I admit: you are a little older than me.
But what if you wouldn’t be in the same story
which is not always the same for us in the same time.
What if the mountain we climb wouldn’t be so sure.
And what if – there is always plenty of ifs – the lake
we took a bath would be only a pleasant image.
The mirror of us. The winter bird in the tale
I spoke in our secret language to bury
the song we used to sang on the yesterday’s edge.
And here, and then. And the home on the other hand.
That is the hand of our IT we always shake
and never catch – as we want to – the next morning.
Mar 9, 2023
Mar 9, 2023 at 4:39 AM UTC
What is important and what more.
It depends on where you are.
A branch is wrapping the mother.
And the mother is weaving the nest.
The season of birds in the tides
and estuary of the perennial river
with a constant stream.
A spring
to grow up to. Upward
the only journey you have made.
But it has already happened.
The point
moved on the map
and the well, where
you got your fingers wet.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 3:03 AM UTC
When nothing meets nothing
something comes out of it.
It could be the future
whole that can’t be divided.
It could be the past with no matter
or present
day that joined with the heat in the point
of view.
It could be the look which goes further but only
see nothing and nothing
more.
Nothing but the whole world.
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 1:59 PM UTC
The wind strikes from the sea.
There is a cold from our side.
Windows come to the north.
We want to overcome the distance,
to jump out on sails.
The big blue is opening for us.
We fall down pale with the breeze under our shirts.
Time was working against our will.
Slowly
we are landing
in this big jump out from overworking.
The seagulls are laughing at us with yellow beaks.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 6:37 AM UTC
Our home is alive with the voices.
I’m writing down the words on the terrace.
A child is walking through the corridor.
"Someone is writing on... (It passed away)."
It's about me. In the eyes of a child
I am someone. And I am a writer.
Sometimes the poet does not live with people.
Wealth passes by
the way without words.
The entire terrace is all
not written.
Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 8:39 AM UTC
1.
Art of attention.
Actions are dressing up
and wear each other.
2.
Right taken away.
No chance to go on the left.
The way is straight out.
3.
Rains are carrying May.
Storms hold our breath.
Home’s drying, shrinking.
4.
The end is near.
All the ends are jumping into eyes!
Future is a dot.
5.
Form for casting
has two ends only.
Each one is a throat.
May 4, 2021
May 4, 2021 at 7:53 AM UTC
Mists. Street lamps lights
are a tug lighting. A moored ship: closed estate.
The crew is sleeping. What are their dreams?
Harbor siren is mute. The world has already shrunk.
News from the neighborhood are arriving.
From very far. From another dimension.
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 4:33 AM UTC
the clock
is ticking
and i
still wear
this jacket
from school
outerwear
in the season of otherness
the girls have already grown up
behind us traces in the snow
i come out of it all the time
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 6:43 AM UTC
i made up a fairy tale for her
about me and tiredness
(about us?)
but she put on her lipstick
she was glad to see me
and took a bag with things
we were supposed to spend the night
together with the same story
Oct 28, 2020
Oct 28, 2020 at 6:23 AM UTC
mustangs
dispersed
towards the principles
of road traffic
to the lowlands
where have the bears gone
wolves and eagles days
in the glass fixed
by burnout
of lucky strikes
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC