I played with words
much like I fed the birds

    one morsel here
       another there

then suddenly became aware

they pulled together
     and made sense

have been a player ever since

summer rain
pouring down in strings
   suddenly
washes over
   the pain of many years
softly flows over the scars
soaks the old scabs
carrying them away

opening rain

it makes me sigh
   deeply
makes me remember
   moments of love
   hate
   passion
   despair

washing out
  sediments of bitternesses
  from ancient layers
  of thought and memory

it lights my desire
to again live fully
    look into a world of rain
   with fiery eyes

             * *

Killing in the name of whatever god is always wrong!

voted out of office
with over 7 million votes more
     and a clear majority in the electoral college
for his opponent

the sore loser
has turned Zombie influencer

desperately clinging to tatters
of dwindling power

the world phenomenal
  it seems
has always been
a threat or a temptation

to catch it all
in its totality
or to improve on it
with thought's ideal rules
  sharpened by generations
have caused discussions
over centuries

the other night
we saw a stately scholar do
   rather spontaneously
an old Greek dance
in one of Athen's old-town restaurants

her body moved
graceful yet meticulous
  gave shape to measured
steps and figures
  known over centuries
  in the small village of her birth

and while she shared with us
the ancient spirit of her place
  her dancing caught
  the joyous moment of that night

                    * *

with love
I have learned
not to ask why

feelings
have no reasons
the logic of thought
cannot explain

love is

happiness
as well as pain

gratefully
I accept both
knowing I am alive

even if you
do not love me

I simply am
   perhaps madly
in love
with you

     * *

your presence in me
my presence in you
when we tear at each other
in anger and despair
hurts terribly

signs of love and hate
collide
spawning wild words
hard feelings
dark bitterness
escalating

until I remember
that we found each other
miraculously
in this world

forgive me

I love you

slowly
we recognize
the shapes again
still hovering between
familiarity and strangeness

gradually
the view becomes accustomed
like in a meeting of old friends
whom years have changed
yet let them keep their essence
that helps us to remember
how we once shared
a space and time
in our lives

eventually
walls become transparent
as we step cautiously
into the new old house
walk over stairs
that lead us
to the rooms we think we know
still apprehensive

they look different now

we balance carefully
between past and present
forever hopeful
we are coming back
to the home
we left
eternities ago

you think that everything
is under control

that you have planned with care
and great consideration

then suddenly
some miscommunication
plus incidental elements

throw in a solid wrench
that reveals
how fragile
the strands of finely woven plans
will always be

the other day
you asked me
   what I thought about you
and I did not really
   answer your question

we all have our idiosyncracies
they make us unique
   and sometimes
a pain in the neck

being overpunctual
   or always late
staging an appearance
   or fading into the background
griping gruffily
or glossing things over
   with sweet talk
verbalizing everything
   or very little
sticking to long-made plans
   or making your mind up
   again
   in the last minute
swingin wildly
   or staying calm
pontificating on what is right
   or listening quietly
   to what others have to say
   indicating your respect
   for what they want to say
being a control freak
   or leaving people enough leeway
   to find their own approach
worrying permanently
   about friends, children, parents, family, the world
or believing that they
   can occasionally
do without us

there is a fine balance
    difficult to maintain
and more often than not
we fall off on one side

   or the other
   from that narrow ridge
   of mutual acceptance
grow irritated or disgusted
   in wild moments
tell her or him that THIS IS IT
   and s/he can leave
   the earlier the better
   and NEVER come back

when such tempestuous events
give way
to calmer contemplation
we remember
that time is short
   life is precious
   and love is what makes it bearable

and we reconsider

encroached upon
throughout the centuries
by human fear seeking
protection near some venerable shape
you stand
aloof
   silently balancing
   symmetrical circles
   of roots and crown

patienly oblivious of parks
and buildings made by those
who vainly walk in awe
to grasp the mystery
   in touch, in picture, meditation
of otherness unmoved

plantlife millenial

          * *

one day in May
it felt like April
    cold in the morning
    raining at lunch time
    hot in mid-afternoon
    cool in the evening
    frosty at night

nature sure has its peculiar ways
and our weather services struggle
to predict and understand

a pernicious old troll
with restless fingers
    and maybe also a mouse
still haunts the White House

for his last days in office
he spooks out of all bounds
sends millions into poverty
destroys protected grounds
obstructs where he can

desperate not to lose fans
    from his base that still dream
    that he won an election
he tries to make it seem
     like he still is in power

but many have gone sour
there is talk of defection
and crumbling are formerly
supportive actions

yet he still claims he’s won
fires those who don’t agree
is unable to see
that his time is gone

treading carefully
uncertain of whether
   the unfamiliar ground would bear
   its new burden
the first steps
soon turned
into a dance & tumble
   of happiness & love
   & letting go
celebrating the wonder
   of a newfound world

further explorations
brought some tough encounters
   with the Other
after a while     though
it could not be denied
that this was more
than just a fantasy
   or momentary wish fulfilment

it was real

ever since
the joy of coming home
has mingled with
   the awe of new discoveries
and the pure happiness
of feeling
this new world
expand into the future
of our lives

