Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Peter Balkus Mar 3
Apples from Austria
are bigger
and blushier,
much sweeter
than other.

I want to bite into them,
fill up my mouth
with their juicy pulp,
and eat them all!

But it would be much nicer
to keep them in the bowl,
and just sit and watch them
silently beautiful.
Ankita Gupta Feb 2019
Open the door
Enter the time that lapsed
Draw out the curtains
There is light from the past
Breathe the air
Dance to the tunes slow and fast
Ride the carriages
Travel to the time of chance
İlayda Korkmaz Aug 2018
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.

Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.

Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Penelope Winter Jul 2017
A gentle chorus wafts through the air as abandoned castles sigh, like a cat resting in a sun patch, and ancient cathedrals unitedly chant the song of religious history.
U nveil the glistening treasures deep within the mines of the mountain side; feel the butterflies in your stomach as you dive down the shafts.
S ing the song of the Alps as they enchant you with innocent snow and seductive diamonds, with charming forests and guilty avalanches.
T aste the morning brew on your tongue, basking in the warmth on the cafe patio, listening to the street musicians purify the tourist's ears.
R ed rooftops, orange balconies, yellow sunsets, blue skies, purple chocolate bars. But nothing is green here; for this land envies none.
I return through the skies like the prodigal son, having gone for so long, missing the life I was born to live; but everything is different now and the streets I once called home have become foreign.
A ustria, my mother, I remain an orphan.

- p. winter
I was born in Austria but live in another country now. I haven't been back in years but, this summer, I went "home". The memories are flooding back and I almost don't want to leave. But it's been so long... Austria isn't quite home anymore.
Michelle Garcia Nov 2016
on the night train to Vienna I dreamt
as the soft tangerine light bled into the windows,
tumbling down infinities of Italian countryside
absorbing into my retinas in summer shades
of dusk-colored haze


entranced I was--
a nervous girl of sixteen years,
uncharted valleys sprawling ceaselessly
at the beds of my fingers,
love languages my tongue could not yet
stretch its fibers around
freedom forming its hunched silhouette
just outside of thin glass windows
cooled by the night’s apprehensive breeze


endless, it seemed
the rumbling blur of possibilities--
my hands sedated for the first time in years.
quietly existing in the jolt of a moving cab,
the subtle ricochet through the faint lamppost glow
of fragile Austrian dreams.


home-- four thousand and forever miles away
and yet here was fine, just fine
a girl with stringy hair and a steaming cup
of midnight European tea
as her mother sighed to herself in the
peak of her American afternoon,
wondering whether her baby had found sleep
in someone else’s morning.
Dacia B Apr 2015
is it strange then to long for wild mountains that spring from all angles?
and stretch to the a sky filled with clusters of white
which escape from view quickly with an ocean wind
to see the unordered grass trompled over by livestock
on their way to the sole tree in the pasture
seeking a brief salvation from a stark ozone-less sun
no bureaucrat planned, manicured this land
he did not sit in a lofty office, feeling the cool breeze of electrically chilled air
it was not voted on, the way the waves are to crash
he did not need the approval of his lay out for pebbles on the beach
corruption did not intermingle the trees, making it cumbersome for humans
or the reclining alp's angles
they were left to the law engrained in movement
the unknown dispersion of marbles across the ground, scientific wonders

now they sit, in their building, living monuments of time
springing up from the ground like ant hills
not understanding
standing on the previous lives of men
entitled
my land
my city
my country

and i long for, my archipelago
stretch of green, a harmonious chord
pining after the days
in D.O.C camps
barefooted
gritty
the feel of sand in the bottom of my sleeping bag
and the wonder of no-man's-land
Next page