I’m looking for some zen
behind the scene
(or on the spot),
some raw footage
without cuts and credits:
narrative à dieu.

I want to share some tao
in this ***** routine:
shall we simply trust
in a language
called equilibrium?

Before delusion becomes infallible
miracles happen. Especially to non-believers.
Just doubt enough – it’s the currency
of breakthrough. Promise.

And look at the generosity of the modern world.
We constantly keep dancing on thin ice:
Quite generous, isn’t it? –
A phone call, an error, a rainbow
merge into: Let’s go for a walk
gathering raindrops and conjuring up rivers.

I do suggest alchemy as lingua franca.
It will create so much joy and tongue-twisters.

And now I start being busy doubting –
it is only a little window onto god.

In me begins a new story. Not that I have just finished something old. That's already been done long ago, without me noticing. A new story begins, because I am that which was always there, new to understand and able to reinterpret.
This relief is so complete that I dare not forecast. I'm beginning to believe in the absence of gravity and the delicate beat of wings. In the vastness of my soul frolick hordes of butterflies. I embody spring which has sprinkled me with magnolias, waterfalls and illuminated letters.
Each mental vision would be a surgical procedure into something whole and perfect. I must be true. Gingerly I deal with the echo chambers of change. They are able to turn the smallest tears into raging rivers. And a flower is enough to carry beauty into the world. The void has taken new space - is that intellectually possible? The new story will not be the final version of myself. But it is no less important. My identity must breathe. This is the only prayer that I will speak. For now I dance alone even in the most beautiful nooks and crannies of all the seas, skies and feelings. But I'm glad if you find me.

Sometimes a butterfly ***** its wings
and elsewhere someone gets wobbly knees,
because he is just about falling in love with anything.
He’s on the verge of tears and on the brink of bliss.
Now this could be a monk dreaming about transformation.
If so, I guess, he ate too many sticky sweets last night.
But the story goes further: At the very same moment
the butterfly leaves the flower and surrenders to the wind –
flabbergasted, the universe holds its breath:
Are its wings strong enough for the invisible force?
There, the monk wakes up with wobbly knees.
How courageous, one must admit.
And all of a sudden the monk has butterflies in his stomach.
Things get mixed up here, he thinks, and he tries
to fall asleep again – but (un)fortunately he can‘t.

As the story continues,
two kindred spirits merge into one;
chapter after chapter,
like a rose is a rose is a rose.
For a relationship – what do we prefer?
Prose or poetry? Long-term or short-distance?
At some point enjambements, I guess.
The arc of suspense lets its arrow fly
into the well-known unknown.
It never fails, it always hits.
But why cutting long stories short?
The attention-span has become so thin,
almost as thin as truth and justice.
I mean, sometimes I would like to find
needles in hay-stacks
and blow everything up here.
Wouldn‘t that be fun and childlike.
But hey, I found someone to love,
I mean to really love, and not just to love.
Someone to cuddle and bodyheat with,
someone to spend an entire week with
in a rainy windy city behind thick-skinned walls.
Well done! Bravo! Lucky you!
The arc of suspense lets its arrow fly.
I admit, that’s the most difficult part.
What I love about this?
He might be the one.

thank you for signing in
in between the signs

thank you for leaving space
luminously empty

thank you for listening
to the masterpiece
of silence

thank you for quoting quantum leaps
while twirling the hairs on my chest

thank you for choosing
azure and the network of spring
so emphatically

thank you for collecting
the echoes of a single dewdrop
with the presence of a child

thank you for creating
miracles and bubbles:
360°
thank you for breathing
flashy ******* passionately

thank you for your interstellar
plexus and your solar torus

dewdrop glass, thy name

thank you for wordplaying
magnifying fiery patterns


(dewdrop glass, 2017
christian sonnenklar)

again, I have to learn, if a table is still meant
for crumbling croissants and obstacles,
or if it's simply a place where caffein gets cold.
the fortune tellers were wrong -
there is no trace on the edge of the cup:
and that heats me up.

