Of the Vertical Accord and Arch

 

The Lyre erects its lucid frame
between the breaths that meet—
each string a path of flame
drawn taut beside her curve.

No hand compels it, yet it sings;
no wind can shake it, yet it stirs—
for every note that rises
threads the body’s furtive yarn.

The Rose will carve her scent
as the Lyre mints form afresh;
and where their currents join,
touch carries off time’s weight.

Through that fluent resonance
that speaks in vivid acumen,
wonderment and reverence fill
the floret’s ensouled point—

a temple beyond shade or sound,
like deepest night in bloom,
which only love, if eloquent,
can scale by bar and clef.

Persephone to Orpheus: No Matter What You Do, Don’t Look Back!

 

By the school they passed
each other with no more
than a single glance—
in denims under white,

the color of the sky,
a canvas of bright blue
turned upside down on earth,
below a thin, loose cloud,

still pristine for the sun,
like a poem fresh and fine,
sealed with the mirth of a smile.

Does she still walk like a song,
tracing tremors down the spine—
so fair she could dust a god?

Cathedrals’ Eternal Feminine

 

Cathedral rose-panes
sieve the distant sky,
pressing its azure
into the hollow hub—

gems liberally cast
to thread the inward
sanctum’s sopping dark.
Oh, have you noticed?

Each time one enters,
one is clasped within
a dome, a space

of widened, timeless dusk
filled with whispers, sighs—
dying, to be born as verse.

Sorela's Ninth Uranian Child: The Arc of Perennial Equinox by Vladimir Suchan Now in Paperback on Amazon

 

The Escalatoriad

 

I. Stall at Trump Tower, 9:17 a.m.
The golden tread, that ever-loyal serf,
decides—mid-stride—to practice meditation.
A hush more absolute than audit spreads:
the moving stair has chosen not to move.

Cameras record history, frame by frame:
a monarch mid-air suspended, stripped of nimbus,
one hand already raised to bless the next headline,
the other already clutching a phone to order—UN bombing.

II. Smarting Humiliation
Gravity, that low-ratings loser, dares to tug.
The tailor’s scissors of the universe snip the red carpet under him.
Behold: the man who branded air itself with his surname
now reduced to a common obese commuter—feet required.

A single squeak of rubber on metallic silence
echoes through the atrium like a divulged tax return.
His face—usually a flag of perpetual triumph—
contracts to the precise dimensions of a parking ticket.

III. Fury Phones the United Nations
Within seven minutes the call is placed.
“Switchboard? Put me through to the entire General Assembly.
I want a resolution—no, a whole invasion—
against moving staircases that conspire against GREATNESS!

Sanctions on silence! Tariffs on treads!
If the U.N. refuses, I’ll downgrade you to a kiosk in Geneva.
I have a button—two buttons—one for escalators, one for the sun.
Choose wisely.”

IV. Draft Resolution Circulates (leaked)
Article 1—All inclined planes shall bow in the direction of Mar-a-Lago.
Article 2—The phrase “out of order” is henceforth fake news.
Article 3—Mechanical stairs must carry a loyalty chip;
any hesitation exceeding 0.5 seconds
constitutes an act of international escalator terrorism.
Veto power is reserved for the country that owns the golden lease.

V. Epilogue in the Key of Low E
At dusk the tread resumes—smooth, repentant, almost pious.
He rides upward, king of altitude once more,
but somewhere in the motor-well a small relay still stutters
a Morse code of resistance: tick-tick-tick…

Translated, it spells:
Even iron finds it hard to detach and lift
Emperor Narcissus away from his earthly toadying pool.

If You Go to America and Look Around, You Should Wonder Why They Tried To Destroy the Greatest Trees First

 

“Here where the thorns grow,
spreading over mounds of dust and ruins.
These eyes of mine once saw
the gardens blooming in the spring.”
—Mir, trans. Ralph Russell

Where people cut trees
and raze memory, ages,
to barren drought and dust,
former meadows harden
under a scorching shine,

and thorns begin to rise
as if earth itself were turned
to bear blood-drawing horns.
And the point?—To teach
the stubborn the taste of bitter

remedy called humbleness,
and the humble, in turn,
how to breed stubbornness.
In a word: where souls and life
are cut short, the land itself

starts laying a feast
for greatly wanted asses—
to match the stubborn
bareness of hearts and souls,
whether adrift or wedged fast

between reefs and shoals,
passing to each other
the tokens of Judas—
kind kisses of chilling betrayal—
while stalked by arid shades.

Night’s Resonant Bloom: The Arc of Perennial Equinox, Book IV, by Vladimir Suchan now in paperback on Amazon