Simply Drakovi

Ripples of Growth  by Drakovi Bloodrose  A seed. A pat. A drop. The earth—wet, cold, or warm? Shh. Shh. The quiet hum of roots. Unseen. Invisible. But they stretch—always stretching. Above, below—no, no one knows. No sun yet, but a whisper in the dark soil. A dream begins. Stretch, reach— stretch, reach — Does it hear the sound of breath? Or is it just the quiet hum, the tickling of roots, the soil sighing, the patience of the wait. Time, space, movement, air. Shh. Shh. Stretching, a leaf, pushing. A shadow on the ground. The sky shifts, unfolding. What happens next?

The stray cats on the roof, unwanted companions, intrude on my peace of mind as they wander through my thoughts. The noise of their night-time activities on the roof disturbs my peace and quiet.  I can't stop picturing their fierce gazes shining under the moon, seeming to taunt me from their lofty domain. I try unsuccessfully to capture a moment of calm while they roam without fear and uncontrolled.  Every evening, the noisy commotion of their playful antics on the rooftop reverberates within the confines of my house. Initially, I found it entertaining - a peculiar rhythm, a reflection of life's unpredictability - but now it's making me crazy. I gaze at the ceiling, wishing for the noises to cease, yet they persist. It's like the universe is telling me that peace isn't always attainable; it's something we pursue, only to realize that the pursuit is where the real wisdom lies.  In a strange way, I suppose I admire their freedom. The boldness of the rooftop cats a...

Feast of Fragments by Drakovi Bloodrose    The turkey is not the bird, it is the space where the bird once was, and the table is not the table, but the echo of a thousand yesterdays. This feast of the mind— mashed potatoes? No, they are the memories of something that was never quite real. Cranberry sauce? More like the reflection of a reflection. And yet, we eat. We devour. What is gratitude but the whisper of an unspoken thank you lost between the first bite and the last? The pie does not exist. It only does when we look at it— and even then, only for a moment. I raise my glass to the chaos of it all. The burnt edges, the awkward silences, the laughter that echoes like something that has always been here, but never truly arrived. The pumpkin sits— not as fruit, but as a symbol of symbols, its orange a trick of light and time. Is it fall? Is it us? Are we falling, or rising, or are we the ones who have already gone? I give thanks for nothing, and...

My first attempt at a type of poetry made entirely from lines or phrases borrowed from other poets. I focused on the theme of life and its complexities. Life Unfolds By Drakovi Bloodrose I saw eternity the other night (Henry Vaughan),In the stillness of remembering what you had and lost (Pablo Neruda). Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? (Mary Oliver) Each day is a god, each day is a god (Anne Sexton). The sun rises, and the sun goes down (Ecclesiastes 1:5), And we are put on earth a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love (William Blake). Do not go gentle into that good night (Dylan Thomas), But stand like a beaten anvil (Homer). The world offers itself to your imagination (Mary Oliver), For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it (Amanda Gorman). To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: To love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it, And, when th...

Call of the Sonoran By Drakovi Bloodrose Breathe the dust, the sacred ground,   Whisper winds, the ancient sound.   Cholla spines and shadowed night,   Guardians of the desert light.   Call of coyote, moon hangs low,   Secrets only saguaros know.   Rattle sings with thunder's drum,   Tucson waits; the heart grows numb.   Speak the name, the sacred sound,   Feel the pulse of timeless ground.   Under stars, the desert calls,   Eternal voice in canyon walls.  

Fragments by Drakovi Bloodrose  In the silence between breaths, we are both everything and nothing. The mind is a shattered mirror, each piece reflecting a different truth.

Under the Full Moon in Taurus  By Drakovi Bloodrose  Beneath the unwavering glow of the Full Moon, I stand rooted in my essence, a Taurus tethered to the Earth yet drawn skyward. The Moon, at its zenith, whispers secrets of stability and passion, illuminating both the steadfast ground beneath my feet and the dreams I clutch close to my chest.   Tonight, the universe aligns with my soul—a harmony of constancy and illumination. The Moon, 14.66 days old, mature in its cycle, reflects the resilience I carry. It hangs above, 228,096 miles away, yet its pull feels as intimate as a heartbeat, stirring the tides within me.   The Taurus Moon wraps me in its gentle power, grounding my spirit while urging me to embrace the fullness of this moment. This is a night of fullness—not merely of light but of potential. It calls for reflection, for celebration of what is and contemplation of what could be.   The illumination of the Moon mirrors the truths I cannot i...

Unspoken Weight by Drakovi Bloodrose  There are moments when everything seems to accumulate without any events taking place; it's, like carrying a burden thats hard to put into words. There are times when its not about any thing but a feeling of being weighed down that just doesn't seem to lift. Some days seem mundane and routine with no progress or direction, in sight. Its puzzling why everything hits you all at once without warning. The days blend together seamlessly. Nothing seems certain. There are times of silence when you feel a wave of emotions but struggle to express them in words.It's not always, about finding solutions; sometimes it's just about navigating through it all by taking things step, by step. It doesn't necessarily make things smoother or simpler. Its a start. At times you have to keep going even if you're uncertain of the destination. You don't need to be perfect all the time. Keep moving in your own way each day. 

