Uoy evol tnod I

•April 10, 2017 • 19 Comments


*Image found HERE

Uoy evol tnod I

Like Syrinx, barefoot at the river’s edge,
a plural of nouns,
knees muddy, hands worthless.
Choices were made,
and prayers were prayed
and prying servants and maids
and among them worshiped gods
of smoke and linen,
dead trees, an empty chair,
or worse
a temple or a church
with no priest to lie to you.

I ask my heart to be still,
like a pin cushion,
let the lady have her auburn dress;
let the bitch have her blood moon.
Be still, while the magician saws through.
I am mute with puddles,
I am dirt, I am dog, I am dime,
dinner, dilution, dissipation. Done.
A witch set ablaze,
I have scrapped the closets
for garments,
closed tightly the scents like potions,
keepng them safe from wind.
I cried in an empty room.
I cried at a crowded concert.
I cried in the cab, cried in the bathroom,
the kitchen, the busy street, the dead end,
I salvaged the drawers for trinkets,
I made choices that you orphaned.

I take my sorrow to the butcher
like I accept I am meat for cutting;
I let him chop of my head,
hack off my arms, split my ribs
and I shall plant them in the ground
and weep for growing
countless more of worthless me’s;
I will let him hack and slash,
play with it, snip, snap, pull –
like betrayal, like brutality,
like ten more me,
sliced to steak, like
my thighs, returning to the lord,
like my face, held by strong hands,
like my eyes, like snuffed candles,
like gut feeling versus the choices
between fat fingers in the early morning shift
lining the black beard of someone who doesn’t care;
just dices.
I will listen as you speak of me as past tense;
I will let the butcher make a knife shelf in my chest.

And soon, the silence will wrap us like lasso.
The trees will quiet down, the birds will fall asleep.
And the groceries will need doing, and splitting,
and fitting the shelves and there will be aftermaths in need of fixing
with kisses on the neck.
The priest will come to his church and he will clasp his hands,
and incense will burn in the temple and pictures will corrode
and your soul will slut its way inside some dark abode
and I will ask What shall become of me?
What of the dreams, the bed sheets, the bedroom, the bed,
the loneliness? What of the waiting?What of the choices

of where to go, where to be, where to lay the head, where to cry next
and where to weave the sparrows? Which colour, which parcel,
which flower? Which name, which surname, nickname, sweet thing,
which honey, which plum, what kind of sugar, whose teaspoons? What for breakfast, what for lunch, and choices like the spiral, the farfale or the sea-shell macaroni?

How do I call you
come the morning?



•February 25, 2017 • 14 Comments



Mixed media/ February 2017

I know the title is misspelled on English. I wanted it to be a weird fusion of the English and Serbian word for the word “mosaic”.

I recently started a gig on Fiverr, where I can turn your portrait in an abstract artwork like this. Check it out if you are interested by clicking here: Fiverr Abstract Portrait

Poetics – suburb poetry

•February 21, 2017 • 2 Comments

Tonight, I am hosting the prompt at dVerse, the topic of poetics being Suburban Poetry. Come and join us!


Today we have the pleasure of welcoming a guest-blogger at our bar. Oloriel who is a great poet many of the wordpressers have come across. She is an occasional visitor to the bar, and often stun me with her words. You can find her blog at olorielmoonshadow.wordpress.com

Greetings to one and all! Oloriel here, tending the poetics and the bar tonight.
One of the topics that marked my previous year, and melted into the current one, is definitely the topic of home. I was born, bred, raised and still live in the suburbs. There is things and emotions you notice, that differ, at least for me, when I travel from my place to another. Over the years there has been images that etched themselves in my head as “suburban things”. Recently, I have begun noticing and exploring how it is so very similar in poetry. I discovered poems characterized…

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Coquelicot in the Purlieus

•February 20, 2017 • 55 Comments


*Image found HERE

*This is a very long poem, just a heads up. I really appreciate and commend you if you read all the way through!

Coquelicot in the Purlieus

There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.
An old watch, rusting,
Hearts like a dumpster,
Fur coats hanging by the hook,
Smell of fresh pastry.
Love at the cemetery gates,
Faces floating like garbage
Down the brook.


