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Autumn Rose

There’s still a flower that tends to whisper
A fragrant sweet and soft goodbye,
Only for those close enough to give
The fathoms deep, rows to reap,
Nose of longing citrus fruit,
With ties to ancient clay and root…

For those that dare to stop and smell,
And close their eyes and dare to tell,
“Dear heart come with me,
Let me show you how I see,
Stand here still, and better yet
Plant your feet and take a bow,

Close upon this blossom bounty
Bound but once, and now all free.
Take it in. Slowly, purely.
Take it in. Wholly, only.
Take it in. Now, be.”

And nothing but faint memories
Seem to wash upon the shores of mind:
Abuelita tends the roses
And fills the water for the birds.
Crystal rainbows table tops
Crochet patterns rosary beads.

And once again sweetness fills…
“Another breath, my dear, please!
In so sweet a world, a rhyme,
Wash away another time!”
Although smiling eyes and laughs do linger,
My mortal feet feel the dirt once again.

So I relive the days gone by
Basking in my memory.
And beneath the dirt where roots grow,
Between the throes of sweat and dew,
Where winter’s winds begin to blow,
The gift becomes an Autumn Rose.

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The Forest For The Trees

To Spring, on Shakespeare’s Birthday

Within the boughs of winter-laden trees,
Hardened with kinetic proof against time,
From ancient earth to root through trunk to leaves
Lies life’s invisible resilient climb.

Bubbles or spears bursting with tender life,
Hard-packed or fuzzy-soft in yellow green,
Patiently adorn winter’s deadened strife
Joining conifers, on gray boughs, serene.

In their due time they fill the forest full
Bearing solar brunt, cooling underneath,
And teaching us to go from push to pull,
Through tempest pain there’s always more than grief.

Through winter storms and all the season’s rest,
We must needs give to all our very best.

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Poem for the Pinyon Pine Cone

Piñon/Pinyon Pine by MVS in
Joshua Tree National Park

Remnants of the swirl of life
To wayward calls and winds of strife.

To connect within the life of one
And pollinate a likely sum,

There is in time of sun and rain
A slowness to the grain of strain,

Where scaly sap evaporates
And long stored water transpirates

To allow for reproduction
Akin to bio-conduction,

Passing signals along the line
Of ancient wisdom’s space and time.

Hold on tight and then open wide
Unafraid of this time to hide.

Hold tight, hold true, still, open wide,
Unafraid of this time to just abide.

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Poem for the Quarantined

Even as the sun with hot colored face
Beams heavy down on trees and building tops,
I only can feel a refractive trace
From earthen bricks with bright metal glass pops,
While thoughts wielding wildly across divides
Shake me to the core in a fear that tides.

People ’cross the world on the internet
Feeding fear’s fuel are fanning the fire,
While also stockpiling and hedging bets
Against each other and what’s to transpire,
When all we need to ensure existence
Is perhaps a little social distance.

The things we have that haven’t been cancelled,
Like conversations through technology,
Could be refreshing and new, a handselled
Awaiting the wave of virology,
‘Til when the curve of infection flattens
And it’s safe to go out in Manhattan.

So pump up the jams on your favorite tunes
And dance around in your kitchen tonight.
Love isn’t cancelled on screen to screen croons.
Your heart can beat through the wickedest fright.
Take care of yourselves and of each other,
Old or young, neighbors, like one another.

Precedence predicts the ups and the downs
While some things will remain a mystery,
But when we all are measured pound for pound
Our presence will go down in history.
So sing lullabies for the quarantined
And breathe slow and deep for the unconvened.

Even as the sun sets and the sky darkens
I hope you have enough to be grateful.
May your light shine until the law harkens
Us back together — a time less fateful.
May your heart be full of hope this springtime
Like tree bud blossoms expectant to climb.

©Michael Vitaly Sazonov 2020

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Freestyle lines while driving through Gettysburg on Memorial Day Sunday…

Driving through Gettysburg

To the north of me the rain clouds gather

And the storm is headed this way,

But the sun shines over Gettysburg.

The darkening gray turned black clouds

start to swirl and envelop the sky,

And the road is a gray bubbling saucer

Where puffs of smoke exude.

The skies over Gettysburg peel open a layer of sadness that embraces these hallowed fields,

Where celeste skies reveal puffs of cirrus white feathers,

With sunshine for ink like clouds rewriting history.

I think on the men, women, and slaves that fought to keep this country beating,

To keep its heart pounding,

They gave so much of themselves,

An unlikely transfusion,



Transcendent Moment in this young country’s fettered past.

And so much of what divided this country

still divides this country now.

What shared experiences,

What shared cultural tendencies,

What shared endeavors, adventures, proclivities

Do we as Americans possess?

What do we share besides the earth which we take for granted, the skies which we rebel against in our heights for lofty glory,

Mother nature who we depend on but don’t ever thank,

What makes us?

What makes us so unique, what makes us so different, what makes us so much better or worse than any other person on this earth?

What is it that truly defines us, not as a citizen of the world but a human being as well?