Beyond Pity By Drakovi Bloodrose  There’s no pity left in me for anyone. I don’t mean I don’t care; I mean pity has no place in how I see people. It’s like watering a plant with only enough for a single day—it does nothing to sustain. Real empathy, real compassion, that’s the foundation I want to build on. But pity? It’s empty, and it cheapens what someone else is going through, as if all they need is someone to feel sorry for them. When you pity someone, you put them in a corner, like they're trapped in their story, and I refuse to see anyone that way. Instead, I believe in seeing people for their resilience, for the fires they’ve walked through that have strengthened them. It’s about standing beside them in the dust and saying, "I’m here; what do you need?" Not "I’m sorry you’re down there." I don’t want pity for myself, either. If there’s something I can’t get through, I’d rather people believe I will, or let me figure out my way. We’re all capable of more th...

Gratitude in Perspective by Drakovi Bloodrose Sometimes, life has a funny way of showing us how easily we can overlook our own blessings. I think of those who dream of comfort and luxury, while those living in abundance often look past it, caught up in wanting more. Someone who has lost a loved one holds a unique sorrow, while others, surrounded by love, sometimes take it for granted. There's a person who would give anything for a simple meal, while someone else turns away from a full plate, not savoring it. The dreamer without a car longs for freedom, while the one who drives every day might yearn for something bigger, newer. The truth is, gratitude reshapes everything. When we take a moment to look at our own lives, we might see that someone else would treasure the very things we’re too busy to appreciate.

Pulse of the Desert by Drakovi Bloodrose  The Tucson streets hum with life, raw and real beneath my shoes.   The sky bleeds into twilight, a soft bruise of pink and purple that stretches over the city, pulling the night from its seams. The saguaros stand like ancient sentinels, their arms raised in a gesture of quiet defiance, as though reaching for something just beyond my understanding. Their spines hold the weight of time, sharp and heavy with the stories of this place—stories carried in the wind, whispered through the dust, written in the cracks of the earth beneath my feet.   I pass a woman sweeping dust from her doorstep. She doesn’t look up, but her presence lingers in the air, something warm and familiar. The sound of the broom against the pavement is rhythmic, a pulse in the stillness, and a faint hum escapes her lips, a song only the desert knows. It hangs in the thick, heavy air, moving with the breeze, like a secret the sky keeps.   The str...

A Shift In Influence  By Drakovi Bloodrose  The election has ended, and I am quite satisfied with the outcome. I feel like Trump's victory was the correct decision, and I am truly excited to see what he will accomplish in this term. Observing the past day was highly entertaining, as various media platforms were promoting different storylines in an attempt to influence public opinion.  I am interested in discovering if all the prominent figures who supported Kamala will uphold their promise or if they were only obeying instructions. Were they genuinely supporting her, or were they simply puppets instructed to publicly approve of her? It will be fascinating to see who sticks to their words and who recedes into the shadows.  This election has demonstrated a shift in the status quo. Similar to how artists no longer require major labels, and actors are producing their own films independently, we can now stay informed without relying on traditional media. Individuals such ...

The Breath Between Sands By Drakovi Bloodrose The desert folds in on itself—a breath held too long, then forgotten. Colors blur into sounds, sounds dissolve into shapes that twitch in the corners of thought. Here, the sand isn’t sand; it’s the ash of old dreams, a gray dust pulsing with the memory of what never happened. The ground trembles, as if the world itself shivers with fevered secrets, and each grain of sand hums with a silent name that cannot be pronounced. Heat blurs the horizon into liquid, bending it like glass melting slow and dreadful. The saguaros drift sideways, bent by forces you can’t see, their spines spiraling like the frozen screams of something that lost itself here. Shadows cast no forms, only spirals that coil tighter, tighter, until they vanish into cracks between the seconds, spaces only half-existent. There’s a pulse underfoot—a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to anything living. It’s tangled in the roots of mesquite and sage, woven into the marrow of stones....

Love as Maps on the Skin By Drakovi Bloodrose  Lines drawn, unseen yet pressed —   maps only you can read on my skin,   etched like rivers finding paths   in quiet places, winding beneath.   Love hums, silent like ink soaked deep,   circles and spirals, paths tangled and true.   Not paper but pulse, not compass but hum,   a direction felt, no place to come from.   You mark me here, here, then here again,   leaving stars I only see when I close my eyes.   A strange sky painted on a single frame,   where the constellations shift and call your name.   Love is angles that make no sense,   curves of light that bend through air —   a language known by touch, by trust,   a map of everything, everywhere.

Life as Thread and Tangle By Drakovi Bloodrose  Spun silk, raw burlap — life, like a thread pulled,   sharp needle through cloth, no smooth hands at the helm.   It loops, knots, frays where the tug was too fierce,   mending itself with each jagged pierce.   Some days: stitch soft, feathers float gentle.   Others: thorns twist, pinning the seams.   Life’s a weave of the bright and the bruise,   light lingers, while shadows refuse.   Hope hangs like loose fringe, sometimes untrimmed,   wisps tugged by wind, raw edge and the neat,   a patchwork of moments not ironed to fit,   stitched wild with scars, yet held together in grit.

A Quiet Farewell by Drakovi Bloodrose  If I rest here, hidden,   pressed to the cold steel bones   running alongside the I-10,   would the world change without me?   Would the sky, indifferent, shift,   or the earth tremble beneath   the weight of my leaving?   The ache—heavy, bound in silence—   spills over, seeps through each wound   I could never close. My past follows like a shadow,   its voice woven into my own,   its weight unyielding.   I’ve even shattered love,   left it scattered like glass,   sharp edges catching light   that I can’t hold. So I lie down, breath stilled,   letting this final quiet settle,   untethered from tomorrow,   slipping softly from this place   like a whisper fading   into open air.