I canít let go



bohdan yuri






"i can't let go"


i can't let go of the past,

i know that it's killing me

to see what has carried

into the present scene

with more sad theater

still waiting to unfold,

page by page

the play returns.


prelude: a thought,

why bother at all?


act one: birth,

a cry to even see day one.


act two: love hurts,

a misty story will be told.


act three: death,

so what...


epilogue: retold

what's the difference?



"in love"


i'm stoned,

i'm chillin',

i'm in the right groove

to know my heart


in space,




it quivers,

it trembles,

it shudders to think

there is no place

from which to hide


of outer space.



"memories" (by bohdan yuri & steffon hamulak)


they are the history of forgotten lifetimes,

recording earth's passage in too short phases,

and traveling solely within our own lost line,

as a depository, in turn, a soulful luster,

on a journey of self-seeking intoxications

that tempts the psyche in many false ways


until the world and the words in it

transpire, even conspire, to form

a translucent past that reflects thought

as crucial segments of former times,


though unlike elementary renditions,

our salient moments cause us to reflect

most delicately upon their meaning:

our loves, our hates, our kindness,

our betrayals, our sins, our deeds,

our understanding,

our lack thereof;


in whatever shape it should hold its truth,

and cursed by the sadness our mistakes,

we design our most pensive recollections

into mythical fractions in the mesh of time.


we are authors given that we bind the storyline,

as characters in the eternal play

we are....memories.





the red morning sky

lost its hue

outside the hazy veil,


though troubled

by the loss in view

we ought not to forget,


our last refuge

hides in darkness,

assuming an abstract place,


yet every sunrise

most clearly refutes

the universe of nothing.


unfortunate for those 

who know not to trust,

in space there are more suns.



"mystic tones"


autumn dreams in mystic tones

that pall the ruined summer bloom;

cast adrift, to resist any far-off mislay,

each leafy page a life long sacrifice,

collected by the wind's chilling breath

upon lost shadows of forgotten plays,

abounded in death's last place

on ground, into ground, and separated

in space through a ceremony of hope

to begin afresh, as spring will dream


in mystic tones.



"one more time"


one more time and i'll be done,

what's a lifetime now and then,

a mistake or two if only a few,

and a little success along the way.


in an eden turned harsh in its song,

topped by a moving pool of creatures

sweet and sour in its rotting flesh tones,

and spinning stridently in voids off norm,


i lived in a world of monsters,

voracious beasts that knew it all,

yet were senselessly out of control,

and unable to restore any lost soul,


so easy to become one's own nightmare,

forced again to travel into another time

inside the contrition of sorrow and regret,

from here to here, always living anywhere.



"is jazz played inside of outer space?"


nomads trek the globe

in search of god's gift of grace,

unaware that such a legacy

was never granted in the overture. 


giving life to a fruitless journey,

losing all that never was to be,

and before the sun should rise

we will dwell on mislaid mysteries.


not ready to control our lonely hearts

inside the confines of our gentle ride,

we are unable to solve god's secret silence,

and jazz is played everywhere.



"harsh reflections from a full moon"


the mourning sun displays its breath

near wintry shadow's smoky haze,

a fireplace, a comforter, a lay inside,

anticipate the taste of morning eggs.


arms wrapped while the hands caress

the silky softness of her unguarded skin,

i searched for redemption from regret

and found her pulse to be positively dim.


in the break of time, tears will predict

an empty space between our embrace,

where cutting words sought to relieve

the harsh reflections from a full moon.



standing outside,

hands apart,

trying to see in,

the orange window

a reflection

of a falling sunset,

a background to the shadows

that desperately seek

to recognize the softness

in each other's eyes.


the heart is lost


yet. the gift,

to have known

it was once there

to allow two as one

to fall in love,


what's left hides inside,

flat silhouettes,

the former glow fades

to reveal

a neon enchantment

that allows entry

through the door

of a new cafť


but first to separate

the sadness,

as we are both lost

as companions

to the night's eye.



"days without rain"


the poet walks about on days without rain,

he observes the sun, grateful for its rays

splashed on children about every play.

the twilight filters the softest repose,

while nighttime plays every which way.


on days absorbed by the sky's watery fall

the poet imagines inside, a desire to trace

lost melodies from the edge of space,

and most often will be the need to write

about the dreams from days without rain.




the end