Poems are not written, they happen...

Honey

Honey, what a miracle to expose...

Honey, what a miracle to expose your body,

The button fell, my heart began to sing.

The blouse has been removed, and the belt is a trifling matter.

Breasts honey freshness,

Roses fragrant bosom,

and in the middle of the bouquet-

two punch buds.

© Copyright: Tuly Munalbayev, 2016

Certificate of Publication No. 116080401067

Honey..

Honey, when I see thy breasts,

I see two targets..

Darling, I recognise my pulse.

in a double beat.

Don't be afraid if nipples break through.

blood crimson,

I am ready to heal with my lips,

Two young fountains.

Close your eyes and, wings of hands.

cut as wide as possible.

After all, if the flesh closes suddenly,

Life will disintegrate in the world.

You are a song, I sing about you,

You are my life; I live by you.

And I sing your breasts,

Like a hero - an arrow!

It was April night.

It was night.

April was on the wane.

Something new was whispering.

I stole your eyes and lips,

experiencing the sweetness of theft.

I understood that theft is absurdity,

it will go through your fingers like smoke.

But even a passing trolley bus

seemed blue brig in the darkness.

Around everything froze deliriously,

but, keeping inaccessibility of ideas,

from the night heights of the constellation Scorpio

looked at me thoughtfully..

© Copyright: Tuly Munalbaev,

***

It was April night.

It was night.

April was on the wane.

Something new was whispering.

I stole your eyes and lips,

experiencing the sweetness of theft.

I understood that theft is absurdity,

it will go through your fingers like smoke.

But even a passing trolley bus

seemed blue brig in the darkness.

Around everything froze deliriously,

but, keeping inaccessibility of ideas,

from the night heights of the constellation Scorpio

looked at me thoughtfully..

© Copyright: Tuly Munalbaev,

***

Poems are not written, they happen..

One poet said: nurse poems,

so as not to waste time!

And I think - this is hypocrisy - to compose poems with your feet.

Another said: you sit them out, sit and no problem!

Here I was embarrassed: after all, God knows how to write poetry!

Then they advise you to get out: go to bed, write in a dream!

Poems are not written. Happen.

Like a runny nose, stupidity or nonsense.

I look inflated. Offended:

"Well, it was you who bent the poet!"

Tuly Munalbaev.

Retired Lieutenant General of the Foreign Intelligence Service,

international journalist

© Copyright: Tuly Munalbayev, 2016

Certificate of Publication No. 116080401067