Blanket Made of Stars.

Photo by Jeff Nissen 

A little poem about how stars have affected humans throughout the years of our short history on this planet.

We try to imitate the beauty, and dance around bonfires.

Night Sky dotted with the sparkles.
Pretty memoir of times long gone,
Covering the ancient tombs and structures,
Like a charming blanket made of stars.

They dance together through the night,
Creating perfect patterns.
The music, – Sounds of the forest,
The stage, – Whole universe bellow. 
While we,
The lowly creatures,
Are lucky audience of this grand concerto. 

We try to imitate the beauty,
And dance around bonfires.
We beat the drums until they break,
And blow the horns of the ceremony. 

Sometimes we make the sacrifices to the stars,
Like living beings and some formal items. 
But stars need no lamb or human to satisfy their needs. 
They only want to dance. 

We got it all so very wrong.
The sacrifice,
Is our time and effort.

Only those who sacrifice these things,
Will find the favor of the stars. 

The sacrifice is our time and effort.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir

Darkness of the Night.

Photo by Meireles Neto 

Wanted to write a little shout-out to the beauty of our planet. Unfortunately, I don’t have the ability to visit nature often, but it is definitely on my list for the future.

Invite the beast of the forest or the poison of a man?

A day was moving closer to the night.
A tired sun was slowly setting,
Over pointy tops of forest trees.

Time to pack this tiny camp,
Or warm-up for the night?

Invite the beast of the forest,
Or the poison of a man?

A gleam of stars,
Illuminate the path before me,
Warn me of the dangers,
Lurking in the dark.

I look up into heavens,
And see dark clouds,
Spreading over a sheet of the sky,
Like spiderweb up the empty ceiling

Then everything got quiet.
Birds stopped chirping their songs,
No more chatter on the ground,
A sense of calmness and some peace,
Filled the souls of living creatures.

I look up,
Stretching muscles of old neck.
Tiny snowflakes,
Melting on my face,
Millions of them,
Falling calmly on the land.

Each snowflake is bearing the imprint of the star.
Filling land with the crispy matter.

Melting stars,
Combine down on the ground,
Create a puffy cloud,
Slightly tingling with cold.

I think I’ll make another fire here,
Warm those bones and flesh a little.
This is the safest place
To calm my soul,
During the darkness of the night.

Just take the moment to feel the nature.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir

The Scribe.

This poem talks about, how individual thought can make our world a tiny bit better as it did throughout history so many times.

Instead of a mighty sword, he wields his plastic pen.

He is just a scribe,
Prisoner of thoughts, emotions.
Instead of a mighty sword,
He wields his plastic pen.
Shielded from attacks,
By thinnest sheet of paper.

He expressed the words,
That were given birth,
In depths of his imagination. 

He tells the story of his truth,
The world,
The way he feels it.

That’s all his warfare,
His struggle and pain.
In search of life itself,
Like did so many,
Mightier than him,

He’s part of an ancient order,
That teaches individuality of thought.
That your opinion should always matter,
When you decide upon your life. 
Your voice is important and unique,
Don’t let the crowd,
Decide your feelings and your words.

Is it really good for me?
Not because we selfish,
We ask this question every day.
It is,
The holy right,
Of every human,
To lead the life they choose.
Breaking highest boundaries,
Set by tribal thought and dogma.

A right of every person.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir

Metal, Oil, and Rust.

The poem came out to be completely different than what I anticipated first. Most likely the meaning of this version is better than what it could have been.

Like a simple screw, to keep a metal ship afloat.

Buzzing in my body,
Through the wires of my veins.

The time is flowing,
Clock exhilarating,
Like a tired hamster in a wheel.

Enjoy this race,
The finest progress,
Of the people,
Made especially for you.

You keep fighting for your breath,
But must keep running
After lighting,
Before the thunder hits.

Phone ringing,
Cracking silence,
Like metal axes breaking wood.
Reminding you to hurry,
Before you miss your turn.

Like a simple screw,
To keep a metal ship afloat.

Got worn out?
Get swapped out!
The crew likes efficiency and order.

Just hold this flower in my hand,
Feel it’s origins alive.
You see the fields,
Right by the creek,
Chilly mountains in the distance.

No rushing here,
A simple stroll will do,
Like it was meant to be,
Always was,
Before the metal, oil, and rust.

A simple stroll will do.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir


Photo by M.R

The journey of the spirit, towards freedom of thought, expressed in this poem, through the eyes of a tiny mouse. Only truly brave, can step over the boundaries that set to crumble any different ideas and thought.