I have to see, if a window is still meant for watching
robins and blue ****, or if it's simply
the most torturous part of being on my own.

once more, I will throw up stubborn dreams
and keep selling them as ridiculous antiques:
another flea market with curiosities down by the river,
that keeps flowing and shimmering in the early sun.

"where will you put them up?"

But wait, I am a net –sending waves, breathing photons
causing beautiful thunderstorms, that light up various paths.
I flower the dark. I emerge, I subside, I take wing.
I am always close to an unwritten poem
that gathers more than just the sum of single pieces.
The “I“ appears to be the skin of mind
that wants to be caressed by grammer and explanations.
I think, “I“ thinks in heavy dictionaries
translating itself into questions. Who am I. Who I am.
Just one guarantee: Beyond, all tracks go together.
I mean the source of thunderstorms.
From this point – light up now.

September 2013

On my way from the camel
to the child
I would like to be
an impressive peacock!
Some dandy! An Oscar.
But what really happens is this:
A Zen-master shows up
and rips this aphorism apart:
„Better to stick your nose into
the galaxy,“ he utters grumpily,
„don’t miss that beauty!“
And what a nice philosophy –
I will take that opportunity.

Suddenly it stops raining:
The woodpecker doesn’t mind,
he keeps on hammering lofts –
he’s kind of loopy. That’s his nature.
And that’s his beauty.
The poet doesn’t stop hammering
on his keyboard, always looking for
meaning, nonsense and love-at-first-write.
He’s kind of loopy too.
Shall we call him paperpecker?
That’s his nature. And that’s his beauty.
And the paper starts revealing all kind of things:
Bulls in china shops, bilingual pixies,
and look! – on the left a cancerous person
even finds lucky clover –
1up! if this were a video-game,
but life has more than three dimensions.
Hmmm… Let’s put some tea-lights
and drift-bottles into puddles.
Someone definitely will smile and reply.

Love-driven on the edge of chance
he took the stairs in his surefooted stride:
Two, four - and one too many.
Happens, sometimes.
He dunked his thumb in the jam ***
And sought for a sentence –
That eluded him.
He rooted, laughed and drank,
Took his scarf,
hat
and thought:
Such a lucky chance –
It happens, now and then,
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
And leave on the dot.

Well then!
Four, two – you know the rest:
One too many.
It was meant to be.
There were flowers by the table –
And the cups were steaming
Invitingly to be stirred.
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.
You know too well,
It happens now and then:
That you lose time
But grasp your luck
Hot chocolate and a piece of cake.

In a tiny bitter lemon tree
there sat an orange, quite obese,
dreaming an ice-cream-reverie:
I would like a scoop of rasperry…
„That cheeky orange“, spoke the lemon tree,
tries to spoil our yellow purity!
Where upon the orange blushed.
„Now you look like a strawberry“
laughed a bumblebee
licking ice-cream happily.

let a kiss
travel
9000 kilometers
within
the speed
of light

is it urban?
is it cosmic?
, to walk upon
a silk rope in the sky?

there is no time-difference
between autumn and japan

let this kiss
burn wowing quickly
like a shooting-star
within poetry:
healingly handwritten
and strongly heartfelt.

I found some grammer of the universe:
Not easy to catch, but easy to find,
as it is simply everywhere.
In the navel and in the fridge.
In a teacup and in a dream.
In a memory and in a grain of dust
as much as in a withering biography.
Sometimes I mix up prepositions,
so that I my beloved feels demagnified.
But I will take the effort to spell lovable meaning in that language.
And it happens that I use wrong keys
- and I don't get the meaning of sentences
that couchsurf my mind - but it's all furnished
with such a beautiful mess. Oh dear,
let me play on you(r) combinations.
And embed the failure in the long run of light.
I know, everything is meant to glow.
Furthermore there is the challenge of silence,
t h e   a b s o l u t e l y   s u p e r c o n n e c t i v e
muting the noisy pain of opposition.
Let us meditate on that.