When you speak words here,
They are there, but they are not.
The roofs are crooked, green,
Tied by the skinny, bony hands of willows,
White with stains
Beneath the sky,
Split and spilt
Magenta, purple, bluish hues
Like a probed placenta,
Dripping its hope
Down the windows
And how you think it’s beautiful
Even though you know it’s just
Light pollution.


The kids set the chairs on fire.
They watch it burn,
Mommy the cat with her fangs in the rat.
Teaching the young.
Mommy with a needle in an open basement.
Trying to run.
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.


My husband says the devil is a
Burger-flipper down in Cincinnati,
But somehow I think the devil is a suburban sister
Making club sandwiches
And elder-flower lemonades
And constantly, constantly, constantly
Her father to forgive.


Since we teach each other
To dream of herds of sheep,
Count the knots of their wool,
Cut our minds to strings,
Sheep, candidly bleeping,
Jumping over the picket fence,
Landing over in the valley, pure and green
And endless as we count them,
Until we forget we are we;
I have heard of androids
Dreaming of electric sheep
That buzz
Over, and glide through
Chipsets of a gigantic motherboard…

I’m worried that the dead
Dream of the living.

As they count
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.
And poof! Just like that!
We were martyrs,
We were,
We were eating each other,
We was,
We knew,
Building a kingdom
In a flat that overlooks the river.
And poof! Martyrs, dirty martyrs,
Dry martinis,
Bleeding like a halleluiah
That puts the boatman to sleep.


What do you mean
When you say love is sold out?
What do you mean,
It’s a seasonal merchandise?
What do you mean
When you say wrong size?
I found love in a dying man’s eyes,
A love for the world that held his head under whiskey.
He had no wounds to point,
No light that could get in, or enter
His irises as an angel
Nibbled on his corners
And the devil was slurping his center.


An evening comes, let’s say
That around 23:35h
You lit a cigarette
And you decided it will be the last;
It lasts too short,
Blazes too fast
And after that you are kindly reminded
You are not allowed to enjoy suffering,
Just taste like ash.
It bothers you because it sounds like
“I don’t want to die”,
But the voice is pre-recorded,
Tucked neatly into a machine
Repeating and coughing
Into an ex-lovers ear;
Perhaps you used to take her to the arcades,
Perhaps she made your heart go
All boom like pinball,
Perhaps you adored and it still didn’t matter.

At the same time,
The closest I ever came to god, I think,
Was having a priest blow his Pal Mal smoke
Into my face;
His blue eyes like vast oceans,
His green eyes like absinth
Or Elysium fields,
Depending on the diagnosis that you need
To feel saved,
His brown eyes like forests, bending like a pretty noose;
City boy priest, refuge priest,
Billowing like a hookah,
Like a psalm, saying
“Only I am home”
“We are all alone”
“We are all alone”


What bothers you the most is
That you will someday be somewhere,
Like Ibiza, under a palm tree,
Clad and sweaty, with a cocktail in your hand
And a straw hat on your head
Surrounded by lulling foam, and waves,
Resting in a body, molded out of
Warm sand
And you will do nothing but
Shimmer, like a ghost.
Just someone who isn’t lost.
Just someone who can never be found.
Not around.


You tell strangers of the wilderness
That used to be there,
The unkempt weeds, nettle, burdock and ponceau,
And tall, sharp grass
In which the kids would hunt for crickets
With jars,
Interrupt their matinées on Wednesdays.
Fifteen years later it’s a McDonald’s,
Nothing changed;
Your face is the darkness of suburbia,
Looking in the mirror a million times a day
And asking
Who the Hell are you?
Is anybody there?
Because there never is a wound to point
(but something always hurts),
And never a light to enter,
(a kiss behind the newsstand and the light bulbs burst),
See the angel pull a loose string,
(the bastard still has my perfumed sweater!),
See the devil tuck it at the center
(my anathemas dotting the highways and the forests like houses)


This is our temple
And in our temple
The girls starve for starlight;
They starve for another girls mouth.
What happens on the hills
Stays a marriage to Moonlight
And can’t be broken.
In our temple we love you
Like the sky is burning,
Like the melting wings of the angel
Overdosed in a ditch.


