Gazing within, I can see the warm light
Where I sit, the rain and cold bite.
A big coat fits but doesn’t satisfy,
On a familiar portal - my eyes lie.

Cars roar by, water flies in air
The sky pours sideways, all over my hair.
Sitting outside, peering in, eyes wide -
I view my long-lost family inside.
I jealously watch their fun
And silently pray for the sun.

Raindrops on glass in front of my face,
Oh, how I yearn to be back at this place.

The faces of my heart wave and invite me back,
Grabbing the doorknob, it breaks with a snap.
I dearly miss this house, for it is no longer mine,
I watch at the window for days at a time.

‪Skyline erupts
‪Into a city landscape‬
‪Buildings peak through‬
‪Clouds and fog‬
‪As if they are taking a break‬
‪From their own‬
‪Rigorous work schedule‬
‪To simply say hello‬
‪Reaching heights unknown‬
‪And looking down upon us‬
‪Jealous of our freedom to roam‬

my house resides
next to a busy road
the sound of traffic
is muffled
by its soundproof windows
and so are my screams

The red boar sits on the shelf
Can your only window be secure?
The red boar only hates itself
Can your only window be secure?

The April morning's quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of ****. All my life I've tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On ****** Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimneys to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I've gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.

It doesn't really change anything,
regularly I would despise the work of this poem,
the sight of blank paper is easy to fill,
but it's such a pain when at a pointless window sill.

I vaguely recall when I lived in joy,
Now people see me I'm lost in my thoughts,
Everyone thinks that I don't want to listen,
But the truth is that money has always been my problem.

The vintage doll in the window
staring into thin air.
Fake tears in a pipet
drip down her face.
Born into original sin
and the urge for it to wash away.
Slow soapy circles
on the porcelain skin.

A made up story
to clear the sky
that otherwise
drip
drip
drip
down water
watering her eyes.

the days are flying and here is september
on the calendar is
and here is the gold outside the window
rather, definitely not
but gold is
from memories
from anguish and sorrow

they fly flying days
all slip away imperceptibly
where am i now where am i now
but I am in a life in the world
in eternal existence
days fly and days fly
and now september is almost
and the calendar is new or not

but I'm not old
can distinguish
all new now and old
all old now and new
all the lights are now dark
all mourning is now a joy
nothing I can now discern
where am i now where am i now
in life eternal in life

26.08.18

Like the broken glass of a window
Shattered to pieces
A million bits laid out for show

Sweep me up and throw me out
Please don’t
I beg, I scream and shout

I promise to shine in the sun
Sparkle in light
I’m better than what I’ve done

I am not trash to be swept away
I am more
Hear me and what I say

I will not be the glass as before
I cannot be
But a new creation to love and adore

See me in the glistening light
Uncovered
The darkness I’ll gladly fight

Broken with no return to past
No not true
I’m breaking out of this cast

No more restainsts or darkness
I tell you now
Don’t be so heartless

Let me try to do better
I swear it
I won't be a scarlet letter

Like the broken glass of a window
Let me shine
I want to rebuild, so please don’t let go