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Boris Simeon

Boris Simeoni, Zagreb, Hrvatska

Boris Simeoni, rođen 1945. u Zagrebu.

Završio Učiteljsku školu i

na Filozofskom fakultetu

Jugoslavenske jezike i književnosti

i komparativnu književnost.

Do umirovljenja radi na osnovnoj školi Medvedgrad.

Sudjelovao u raznim zbirkama i zbornicima

Izdao sa 39 autora knjgu I ja imam post

Priprema knjige za tisak I sudjeluje u književnim večerima.

Pozornica života

Svima nama na pozornici života
Zastor polako priprema konačni kraj
Sreću što smo htjeli prokockali smo znaj
Poniženju lažnom istekla je kvota

Upornost šteti kad igraš tvrde glave
Istina od uvijek dvije strane ima
Pitanje je samo zašto nam ne štima
Svemu tome ne pomažu noći plave

Putovanja nisu više nam u krvi
Ono prema kraju neumitno ide
Tako nas drugi sa one strane vide

Nije sudbina zaključala baš tvoja vrata
Svatko pri kraju bar neku slamku hvata
Pitanje je samo tko će od nas prvi

GLASNA LJUBAV

Glasna ljubav brzo gasne
Plamen bukne
Potroši se kroz riječi
Brzati nikuda ne treba
I ti i ja smo ispod istog neba
Svemir naš je dom
Ono u nama neka u tišini vreba
Ponovljene stvari izgube se
Dojade i tebi i meni
I sad kad treba nam tišine
Šuti šuti tiho i još tiše
To treba vatri prikrivenoj da diše
Kad dođe trenutak pravi
Ljubav će i svemir da objavi
Potrčat ćeš sretna dolinom leptira
Sve želje prave bit će
Osvrni se pripremi se
Tako se ljubav prava u duši skriva
Ubrat ćemo sva bogatstva ovog svijeta
Ljubit ću te mnoga ljeta

napiši mi…

Napiši mi pjesmu
Snove u nju usadi
Osmijehom me nagradi
Riječ po riječ
Tako kreni u snove
Na zemlju ih spusti
I sad nas ima dvoje
Možda spomeneš i tuš
Ono zamišljaš me negdje
Blizu
Leđa ti dodirujem
Svila samo svila
Nježna koža
Za poljupce posložena
Do kad ćemo uživati tako
Samo polako polako
Nježnije
Pazi da nas mlaz ne zalije
Okreni se
Usne mi ponudi
Pa sad reci
tko će da poludi

Ljubav

Ona je za pjesnike i sanjare
Nema toga više za ljude stare
Po mobitelu sad se lijepe prsti
Ko koza kad bršljan brzinom brsti

U dokonih ljudi ima čudnih stvari
U lažnoj ljubavi služe se lajkom
Pitaju se djeca što je sa majkom
Nitko više pravu ljubav ne mari

Na lajkove sam pao bome i ja
Noj baš sa mnom romantika ne prija
Tretira me ko potrošenu robu

Tužne joj pjesme ovdje i na blogu
Ulovit novog odavde do jutra
Tako i nasta nova kamasutra

PA ŠTO

pa što
dogodilo se neko pismo
pisma su danas rijetkost
možda i putuju dulje nego prije
stiže petnaestak dana
noseći ljubav neospornu
svašta se dogodi i vrijeme prođe
možda poštanske kočije znaju odgovor
koliko je mostova priječi trebalo
onaj iz okruga Madison
to je pravi ljubavni
na filmu naravno život izgleda ljepše
i pokoja suza mnogo više znači
ne spominjem ljepotu življenja
uvjeravan sebe da sve prolazi
i onaj dan vrućega ljeta
da li je glazba bila ciganska,
starogradska tko bi znao
violina je svirala preosjećajno za pamćenje
ne sjećaš se
nije me bilo
uvjeravaš li se zaista u te svoje istine
nekima Coelho pomaže
svojim kvazi nabožnostima
druge Eliot iz blata izvlači
svi čekamo na istoj stanici
vlak za raj a raja nema
………………………………………….

Boris Simeoni, Zagreb, Croatia

Boris Simeoni, born in 1945 in Zagreb.

Graduated from Teacher’s School and

at the Faculty of Philosophy

Yugoslav languages ​​and literatures

and comparative literature.

Until his retirement, he worked at the primary school in Medvedgrad.

Participated in various collections and anthologies

Published with 39 authors the book I I Have a Post

Preparing a book for print I participates in literary evenings.

The stage of life

All of us on the stage of life
The curtain is slowly preparing the final end
Luckily we wanted to gamble we know
The quota for false humiliation has expired

Persistence hurts when you play hard heads
The truth always has two sides
The only question is why it doesn’t suit us
Blue nights don’t help all that

Travel is no longer in our blood
It inevitably goes towards the end
That’s how others on the other side saw us

Fate didn’t lock your door
Everyone catches at least a straw at the end
The only question is which of us will be the first

LOUD LOVE

Loud love quickly fades
The flame erupts
Spend yourself through words
There is no need to hurry anywhere
You and I are under the same sky
The universe is our home
Let that lurk in us in silence
Repeated things get lost
You and I are bored
And now that we need silence
Shut up shut up quietly and even quieter
It needs a fire hidden to breathe
When the moment comes right
Love will also reveal the universe
You will run a happy valley of butterflies
All true wishes will be
Look back be prepared
Thus true love is hidden in the soul
We will reap all the riches of this world
I will love you for many summers

write me…

Write me a song
He instilled dreams in her
He rewards me with a smile
Word for word
So go to dreams
Put them on the ground
And now there are two of us
You might even mention the shower
You’re imagining me somewhere
Near
I’m touching your back
Silk just silk
Gentle skin
For kisses arranged
How long will we enjoy it like that
Just take it easy
gently
Make sure the jet doesn’t flood us
Turn around
He offered his lips to me
So now say
who is going crazy

Love

She is for poets and dreamers
There is no more for old people
Fingers are sticking to the cell phone now
Like a goat when an ivy sprouts fast

There are strange things in idle people
In false love, they use a like
The children wonder what happened to their mother
No one cares about true love anymore

Bome and I fell for the likes
Noah doesn’t like romance with me
He treats me like a used commodity

Her sad songs here and on the blog
Catch a new one from here by morning
That is how the new kamasutra was born

SO WHAT

so what
a letter happened
letters are a rarity today
they may even travel longer than before
arrives fifteen days
carrying unquestionable love
everything happens and time passes
maybe the mail carriages know the answer
how many bridges it took to cross
the one from Madison County
it is true love
on film of course life looks more beautiful
and a few tears means much more
not to mention the beauty of living
convincing himself that everything was passing
and that hot summer day
whether the music was gypsy,
old town who would know
the violin played too sensitive to remember
you don’t remember
I was not there
do you really believe in those truths of yours
to some Coelho helps
by their quasi-devotions
Eliot pulls the others out of the mud
we are all waiting at the same station
a train to paradise and there is no paradise

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