One word:
Contained in a heart
so big
and impervious
to failure that it
refuses to acknowledge
anything but greatness.
A muster seed of it
voids the purity of the soul
it resides within;
perhaps a man could do without pride,
for it is vain and coarse
to a soul eager in the pursuit
of light.
But without faith in one’s manifest destiny destruction may lie afoot.
A hubris inviolable in its demeanor
is the only settlement
for a man smitten by
the drive to climb the heavens
and reach the apex of existential

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
June 27, 2015

Many A Song Were Written …


Many A Song Were Written
The feel of her flesh’s steamy steel
wrap my breathe like a rolling film reel
Sliding and gliding, my soul rides through the wet slopes of her fire
She’s really got me going, got me going higher
I used to be a slave to life and its daily toils
Now I’m living free in this mortal coil
I’ve spent countless nights composing melodies, feeling oblique and sad
Thinking of all the crazy and finish ways she’s driven me mad

Many a song were written in the light of her wake
and still, many a year later, don’t do any good for my sake
Money lingers, scarce and hard to come along
Yet despite my soul’s equivoque poverty
I can’t help myself from carrying on
in the wrong of fantasy
and the heights of ecstasy

Not necessarily living lavishly, nor large
but such is fate when passion’s in charge

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
June 3, 2015

Home by Jack Johnson (A Dedication)



Over the past week I’ve been away from home, traveling out and about while doing a little bit of soul searching. I love traveling. It’s great for the body, mind, and soul, and can sometimes help you expand your outlook on life. But another thing my travels do is help me realize just how important my loved ones are to me.
Home is where the heart is and my heart is with those whom I love.

I dedicate this wonderful acoustic song by Jack Johnson to all those dear to my heart …

I’ve gotta get home there’s a garden to tend
There’s fruit on the ground and the birds have all moved back into my attic,
Whistling static
And the young learn to fly
I will patch all the holes up again

Well, I can’t believe that my lime tree is dead
I thought it was sleeping, I guess it got fed up with not being fed
And I would be too, I keep food in my belly
And hope that my time isn’t soon.

And so I try to understand
What I can’t hold in my hand
And wherever we are home is there too
And if you could try to find it too
‘Cause this place is overgrown, needs some whacks and mow.
Home is wherever we are if there’s love here too

In the back of our house there’s a trail that won’t end
We went walking so far that it grew back again
There’s no trail at all
Only grass growing taller
Get out my machete and battle with time once again
But I’m bound to lose ’cause I’ll be down if time don’t win

I’ve gotta get home there’s a garden to tend
All the seeds from the fruits buried and begin
Their own family trees teach them, thank you and please
They spread their own roots, then watch their young fruit grow again
And this old trail will lead me right back to where it begins

And so I try to understand
What I can’t hold in my hand
And whatever I find I’ll find my way back to you
And if you could try to find it too
‘Cause this place is overgrown, needs some whacks and mow.
Home is wherever we are if there’s love here too

Dandelion in the Wind


Dandelion in the Wind

I’m thinking of you …
Day and night you come up
in my thoughts
and in my eye’s vacant sight.
When I fall back into the solitude
of the lonely night
It’s only you I see;
and with you I wish to be.

I’d give the world – my everything –
to lay by your side
for just one more night;
To feel the tenderness of your
gentle skin touching mine
as I wrap your smooth hair
Around my fingers.
Your beauty kills me
– it’s not fair.

I act as if I don’t care
and like you were never there.
But without you, I’m slowly drowning in a sea of sorrow.
And though I seem well,
your absence dims the hope of a better tomorrow.

I’d give everything, my all
Just to hear your voice:
the soft melody pouring from
your lips
Playing in perfect harmony with the cadence of your moving hips,
as you narrate your day
– dandy, as usual.

Today, I’d like to think of you.
Tonight, I’d wish to be with you.
My desires are all but void so long as the blood in your veins pump;
And though you are not with me,
and may possibly never be,
I know, with full conviction, that I’ll forever dwell in the confines your heart and mind.

Like a dandelion, we’ll disperse together into the wind of the calm Summer breeze;
Steering through different paths, whilst remaining one of the same.
Be I a lilac or you a rose,
we’ll both be violet.
Visually striking, like vipers,
despite our melancholy emotions,
spitefully morose.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
May 11, 2015




Along the green shores of a golden coast rests the dreams of generations
That once sought fortune and prosperity in a land far from the old world.
Enclosed by mountains of gold and deserts scorched by Death,
the cost of these pursuits were ever endearing toils
– wondrous as it was.
Poor men hastened to make their claims;
Rich men took the liberty of forming their vision of a paradisal republic.
California, a haven for the wide eyed warriors and desperado vagabonds, reserves a special place in the hearts of lovers of life and all that is sacred in the eyes of it’s beholder.
When the blues catch us off guard and are unforgiving,
Look west and fly the winds of the zephyr;
So far away for the meek of soul,
it lies deep the hearts of the gypsy-minded.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
May 4, 2015

Death Never Waits



Death Never Dies

I’ve lived to die another day.
Carrying on as time sways;
Living free and without regret,
Yet the ground below I’ll never forget:
Someday soon my abode to dwell
Who knows where?
It’s either heaven or hell;
I’ll plant a seed and watch it grow.
Death never waits, so you never know.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
April 27, 2015

Sweet Hallowed Nights


Lower Fifth Avenue at Night, 1920. Guy Wiggins.

Sweet Hallowed Nights

At sunset, the boulevard descends into a translucent silhouette.
Dim streets, the sinners roam in search of play.
The dark hour is a lonely one, and within it lies the pretense of despair and self-inflicted anguish;
Like the stamina of a black rose, the night is enveloped by a smooth calm that so delicately,
yet hauntingly, embellishes hope in the tourney of wills.
Desire is biting into a sweet, luscious apple;
Your appetite is tended, but only in the slightest of ways.
The twinkle of stars in the crepuscular plane of space hovers above:
like sugar, the saccharine sensation, though ephemeral, is euphoric;
And until dawn leaves you breathless.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
April 19, 2015