The Hollow Compasses
Our thirst is drying the distance
There are no longer silent streets
It is not our eyes that see God’s love
Time watches us like naked seeds
The liars are timing the truth
With blisters trapped in the strife
When knives of conceit divide us
Who will find our forgotten life?
The doubt we paint is always a prison
The dried-up light escapes last hail
The darkness sheds its poisoned voices
With hollow compasses we sail
The Empathy
Confused by the first frost
the summer ends . . .
The hollies I picked are voices of autumn
The wooden feet are limping
by the wooden fence . . .
When I have to run I walk
Each
where each corner of the earth
meets the edge of the sky
purring rain surprises young summer
as i touch every silver star
i glimpse a rainbow on me
Each mystery is an adventure
my feet touch a river
rolled to a scroll where each wave
like a runner passes me a waterlily
Each day the sifted seeds
hear the pulse
of the sun yawn
Each branch holds the hurricane
from running over me—
choosing love through the
moss of the youth
each limp is not felt like a lifetime
My Sight Cannot Wait for Me
I cannot stop holding my brush—
on the blank canvas I sign
With blindfolded balance I paint my own eyes—
Blue is the color of the mind
Do God’s footprints follow His footsteps
Nobody hears what I see
We cannot trespass our Creator
my sight cannot wait for me
The Planted Eyes
Love is my painting
Silent mountains suffer in pride
As wild spring blends the time
my breath searches heavenly mind
Blue wind surrounds the sleepy lilacs—
each sound is a sacrifice
I can hear God’s whitest whisper—
Thorns have cut my planted eyes
Many Lonely Paths
White roses of hope meet together
in the orchard of youth.
Straight path escapes the winding roads—
I leave home for the truth.
The names I’ll never know I can’t forget.
Is there someone to feel I’ll never see?
I cover a stranger with the first moment,
and blades of ages start sweeping through me.
Tension of battles keep wasting the truth—
the wounded fall on its broken shoulders.
The unfaithful faith can’t keep its own trust,
if priests still faint behind the soldiers.
I’m chained in my own prophecies—
I’ve lived so many lives in the past!
My birth was rescued from the crowds—
the light has many lonely paths…
Soon the Divine Love will finish time,
and the cross will be washed ashore…
When I’m called to return home,
cold swans will shiver by my door.
The Footsteps of Spring
I wake up with the same long yawn
I fell asleep—
impressionistic footsteps of spring
catch and melt the last snowflake.
The Horse
Wildflowers stumble among the weeds,
and they fall asleep dreaming the whole
spring about an odd blinking eye
across the half of the head.
Life Without a Leash
Yesterday’s promise is today…
When a storm arrives it is time
to nail a fence into our house.
Only for you the fence is open.
In the cold twilight you wait for me,
and as we cuddle we both sleepwalk—
My bed is full of you…
I Run—I Fall—I Dive—I See
Hiding in my own confession,
I connect to another puzzle like me.
When upside down I am unveiled by your grace—
I run—I fall—I dive—I see.
Let me go to your world where dreams are born—
everything that is real or made up.
Even when I am alone the time still passes,
but when I am with you, the time just fills up.
When wrongs hurt, indifferent trees bow down
to so many roads intertwined in a maze . . .
One of my eyelashes blinks without my permission—
thinking of you I fly so many ways . . .
Noticing one missing feather,
I find every shade of white I still could be.
So many ways you know me…
I run—I fall—I dive—I see.
The first and the last time I saw my grandmother Aldona from Lithuania for a month was when I was four. I still remember her smile and the words she whispered to me: “I believed in God all my life, but I was afraid to share it with my family and friends. Don’t repeat my mistake, Akiane. Share your faith with others. It will bring more happiness to you and to others. And never give up your passion.” Although my grandma had lived through war, death, famine, and sickness, she never complained about anything. I once had a dream that she died standing and with a smile. This poem is dedicated to her.
My Grandmother
When I want to think like my grandmother, I need her cane. I need her cane.
When I want to see a flower planted by a tree,
I need the rain—I need the rain.
When a porch can no longer hold her steps,
I need to carry her—I need to carry her.
When the stiff nights no longer bow, I need to bury her—I need to bury her.
When a ladder swings on a swing,
I need to climb—I need to climb.
