-on a leader's departure

He who has no heart, may fill the hole
with quick success and loud dreams;
but greatness and eternal joy
may be reserved for brotherhood.

     Step down, step back now.

When you emerged,
a triumph over longtime racial neglect,
you confirmed:
we all are, we all can be brothers.

     It's simply our choice.

Each one of us deserves respect,
each one deserves care,
just for the plain fact of being alive.
No plight, no suffering, no fear apply,
no merit whatsoever needs to be added.

As darkness closes in on us,
your fraternal reign stands out even more.
No, it cannot end this way;
move on, travel this world, but don't forget us;
encourage us, anyhow, anytime, with your brotherly advice.

     Say "Hope", say "Hope again!"

-on an old guy's christmas dinner and his small guests

I like a swift horse on the table.
On our plates we have oats and wheat,
but it's on stories of the races
that we actually feed.

Let me offer him a brimful thimble
to sprinkle his wins with an immortal wine.
Let me gently take his head between *******,
pat his back a bit, a silver racing horse so fine.

Don't think I'm lonely, I'm no bore.
Last week I had the oxen and the ***,
exchanged ***** gossip on our saviour.

For new year's eve I'll invite a whale.
Serenely we will sing a sub-sea song:
"In bright blue bubbles, let's drown the year's old tail!"

-on the daily struggle with an ideal environment

     Summer

Woollen sweaters
in double panes, reflecting...
the blazing heat.

     Spring

Stale air
meets cigarette fumes:
the smile of a crack.

      Winter

Cotton shirts,
dripping sweat, chills...
a howling blizzard.

     Autumn

Burning leaves,
sharp smoke curling in:
a sprinkler's delight.

     Airco

Steady air
with ever-changing moods
in this one bottle...

Static climate
gets blown to raw shreds
- nature interferes.

-on a recent case of carefree worldviewing

I don't care for the kidneys,
I **** on the heart and the brains.
Like a tumor I keep growing,
I will crush whatever remains.

Let me push aside the wall
between your house and mine.
Let me party in your garden;
share your wife, join me, live the life!

To hell with the environment,
let me **** into another man's glass.
Burning, flooding, starving...
well, I didn't do so, right?
The guy complaining is just an ***.

Don't worry about the future,
by our inflated egos we'll lift off.
We'll shake our heads in disbelief
of the crazy turmoil underneath.

Don't you worry about your children,
'cause once, they will be dead like you.
Don't you worry about remembrance:
your inner void will see you through.

     Take care, my friend.

-on seeing Yves Marchand's pictures of an
abandoned miners island near Nagasaki

What will remain of us,
industrious ants,
when all that we work for
comes to an end?

A dusty cupboard
in a murky corner.
Two empty bottles,
one for wine, one for apple juice.

No trace of our names.
Gone are the honours.
All that we strive for...
just thin air on an empty shelf.

It's peace again,
peace at last.
It's what we deserve,
our just reward.

-on a local beer at a local pub, or
another good reason to speak out as a poet

An angel in an apron offered me a drink.
"Here comes Eternal Youth," she said,
"it is meant to make you think."

     While I drank, the world billowed like a sail.
     Time went crazy, bladders appeared,
     the world's front peeled off like a veil.

Heroes and gods alike were humbled.
Their faces aged, their bones crumbled,
the wind swept away what remained of them.

     With them they took the light.
     I stumbled in pitch black darkness
     and man, from the deep I cried.

And then, suddenly, I knew:
my voice, that's me, I'm here!
I'm not too young to interfere!

     I shouted and pushed up the curtain,
     reflected light cut through the dark:
     the waving sea, time to embark!

My angel again was in her counsellor's role.
"Now sail in song forever," she spoke,
"raise your voice, save your soul!"

     I peered into the golden waves...
     and found it was this magic potion,
     that turned and turned in its majestic motion.

There is truth in wine but there's soul in beer;
and when it sends you spinning, sing, sing!
sing, so all the world can hear!

-on my mother's last months, or how
to do the final step without moving

I am not ready to go, she said.
I accepted doctor's verdict;
still, I ask: why me, why now, why?

     I hate these vultures, mother,
     that eat you from inside.
     I faintly see them through your skin,
     not even trying to hide.

I am not ready for resignation.
I am so angry about all this.
I am so angry with you.

     Your heart is cut in half
     and all we see
     is darkness:
     distrust, anger, fear.

I am not ready for all the answers
that wait for me on the other side.
Oh, let me have my questions please.

     Your brains are chopped to pieces.
     Little spans of time -
     that's all you keep in mind,
     and dismiss again with ease.

I am not ready to go.

     A premature Tibetan burial,
     a cruel death while still alive:
     witness of your own decay.
     So that's how Mother Nature will finally arrive?

I'll never be ready to go.

     Wait until she comes over the top,
     an almighty demon, an enemy from within.
     So that's our clean, sober, rational world:
     a cold, efficient killing machine?

I'll never be ready to go.

     I'll never be ready to go.