There is no deity in the scar, all of it is knives.
Stainless steel and plastic surgery.
Love like burglary. Love like forgery.
I barge into your heart
And I steal the TV, DVD and VCR.
Let’s grind our bodies and fit into a vanity case,
I wonder will anyone ever
Buy us of the flea market
In the afternoon when
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center,
right here, underage, with beer in hands
at the corner of our cull-de-sac.


Don’t ever stop by these woods, no no.
Bad man will eye you as you walk.
Bad women will spy you, and cut you with their eyes,
Piece by piece, red, young, old, full of future lies;
They will sugar you and cook you into pies.
Never ever roll up your sleeves.
Never ever show them the orchards, dear.


Nothing grows here anymore.
We were drawn. Now the child is a sixteen year old.
We just sustain.
There is no wound to point
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center.
See me, chewing on peanuts.
See me, dreaming the world will change.
Like a horny seraph, it sways,
Entitled and eager, with its blonde locks
Of silky, smooth and thin hair
It rears its sunshine above the geriatric ward
Like: Lips? Here is graves!
Like: Let’s have brunch.
Like: Marry me, asked on the bus station.
Like: Never let me go.
Like: Tell the kids to put us in a nursing home
That overlooks a lonely square.


And we are
Open, 24/7,
Hands like a barbecue joint
(cheap meat, sweet sin)
Our hands like church bells
Baptized with mouth water,
Aching to tear down
And swallow the Moon,
There is no point to wounds
no light to enter,
see an angel pull a loose string,
see the devil tuck it at the center,
entertain the fools.


And Sun shines over the food-court
Of a mall in suburbia
And you feel proud and serene for
Convincing him to take a bite.
He’s chewing on the fries
In a cacophony of sweaters tearing gently
At the skins of everyone around,
Smelling like lilies of valleys, hyacinths, sandalwood
And there is laughter
Amid all the sounds
And it makes you think how
Convincing people over and over to stay
Under flocks of disinterested, migrating birds,
Just repeating Don’t kill yourselves,
There must be something in this world:
It pays, it pays,
In the shadows of the necropolis,
While wasting way the days.

*This poem was written for a prompt at dVerse, hosted by yours truly (that means me, yes!). Do come, join, read, write and chat with me while I am tending the bar! The topic of the prompt is Suburban poetry! Now go on and join in on the fun and writing!


Invoking the Huntress – an Artistic Collaboration

•February 18, 2017 • 22 Comments

Greetings, everyone! Recently, I had the pleasure of collaborating with two wonderful ladies on a great and inspirational project. These two ladies are great bloggers, writers, creators and beings and are known as Aquileana and Resa around the blogosphere.

What was this project about? Resa makes gorgeous dresses, inspired by life, dreams, mythology and stories and she made a bedazzling dress inspired by the Greek Goddess of Moon and Hunt, Artemis.

Aquileana is, I dare say, famous, for her deep, thoughtful , informative and inspirational posts about everything mythology. Moved by Resa’s creation, she weaved a post about Artemis, whilst I was at the same time moved to pen my inspiration into poetry and art.

You can find Resa’s beautiful creation HERE

And Aquileana’s treasured tales and myths of Artemis, HERE

And here is my artwork and poem:


*Artemis ; Mixed media, February 2017


Invoking the Huntress


The crescent beckons a heave,

a touch upon your corners,


a light brewing

not like a thunderstorm, or a torrent,

but a sickle ready to brand you

in red-

you will be

like two eyes among the pines,

as she lowers her hips downwards,

descends her bow to your forehead;

she tramples your heart with her deer,

her name preaches – You can be here, free;

free in the forest of flesh,

a dancing hunter among the cypress.



She will give you the bear – to fold his head before you.

She will give you the wolf – its maw now your sisterhood.

She will give you the boar – the towns named after your sins but dust beneath him.

She will give you the stag – the horns ripping the night itself to drip

over mouths of dirty gold

whispering her hymns.

