Biography of Yekaterina Bezpalaya
I live in complete and total wanderlust.
And if ambition is deadly, then I'm deemed to die.
The rest I leave for the history books.
Yekaterina Bezpalaya's Works:
Nothing particularly published except maybe a few poems and one of which became part of a video for the Declaration of Universal Human Rights by the Pacific People Rights Group
Yekaterina Bezpalaya Poems
The bead from a necklace, The kiss from a date. The love from my parents,
Sky By The Window
A pencil, some paper, a pen, and a chair. A desk by the window, and the wind through your hair.
From Winter: To Spring
I walk through a patch of yellow flowers, Some have shimmer, some have a glint of gold. Others invite the sun to play,
Without A Clue
No one knows the rocks that burden my shoulder, breaking bones piece by piece. No one sees my rapid heartbeats, as they are drowned by head hard thoughts.
My Grandpa's Handprint
These hands have touched everything, as so far goes the truth. The deep, ridged scars, are the obvious proof.
A sweet aroma of freshness hardly lingers, slightly unconcealed. Cracks in the sky invisibly splinter the clouds. For even a moment,
There are so many parts to this girl that you see, Feigned smiles are only a tidbit of she. Well-practiced acts doth she show, But of seams on the heart,
The Hidden Secret
The tree stands still. It moves its hands in a strange greeting, as the sunrays warmly kiss both my cheeks. All spirits of Mother Earth are listening for my depart.
Fastforwarding To Tomorrow
My future is my diamond, a precious gem that has no price. It is my God foresken pathway, Life and Death, two-sided dice.
Water In The Coffee Cup
A gentle orchid in the breeze, a boulder to rooted ground. Water always finds a way to make a rock so round. A song will always find a way to wiggle into your ears,
Why is it that my eyes repent at what they see? Beauty is no factor here, it gives not what is true.
What inspires the tiger that beats from within? Making my eyes crouch and follow jumping prey. Where is the desire to kill? To tear at flesh make it not my own.
The squeaky shiny hinges, like from oiled engines' roars, or swooshing green propellers, like lions' chases after wild boars.
Just beyond the shooting stars, just beyond the rising waves, hear the cooes of a lullaby, by a mother day and night.
eating ripe apples,
and laughing away.
Crystal clear clouds,
in some of the very beautiful ways.
but in short,
these are some of spring's last days.