Butterfly is a
Colourful canvas where poem
Finds its perfect sketch

You and me
Two rails of a railway track


So close
Still apart forever

I have a fresh rose
                   in my hands
                                Still I smell only you

I have a fresh rose in my pockets,
But I still smell you, my darling!

I have a fresh rose in my pockets,
But I still smell you, my darling!

I remember
it was fog and
then it was light and
I was already falling
outside of myself
thank you
for showing me
the way back
thank you
for wonder
with it
I write poetry
everyday

when does the poem end?


creation is never ending,
the earth is endlessly morphing

but you lean back and say
enough
not because the poem
is finished,
for it is never finished,
because an exhalation feels
satisfying, releasing

but the poem never ends,
nor does the need to

exhale

not with the final .


the next poem is

but a

continuation

of the previous poem;

a continuation

of you~poem,

inhaling

and

exhaling

& morphing.

Sat Jan 7
7:57am

today
a strange milky light
rolling over the hills
like a blinding blanket
I caressed naked branches
their fragility a statement
plum trees apple trees
peach trees cherry trees
and I a witness
to the dignity with which
they carry their wounds
I love trees because
their shadow is not full
of bitterness.
perhaps
they know how to cry
for the absence of wonder

you see
much is going on
beyond words:
all of me and
this tree
feel
there is a depth
in everything

We danced to a new year
in the utopia of the music
and the Golden Oldie
songs of love, longing
and sorrow that live
in our lungs

and emerge unpredictably
all of a sudden from the depths
of our breath
caressing or storming full
of experiences that make us
feel who we are

and what it's all about, seize
the eternity of our lives
in the stream of our breath
which is also the breath of others
while we are completely
engrossed in our presence

keep the photographs
the city is overexposed again

take more walks in the nearby woods
the world we knew as children

watch out for frogs and detonators
mind the wires

new aerial boundaries at dawn
no one steps inside by choice

adapt to the proper order
and no sleeping under tables

the reflection tower is a good place to start
tourist trap, a certain approximate

bring the thing under the couch
in case of an unexpected visitor

more nightmares cut out of the newspaper
what is an Astra 600?

three different hat sizes
Hannie says yes to ménage à trois

the joy in discovery
the joy in forgetting

like God without a compass
not a lot, just forever

I am sitting everywhere like a stone
struck by lightning
my nerves spinning their electricity
in new revolves
this vibration is transformation

of of of of
something into anything else
syntax into the golden ratio
fingerprints into enlightened wax
lungs into vertical love
craving into silence
desire into root
immanence into
transcendence and
the other way round
projection into
introspection
nihilism into redeeemed
despair
music into a theorem
of sunrise
hatred into pain
pain into
violet mourning
bread into singing
oxes' thirst into the art
of the earth
secrets into tangible
translucent pictures
rivers into the dreams
of the sky

I into the other I
in you and him
and them
in the mycellium
of syntaxes, synapses
enchanted
ephiteliums
into a choir of selves
in love's eyes

she is so brave so daring
so quiet so earnest
holding the void of pain
for so long
in sleepless nights
she used to wildly dance
her unmuted dreams
such gentle spirit nests
in her heart
that the days count themselves
till darkness subsides
and laughter reinvents itself

her fierce heart is such a gift
the shape of miracle
in my tears
each day