Her Kingdom atop the arrowhead

more eternal than the sway of day,


the wilderness, soft and pure, and nectary

grow out the belly

and may

it not fetter the beasts,

let them run through her chambers of your bones and chest;

let her tame them with a single breath.


Her name, like a dream of ground

wet with vine, sizzling like fire

over which the prey darkens,

her innocence unlike any altar,

her savagery unlike any temple,

she arrives

and the winds grasp for air;

Ursa major sticking from her untouched hair,

a moonlight promise,

a devotion of flame

made of her vestibule,

silvery debris

her name, Artemis.


Chasing Bedlam-new book by Charles E. Yallowitz

•February 16, 2017 • 2 Comments

Return to the Shattered States
for a tale of love between a woman & her jeep!

Cover Art by Jon Hunsinger

Cover Art by Jon Hunsinger

Lloyd and Cassidy’s last adventure was to honor a life. This time they are out to end one.

It was a normal, violent mission to Texas that should have had nothing more than beer-induced hiccups. That is until an old enemy makes off with Cassidy’s jeep and most of their gear. Needless to say, she’s pissed off and challenging Lloyd for the psychopath of the month award. With the mouthy serial killer by her side, she is going on the warpath from Dallas to Miami even if it means declaring war on the drug cartels.

So strap in for another wild ride through the Shattered States and learn why you never mess with Cassidy’s jeep.

Available on Amazon for 99 cents!

Want a taste?

“So your boss thought she could send assassins to kill the Riflemen,” the black-haired leader says, earning a cheer from his men. A firm smack to the prisoner’s head silences her gurgling attempt to deny the charge. “Nothing you say can prevent the inevitable. Don’t go thinking that pet serial killer will save you either. The idiot brought a paintball gun to Texas and thought he’d win a gunfight? I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. All we need to do is find the body and we can collect the bounty on him too. Guess you’re lucky that he’s wanted dead and you’re wanted alive by that warden up north.”

“I’d be careful, boss,” a sword-wielding gang member warns. She leans away from the angry glare, but rolls up her sleeve to reveal a sloppily stitched wound. “While this one isn’t as tough as her reputation says, she can still hit hard. Lost two men before we restrained her and three more are nursing broken balls. Maybe we should use some of our tranquilizer stash and keep her sedated.”

“No reason for th-” Top Hog begins as he runs his hand across the prisoner’s forehead. He rubs his fingers at the sensation of something sticky between his fingers and looks closer to figure out what he has touched. “This scar is fake. Made from glue or something. Are you sure this is Cassidy?”

“She was with Lloyd Tenay at the bar,” a one-eyed man replies in a shaky voice. He shifts from one foot to the other when everyone else takes a step away from him. “You told us to look for him and a blonde woman. She had the denim jacket, the forehead scar, cursed a lot, carried two pistols, and even has the correct tramp stamp. Everyone was calling her Cassidy after she drove up in the blue jeep too. We made sure that everything checked out, boss. Even bribed the bartender and two waitresses.”

Sweat beading on his face, Top Hog draws his large gun and presses it to the prisoner’s temple. He leans around her, his eyes repeatedly darting toward her hands to make sure they are still bound. Lifting her white shirt, he sees the unique tattoo that the widespread stories mention Cassidy getting a little less than a year ago. The design is two pistols back to back with vines of bone curling around and binding them together. A strange discoloration catches the gang leader’s attention and he rubs his thumb along the woman’s side, pushing his weapon harder against her head to prevent wiggling. He swears that he feels a seam, so he gets a dirty fingernail beneath what turns out to be a flesh-colored sticker. Top Hog yanks it off and shows it to his men, the prisoner biting her lower lip to avoid screaming. He can already see that the tattoo is smeared from where he has touched it with his meaty fingers.