Stop these questions, silly tail.

Grey fur,
Quick paws,
This mouse is similar to others,
But so much different as well.

It goes on raids together with a clan,
In constant search of food,
For colony back home.

This mouse takes a moment,
Sometimes few,
To look at stars,
Up in the sky.

What mysteries do hold,
Those sparkles,
Above the farm?

What creatures dwell beyond the farm?
What food they eat?

Thinker had many questions,
That no one could relieve.
They sparked suspicion,
And some worry,
From the elders of the clan.

Stop these questions, silly tail.

Said the elders to the thinker.
Our way of life is ancient,
Proven by the time,
Go to eat,
Then reproduce,
Enjoy the pleasures of the world!

Thinker cared not,
For words of elders of the clan.
Knowledge, exploration,
Moved his tiny spirit,
Further than the sun.

Banished in disgrace,
Expelled by his own kin.
Thinker made the journey,
Away from the big, old farm.

Thinker journeyed nowhere,
Surviving on the way.
At times,
Thinking with the sorrow,
Questioning the choice made.

One day,
Exploring forest filled with corn.
Thinker saw huge moving towers,
That reached up to the sky.
Shaking to its core,
Brave mouse approached the bottom of the mountain.

He remembered vaguely,
The days that followed his approach.
Those towers that he saw,
Were people,
Scholars of the science.

Thinker looked up at the ceiling,
Dotted in artificial stars,
Slowly closing tiny eyes,
With a simple smile,
Across the calmest face.

Process of thinking, brave person’s shield.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir


Photo by Dariusz Sankowski

Like many people, I tend to look back inside the memories in my mind and usually surprised how different of the person I was down the years.

We sole actors of this film, the only person in the audience, during a screening of this play.

Day to day, a vision in the mirror.
Film of memories recorded,
Of hardship, laughter,
Stored safely inside a computer of our brains.

Strangely looking back, reflect,
Upon ourselves,
Through the prism of memories.
As if episodes in life,
Were directed by producer,
Name of whom you can’t recall.

Spirituals tend to say,
That dead relatives of ours,
Observe us in life,
Judging decisions, choices.

I believe that the truth,
Is more sinister and scary.
It is not the relatives that visit us,
But each of us,
Will always be the biggest judge,
Of actions we perform.

We compare and analyze,
Break down and figure out,
Our actions and decisions,
With bitter strictness of a parent.

Few drops of nostalgia,
Are always present in this film.
Mixed with sorrow for wrong choices,
And opportunities long gone,
We create the saddest dish,
Too much vinegar, no salt.

We sole actors of this film,
The only person in the audience,
During a screening of this play.

We must remember of this fact,
Each day, in our life,
Make choices together with the mind,
Never miss a good chance around the corner.

Maybe then we will enjoy the dish,
Without tossing,
All the bitter bits,
At the screen,
During screening of your film.

Memories recorded inside our minds.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir


Photo by Filip Mroz –

The poem about the greater future we all believe in. The ultimate journey of life. What should we focus on during this voyage?

Time and life are moving slow, in depths of the ocean that’s beneath me. But above the surface, aided by strong winds, my boat is moving hastily towards the final reach.

A wooden boat is slashing through the waters,
Splitting waves like good old Moses.
He was escaping slavery and purge,
United by idea, feeling lucky with a god.

So am I.

Breeze tingling the hairs upon my hand,
Rushing forward to the glory,
To that fabled land,
So far away,
Where Moon and stars align.

Time and life are moving slow,
In depths of the ocean that’s beneath me.
But above the surface,
Aided by strong winds,
My boat is moving hastily towards the final reach.

This Voyage will have,
So many bumps and failures.
But if I focus on the dolphins,
And breathe the scent of morning waters,
Then surely this journey,
Will be rewarding,

Because reaching destination,
Is not a final goal,
It’s only a little pitstop,
In this grand Voyage called

Voyage, a journey through life.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir

Lazy Lad.

Photo by Pongsawat Pasom

I was writing Lazy Lad, as a constant reminder to myself about the danger of being sloth. I am sure many other people, will see their silhouettes, while reading this poem.

I close my eyes, start sinking to the cloud, losing link with gravitation, feeling emptiness and peace.

Early morning,
First day of the week.
It’s getting rather cozy,
On softest feather pillow.

Everything around,
Telling me to stay.
Even good cat Jimmy,
Snugged between my feet.

Outside the window,
Filled with no emotion,
I push myself to take a peek
And plummet straight back to the bed.