So now I am truly alone as all plots
and unhappy endings are about
to subside, wither and die –
Literally they epitaph themselves:
For me the most delicate art in this world.
Seemingly duality has stopped playing on my strings,
so please recognize: I am not talking to myself –
I am still lip-synching, so this is absolutely an approach to something.
Besides it appears to me, an actor’s true home
is the changing-room between the scenes:
Simply furnished, no applause. Silence.
Enjambement. N’est-ce pas?

I believe at some point in time
the point in time itself will disappear,
which means be prepared to flow (google therefore Panta Rhei),
or the point remains and time stops (forget what you just have googled then) –
therefore, I hope you do something you really love,
because no one knows what happens
if that happens. Being frozen? Waking up?
Plucking flowers would be nice though
or hugging your grandpa before he dies.
Oh – does he still die then?
Hey, what do death and decay do without past and future?
I always wanted to trick celestial authorities!
Imagine Grim Reaper being doomed to the power of Now –
I’m quite sure he would get a nice suntan.
As I am the philosopher in this poem, I use magic power,
which means I simply keep flowing when time stops.
Too absurd? Have a look at Salvador Dali and his paintings!
He inspired me to write this stuff.
Let‘s have a look then: It would be very likely
to catch my neighbors from downstairs being frozen in the position of 69.
Nothing unusual, only he is 86 and his boyfriend 28;
probably they love *** better than mathematics.
(To find some philosophical content here, google Pythagoras).
Martha, my neighbour from upstairs, could be snapshot
finding typing-errors in modern poetry. She lacks humour.
I am glad she’s frozen, because she would find tons of errors in mine.
A Canadian, who recently moved in, will be found in raptures. Must be in love.
End of lesson #1.

What if  we had roots deep down to the centre of luck –
wouldn’t we be laughing about rain and tears
and wouldn’t we keep growing if we embroidered
our thoughts with roots and luck.
What if the fruit at the end of the twig was happiness, without a question mark.
Wouldn’t we chuckle about the empty space in our mind?
How could we stop?
What if, instead of connecting dots we overdrew parentheses and footnotes with smileys and flowers and purring cats;
What if science and pain only existed
as cuddly monsters with toothache in children's books;
What if we found a rabbit’s hole leading us into a world where psychiatrists and gurus were nervous patients
in big waiting halls without flushing toilets.
Wouldn’t we be neurotically smiling?
What if we didn’t call ourselves falling leaves,
but started feeling eons of love upon our wrinkles.
Wouldn’t death then simply be a slight breeze
releasing the heat at the end of a wonderful day?
What if our hearts went on, free of age and weight,
circulating kindred songs beyond fixed identities.
What if I was wrong and every conditional was closer
to experience than arguments and miracles –
My dear: I unlocked the universal laughter;
I turned sadness into luminous gardens, into a slow waltz
to hear the non-dancers saying: Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!  
What if we finally found the recipe for equilibrium:
Would we still be needing stock markets and currencies?
Or could we simply exchange syllables across languages
without losing the message of oneness.
What if we really had roots deep down to the centre of luck?
Yes. Roots and luck.

litter me with your kisses
let your insistent lips echo them
sprinkle me with your eyes’ sparkles
frame me with your hands
transcribe my sweat into wordless sound poems:
your need for heavy showers
will find shiny, never-ending vistas
and during our gay afternoons
forget about the abyss and the sun
and follow the hidden tracks

I still eat toasted white bread
with thinsliced strawberries
and small sugar hills:
Could be noisy Rotterdam.

I still mix up urban blues
and chagrin d’amour
and call it open relationship:
Could be the ugly part of Paris.

Sometimes I juggle with lemons
next to a Czech red fridge
having a flower square in mind:
Could be a ******-up poetry-slam
in Berlin.

And I still wear t-shirts with
vintage anthrazit windmills:
Could be either Don Quichote
or Don Juan trying to rewrite
their script.