When her crocheted linen scarf unravels,
I need the time—I need the time.
When her garden is filled with the skylarks,
I need to pray—I need to pray.
When the rest has no trust in the ground,
I need to stay—I need to stay.
The Raking
Next to rabbit holes,
around the wind-kissed blossoms,
summers are born to hatch eggs in the nest.
Again I am too slow watching the grass grow,
and the autumn again is here to rake me.
The Anthill Ashes
When life lies down on the song of a bird
I step inside the anthill ashes…
My cross
is nailed into me…
Again I Find the Winter
I cannot find any reason
to be in the snow.
As shadows of winter colors hold me
a breath of desire is so still—
The handmade cast molded
for eclipsed love is fading the prime…
Looking for summer in the falls of the spring,
again I find the winter.
It’s Not Too Late
Perhaps I wanted to catch it.
Perhaps not.
But one morning I wanted to paint the wings—
Too late—they flew away.
I wanted to paint a flower—
Too late—it withered.
That night the rain was running after me.
Each drop of rain showed one and the same face,
and it was everywhere.
I wrung out the love to make the red.
I wrung out the stumps to make the brown.
I wrung out the trust to make the yellow.
I wrung out my own eyes to make the blue.
I wrung out the leaves to make the green.
I wrung out the nightly pain to make the black.
I wrung out my grandmother’s hair to make the gray.
I wrung out my visions to make the violet.
I wrung out the truth to make the white.
Today I want to paint God’s face—
it’s not too late.
IT’S NOT TOO LATE
The Clematis Dream
We enter a meadow and play hide and seek.
We run so fast that sunlight cannot catch us.
Life seems longer when you jump in the grass.
Without the reins.
The vines of clematis seem to be planted in the air.
Should we grow up like that?
I gather the fallen petals, plant a seed bigger than the whole garden,
and water for two.
My brother slips and falls down on the dirt.
It is so foggy, no one sees him.
His muddy boots in the fog do not look so muddy after all.
When I run, my eyes are closed,
and I bump into the childhood tree with a hammock full of the clematis pollen,
where the hummingbirds land. And that is all I remember from my dream.
I am only a child, but I remember everything I need.
Everything I know is someone. Everything I think is someone.
Love was created to create.
Silence
With each silent mask,
with each silent way
silence can also be mistaken.
Sometimes dreams fall
like raindrops
from the very eye of the storm…
Holding onto the antlers of the spring,
like onto the spasms of the future,
I blow wild feathers in the wind.
With each silent mask,
with each silent way
silence can also be mistaken.
The Evening Swan
You need to cleanse and silence your eyes,
for dizzy prayer bounces off a wall.
All of your doubts land on a silent swan—
You need her love to catch you when you fall.
Brassy visions count each and every stone—
there are so many lives in this lonely womb.
When feelings are hungry mirrors
show different faces.
The only evening the swan
lands she looks for you.
The Dance of the Mind inside the White
As time climbs up a storm in a single breath,
stars stare strangely at us,
and laurels rest between twin winners.
Which world searches for us
while the dew drops gently roll down
our cobalt blue petals?
The Journey
Walking through a poppy universe,
I rattle the hourglass isles.
Where the time sings in the crossroads of hope,
I am a brush painting for miles.
Balancing myself on just one finger,
at first I think that everything is white.
From universe to universe I jump alone
just to find out that I’m still a child.
The Light-Bearers
The light from above
separates the waterfalls…
The berries fall into the salmon river—
the breeding season is long past…
The Freedom Horse
A wild stallion saddles the ebony sand
without missing a wave.
Every wave is a short serenade.
Every gallop is a purpose.
Tulilips
The motion of a child’s cry
is deeper than any emotion—
like an iceberg, it drifts away from home,
leaving the dreams of song landscapes alone.
Beneath a pulse of memory—
a journey of the tulilips.
The Summer Snow
Clouds move for miles,
but I cannot find the white in any other color.
Rescuing the blossoms from the summer snow,
suddenly I feel a touch.
Hope
The war in the soil.
The seeds are too young to fight.
But the guilty still feel no remorse.
Across the harvest of blades
improper desires wrinkle the childhood.
Without any cries and without any touch
the cradles are left behind.
Inside each fragrant branch
the pain of wisdom—
colors of love.