Enraged and embarrassed, the gang leader is about to kill the fake Cassidy when he hears distant rock music. Within seconds, he realizes that the source is getting closer and is soon joined by maniacal laughter coming over a crackling megaphone. With a snap of his fingers, Top Hog orders one of his men to take the prisoner to his office while the others run for the exit. Nobody gets very far before a blue jeep, which has been outfitted with a wide battering ram, smashes through the front of the warehouse. The vehicle leaves a gaping hole in the wall, which is made worse by hooked chains on the rear bumper that catch and tear more of the obstacle down. The jeep continues at full speed through crates, shelving units, and the slower gang members whose deaths are celebrated by honks of the horn. Tires screech as the driver hits the brakes and gets the car to spin, the move appearing to have no purpose beyond making those inside dizzy. With an embarrassing thud, the vehicle hits the back wall and hisses to a stop.

The gang have already drawn their weapons and are cautiously approaching the jeep when the sunroof opens. Bullets fly at the blonde figure that leaps out, the projectiles creating so many holes that the top half of their target falls off. The legs of the cardboard cutout are casually tossed to the floor before the shriek of a megaphone makes everyone cringe and cover their ears. With the tattered remains laying face up, the frustrated criminals realize that they have destroyed another Cassidy decoy. They are about to inch closer when the jeep briefly roars to life and a man inside begins making engine noises. The sounds change to the exaggerated screams and detailed begging of those whose parts are still stuck to the scuffed battering ram.

“So that was your plan, Cassidy?” Top Hog asks with a chuckle. He turns to see their prisoner is trying to roll away and fires his gun into the air to stop her. “Two decoys, so that you could get the drop on us. Guess you thought more of us would get run over. You still have thirteen of my crew standing and you’re cornered in that jeep. Now, the only question is if I send a piece of you back to the Duchess as a message that she should stay out of my business. Damn northerner needs to stay out of Texas’s business.”

“Actually, that young woman was the bait and I was the distraction,” Lloyd announces from inside. With a gleeful laugh, he opens one of the doors and yanks it back when the gang shoots at him. “Well shit. That was my favorite power window button. Anyway, people make that mistake all the time. You see, bait draws you in and, at least here, allows the real predators to follow you back to the previously hidden hideout. Not even a sign to help us out, which is very rude and unaccommodating. Now, the distraction’s job is to keep you looking in one direction while a mischievous maiden of mayhem prepares her new toy somewhere else. Don’t bother running, boys, because she’ll take that as an insult.”

Top Hog and his men turn toward the hole in the wall, which has exposed them to the large parking lot. The sun forces them to squint at the lone figure standing behind a loaded mini-gun, the weapon glinting in the midday light. Clouds move across the sky, which makes it easier for the gang to identify the denim jacket and blonde hair of their enemy. They take a few shots at the distant woman, but their bullets either miss completely or bounce off several riot shields that are strapped to the weapon. A slamming car door causes them to jump, but they turn in the wrong direction and are unable to stop Lloyd from racing toward the prisoner. Wearing orange pants from his time as a prisoner and a red shirt with a lightning bolt, the black-haired serial killer seems like an obvious target as he scoops up the young woman and dives behind a box of grenades. Suddenly afraid for their lives, Top Hog and his men attempt to scatter and hunt for cover.

“I hate moving targets,” Cassidy growls.

And don’t forget how it all started in
Also on sale for 99 cents!


About the Author:

Charles Yallowitz was born and raised on Long Island, NY, but he has spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world. After his wife decided that she was tired of hearing the same stories repeatedly, she convinced him that it would make more sense to follow his dream of being a fantasy author. So, locked within the house under orders to shut up and get to work, Charles brings you Legends of Windemere. He looks forward to sharing all of his stories with you, and his wife is happy he finally has someone else to play with.

Blog: www.legendsofwindemere.com
Twitter: @cyallowitz
Facebook: Charles Yallowitz
Website: www.charleseyallowitz.com


•February 3, 2017 • 25 Comments



Mixed media/January 2017

One of the newer pieces. Its title partially comes spontaneously (because the process of creation was chaotic, without order) and partially with association. If we are talking about creating anything, let us say I imagine a million of tiny electrodes running around and , connecting things, sticking them into place and making them light up. This  seems like a very important task and it makes me think of chaos. Likewise, i find real life situation where I am presented with something beginning anew, to be chaotic.

I hope you like the artwork, and as always, I am more than eager to hear your own interpretation and would be delighted to know what did the artwork make you feel or think about!



sketches of life and clips of dreams

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