a quiet moon of polished brass, Each tick a measured breath, each tock a blush Of time that slips like sand through an

Vodka

In a crystal glass the clear spirit gleams, A whisper of wheat, a silent stream, Neat or chilled, it warms the throat, A frosty kiss from Moscow’s note. Raise a toast to nights that

Pithy

Pithy verses, crisp as winter air, A flash of wit, a sharp‑edged glare, In fewest words the truth is spun— A jest, a truth, a thought, a pun. Each line a stone,

Rogue

Rogue In moon‑lit alleys where shadows conspire, A rogue wanders, heart set afire, Not bound by law nor the tidy decree, He dances on edges where wild spirits flee. His laugh is a crack in

World

The world turns slow, a sapphire sphere, Where oceans whisper in quiet tide, Mountains stand guard, ancient and austere, And forests breathe with verdant pride. From bustling streets to silent glades, Humanity weaves

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