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Lines on seeing the first leaves of the Gingko

Gingko standing tall in the heat of the morning light,

premonitions falling ‘round when you meet the thing that’s right.

And the thing that feels so good is different than what you should,

or what you would, or what you could if the timing were only good.

The thing that calls you forth from moments of blasé,

demigod-like struggles between you and what they say

is worth pursuing when it could be your undoing,

what you feel inside your heart that never quite backs down,

from the passion that you seek, when you’re measured pound for pound.

For when your soul is tested and you feel like giving in,

there’s the little voice inside you that will always wanna win.

The voice that doesn’t even know, how to drive or how to thrive, but the voice when given purpose is what makes you most alive.

So take care of curiosity, and your sense of play,

do not lose your sense of wonder, and don’t listen to what they say.

Reach out to those who love you, and you better love them back,

we all need one another and that’s a secret fact.

So as these darling buds appear to pop and buzz and flutter,

let their resilience meet our own brilliance,

and let our hearts join together to help out one another.

May this Springtime bring us new rhymes,

as we first climb,

to the top of our own mountains.

Let us see the cordillera, la cadena en la frontera,

as we raise our own bandera, and dance in our own manera,

but never losing sight, of the loneliness of night,

when there’s no one left to turn to, and you don’t know what to do,

when there’s trouble on your mind, or the mounting stress of time,

when there’s peace you cannot find, and you’re anything but fine.

Dig deep and stand tall, don’t forget to write and call,

the friends you have collected in times of happiness,

are ones that become tested when your life becomes a mess.

Look inside and ask yourself, “Am I a light for someone else?”

Who do others turn to when they need a helping hand?

Can they even turn to me when their push turns to demand?

So as this morning sight takes a hold of my delight,

my prayers are with those whose world is full of fright.

May they know the blood inside them is not one to run and hide when

there’s a hitch in the plan or a fork in the road,

may we all learn to rest, in the peak of all the stress,

and preserve under duress, live to love and measure less.

May we see these ancient trees and worry a little less,

to know nature all around us knows the key to happiness.

Build roots and stay strong, live life and stretch long,

keep the flow of dance and song inside, it’s not wrong.

Keep playing and take the time to enjoy all the climb,

because you aren’t the only mountain on this stretch of borrowed time.

Shine when you can, in truth and happy wonder,

and look outside yourself when you feel that life’s a blunder,

not to point the blame at others,

but to think if I had my druthers,

I would have it this way and that way, and not any other.

Keep the hope alive, for a Spring when you can thrive,

keep the hope alive, for a Spring when you can thrive.

Keep the hope alive, for a Spring where you will thrive,

keep the hope alive, for a Spring where you will thrive.

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Lines on seeing the first buds of a Climbing Hydrangea

Yet some trees are fully blooming

These green buds are justly moving

With a spearheaded beginning.

My eyes are soothed and start their grinning.


Crocuses and daffodils

Are piercing through the sun kissed hills.

While sunshine on my window sills

Warms my face, my heart is filled.


As I enjoy these throes of Spring

These leaves appear like golden wings,

All fuzzy with anticipation,

While I buzz in supplication.


I have drunk all April showers

And have felt my rooted hours,

Let me open like these flowers

Unafraid of all my powers.

Posted in ART, Uncategorized

Lines after Joan Miró, Salvador Dalí & On Kawara

Su estilo y imaginación, 

aparecen en la conversación 

de impresionantes románticos 

sangrado de las guerras cuánticos, 

sobreviviendo entre épocas 

de diplomáticas y déspotas. 


El asunto de la memoria 

sobre la pista de desintegración, 

se constituye a participación 

de la humanidad pendiente 

y la naturaleza persistente. 


Con que podemos ayudar al Gran 

Orden de las cosas que ya están? 

Con nuestros manos tan inútiles 

como líneas tan delgadas para 

pintar al cielo tan inmenso. Ah? 


Ojalá podemos aguantar al lío 

tan opresivo y ilusorio, 

a un día bailar con el viento del 

invierno sin cuita, sólo saber 

que ya vendrá la primavera 

tan dulce. Ya vendrá el verano de dolor. 


Pues bailamos sin duda que aumenta la vida. 

Y pintamos con óleos prestados. 

Si no en realidad, solo en la imaginación. 

Pero anda, ya vaya, que haces aquí?  

Bueno vayamos juntos hasta allá.


Vayamos juntos hasta allá.

Posted in ART, Uncategorized

Sonnet on a Ginkgo Leaf

Through the strains of these veins, water did flow.

Nutrient-rich from root through trunk to tip.

For generations did this Ginkgo owe

None but itself a yearning chance to rip

Through Earth’s sullen view and stand above land,

And yet selflessly did its downturned leaves

Provide a curtain-like home to the ant,

A haven where songs of the birds could weave

Wise ancient tales of unwavering tunes.

Those selfsame leaves dance and shimmer like jewels,

Fluttering freely across many moons,

Bearing witness to all systems of rules.

I rub these veins, asking with my fingers,

“When we’re all gone, what is left, that lingers?”