Dark thoughts start entering my mind,
Why me?
Why must I suffer?
Why the world so cruel?
Where is the justice?
I ask myself these questions,
Searching for the answers,
That nobody can give.

I close my eyes,
Start sinking to the cloud,
Losing link with gravitation,
Feeling emptiness and peace.

I see shapes and figures,
A whole universe of color,
Bridges made of stone,
Connecting in some ancient dance.

I’m in the palace,
Golden paintings on the wall,
Servants rushing through the door,
Fulfilling my desires.

I’m most diligent of workers,
When eating juicy grapes.
This profession suits me well,
Where do I sign up?

I was made for easy life,
Eating, drinking, sleeping.
At least I’m truthful and honest,
Regarding my best traits.

I started feeling,
Time slipping from my hands.
Exquisite foods evaporated,
Palace disappeared.

Gravity returned,
Like a heavy load on builders back.
In deepest shock,
I force my eyes wide open,
Grab my phone to see the time,
But across the screen,
Instead of time,
Message from the boss,
You fired, lazy lad.

The dangers of the sloth,
Come from the damage to oneself.
Trading diligence for pleasure,
Cannot be a perfect deal,
We stagnate and start to suffer,
On the path of life ahead.

Lazy Lad and the dangers of sloth.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir

Brother’s Tale.

Brother’s Tale is a little bit mystical but very true to each of us. The time will come when our pride will be a mere memory. The goal is to leave something concrete behind.

Oh Lord! Why did you take him? He shouted at the sky, but only sounds of nature, responded to his cry.

The day was bright and merry,
The flowers blossomed in the sun,
Some leaves are falling from the trees,
The birds are singing hymns.

Then I see a figure,
Unnatural in here.
He had a tailored suit,
Some funny looking hat on top,
And shiny, shiny leather shoes.

He took his hat,
And threw it on the grass,
He then went down his knees,
And stretched his hands above.

Oh Lord!
Why did you take him?
He shouted at the sky,
But only sounds of nature,
Responded to his cry.

I know, I know,
He liked himself,
Perhaps a bit too much.
But that’s the trait of many people,
Why choose him,
And not the others?

He was my mentor and a guide,
Introduced me to the ladies,
He took me out to fashion shops,
To dress me neatly with respect.

Oh brother, brother,
I will keep your legacy alive,
I will dress richly,
And show off,
We proud of what we have achieved.

I looked at him,
With so much sorrow,
And flew towards his shoulder.

My dear brother,
And a friend,
Pick up your funny hat,
I must confess to you my pal,
That pride and jealousy,
Have killed me.

I left him there alone,
Together with his thoughts,
I’m sure he didn’t hear me,
However, hope he did.
Because that’s the biggest lesson,
That I could ever give.

Brother’s Tale. Can’t live on pride alone.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir

Dictator’s Tale.

Photo by Andrew Keymaster

Dictator’s tale was created thanks to inspiration given to me by Belarus protests in 2020. Lukashenko has been holding the strings of power for too long and the time has come for him to leave.

“I must confess, he said, I am amazed, I been their leader for so long, and this is how they repay, my diligent and honest, my active, busy and determined, Service for my people?”

The sounds of riot,
Blared outside the window,
Glass shaking to its core,
So did the wooden table.

Man sitting in his chair,
His fingers fully folded,
Chin resting on both hands.
A lonely tear of sweat,
Fell down his shiny baldness.

I must confess,
He said,
I am amazed,
I been their leader for so long,
And this is how they repay,
My diligent and honest,
My active, busy and determined,
Service for my people?

He looked at his young son,
Who knew no such worry,
For a moment his eyes got kind of blurry,
He wanted to deliver,
The State to his young heir,
It seemed that now,
This deal needed some repair.

I hate you father,
Said young heir,
The people hate you,
So am I,
For your corruption and deceit,
Your cruelty and wrath.

This is State,
But not your business,
I’m rather tired of it all,
Give the power to the people,
Your time has come to pass.

How dare you,
Small rat,
Speak to me like that?
I am your father,
And dictator,
I’ll teach you tiny brat.

The angry despot took his belt,
And started smacking young heirs bottom,
Doors have opened,
Very wide,
Showing despots weakness.

Citizens have entered,
Stopping old mad man,
They took him to main square,
So he could hear his judgment,
But all he thought about,
Was anger of his heir.

Dictator’s Tale. Story of wrath.

Please let me know what you think of the poem on Twitter @FischerVladimir