Bedtime tales, WWP

WWP #99 – Bedtime tales

Sleep, my sweetness

wrapped in cleanness

taken to the dreamy city

where light

will never fade.


Sleep, my loved one

curled in softness

flying to the forest castle

where fight

was never lost.


Sleep, my beauty

cuddling Bunny

dreaming those enchanted

honey dreams

that will last forever


or at least until

the morning chill.


© 2012 Mariya Koleva

Image courtesy:

Big shoes

The staff at We Write Poems came up with a glorious prompt: Civil Rights. I remembered what I saw at the Airport in Helsinki just over a fortnight ago. Well, of course, I remember the same thing happening to me just over fifteen years ago, at the Airport in Amsterdam. Utter humiliation is the expression coming to my mind. Enjoy the poem:

Who will wear those big shoes?

We are all lined up

In front of the check-in

So early one morning

All freezing and dumb

Hand luggage is packed,

So neatly and

All bags are arranged in decorum,


Almost there

Just a family before me

Just a step from the free zone

With heating, coffee and soft seats.

I see a mother transfer diapers

from suitcase

on the verge of breaking open

to a bunch they surely

call “hand luggage”;

baby’s milk dripping from a bottle on the floor,

little boy clinging to dad

Dad running fingers through

thinning coal-black hair

speaking curtly in a

language I do not recognize

No doubt urging mommy

to hurry

Next at check-in desk,

They are ready –

All piles piled in order

So to speak, acceptable

Until the officer spots

their passports.

Half an hour later

everybody is still there

except for the check-in officer

who comes and goes away,

“To make some checks,” she says,

“Because there might be problems

With your visas.”

She’s eyeing them from top to toe.

And asking them if they’d come back

And when, and how

And why.

Oh, most important, why?

The father speaks but little English

The mother is so dumb and numb

The boy spills from his bottle

Then sits over it

And she pretends she

Doesn’t notice

That lump in her throat is

the one of despair

and humiliation

she’s not wanted there,

she’s a wrong nation.

And no one needs English to guess

that a passport defines you as human

or else.


© 2012 Mariya Koleva

Memory of a Glass House

One Single Impression – Betrayal; Poets United – Glass Houses; We Write Poems – Better out than in; Theme Thursday – Memory


I remember a winter

in a house made of glass

naked, numb, stupefied


I remember yearning to go

and get lost in the snow

But how would you know?


© Mariya Koleva 2011


Almost a poem, NaPoWriMo, day 11

Here are the prompts on which I acted: Sunday Scribblings – Messenger; One Single Impression – Epidemic; Poets United – Headlines; Theme Thursday – Face; We Write Poems – Almost a poem; Three Word Wednesday – Adamant-Fabricate-Peculiar

The messenger was adamant:
Those headlines had not been fabricated
And we were facing
A peculiar and epidemic poem,
Whose weirdest peculiarity
That it was “almost a poem”.

© 2011 Mariya Koleva

Searching prophet, WWP wordle

We Write Poems said: Make your own wordle and provided a link

woodland, windmill, free, mellow, wise, saddlebag, prophet, bold, reaching, shouts, guardian, searching, lean, children, bare, rusty, buy, dare, condemn, gallop, dusty


He dared and bought a dusty saddlebag,

A prophet galloping east.

Bold shouts of lean children condemning the rust,

Wise guardian searching the woodland

For windmills,

Reaching the mellow and bare country around.


© 2011 Mariya Koleva

“Expecto Patronum”, or


the Impossibility of the Impossible

We Write Poems gave this as a prompt for this week:

Guardian Angel

I wish I could stand up,

reach out with my wand

and say proudly: “Expecto Patronum!”

I wish HE would appear

in the form of bright light

to guard off whatever I fear.

Well, I COULD do it.

But that’s all, I’m afraid

No one WILL ever appear

For no guardian angels abide

in my dark cave of despair.

A safe place, after WWP

The latest prompt at We Write Poems is about finding, making, defining what is a safe place. And so… I put together another “and-then-again” poem. Here:

And then again, if I should say

that what is hidden,

will be safe;

Is it enough for you to stay

a silent secret

stashed away?

Is it enough to go unknown,

uncared for,

unhated though,

just for the sake of

being safe?

Avoidance is the safety game.