* *

now with a seven before the zero
I know that I am still no hero
just lucky to have lived so long
     and happy to go on
     for many years
before they sound the final gong

the graveyards of Verdun
are full
with summer flowers

children are playing
hide and seek
among the crosses

their parents
   coke in hand
keep looking for the names
of their grand fathers
on the wooden beams

verifying the family album

swallows dive steeply
under darkening clouds
slowly approaching from the west

you try your best
to give them shapes
and faces

them
who in grey noisy nights
fell out of life
   bright red leaves
   flushed prematurely
   by sudden frost

* *

a strong bora
sends the boats in the port
rocking and clanging

people keep clutching
their hats
tightly to their heads
their skirts to their thighs

we take windblown photographs
of each other
before the harbor bay

the wind is not as wild
as on the funny drawings
on those picture postcards
that show everything flying
   through the air

but things are bad enough
to bring tears to your eyes
and to make us turn our backs
on the rest
   of Trieste
and dry our eyes
over coffee and coke
in a small bar
   around the corner

           * *

without remembering
our past
we cannot understand
   the present
   plan for the future

   that is what they have told us
   in so many words

with advancing years
memories accumulate
   eventually
making up most of our lives

and yet

memory is there
   life is here

the present always
outruns the past
leads us into futures
we do not know

those who think
detailed knowledge of the past
would help them cope
with future life
are right
    and wrong as well

we imagine
our future modeled on the past
with the present thrown in
for good measure

and yet

the future may be
   the present is
      the past was

to live in it
makes you an addict
of events that were
once upon a time

   no matter
   whether fairy tale
   or trauma

the art of letting go
is in demand
and in much need

to square the circle
of life’s mystery

under a thin new moon
a black car passes by
   followed by a yellow one

two identical business suits
   disappear into the alley

leaving me to myself
   on the narrow balcony
   of my third-floor hotel room

where the night wind blows
thoughts around the corner
like cigarette smoke

               * *

back in an other world
   that feels unreal

with people whose familiar voices
   sound strange and thin
   as from behind thick glass

moving in rooms
   that do not promise
   your return

walking in streets
   that fail
   to echo your steps

I dream of you

       * *

forbidding just one word
spoken in public
opens the First Amendment
to the thought police

born from the brilliant blue
   of northern skies
it found a way
   through shiny eyes
straight to my heart

an instant passion grew
unfolded into years
   of anxious virtual meetings
times spent in harmony
as well as strife, support, and care

days of wild ecstasy
   followed despair and alienation
closeness and distance
   took their turns
and more than once
what was to be the final cut
grew back to bloom again

over the years
love has grown more sedate
but not less tense
   at times perhaps more painful

but still as true
as on that day
when in the sun of northern skies
it found its way
   through brilliant eyes
straight to my heart

          * *

a sense of loss
   of lacking
   close to panic

the world spins by
   and leaves me
   in the void

ferocious nightmares
   rise out of
   restlessness expanding

until your voice
   saves me
   from drowning

do you seriously think
you can determine your life

plan all your moves
avoid poisonous strife

reach all your goals
without devious grooves

by the time you have reached
those goals you have preached

you may be quite old
remembering how  bold
you were

and how coldly determined
on what you‘ve been sold

violence is a  terrorist excuse
for lack of good arguments

the tiredness in my bones
at times is almost overwhelming

it feels existential
lodged deeply somewhere at my core

that center of my life
   wherever it is
seems to gain distance
step by step
from the world’s busy-ness
makes me consider things
   like from above
and at the same time
narrows down my vision
   to my basic needs

what do I care about
   the hungry dead in Africa
the Asian victims of typhoons and floods and mudslides
or who becomes chancellor or president etc.

I focus on myself
mulling the question
whether I have a mission in my life
whether there is a destiny
   that needs to be fulfilled
or fate to be resigned to
or if it’s better to catch each day
   as if it were my last
   experience life to the brim
   as long as possible
   and die in the midst of it

at times
I wonder & ponder
yet shy back
from any definite conclusion
hesitant to fall into a groove
that lead me
to a too predictable
end

           * *

the daily media overkill
with the bad news of
     who killed whom and why
     which politicians and religious leaders
         believe in boundless self-aggrandizement
         endangering world peace and understanding
         do not believe in global warming
         treat people like the pawns in chess
         et cetera, et cetera

at times offers me almost irresistible temptations
to turn my back onto the world in sheer disgust
      retreat into my armchair, just with myself
      avoid involvement in the chaos, let life go by
      like muppets quipping from the balcony
      at a safe distance

yet my heart is bleeding

in my striving for a better world
I only have my words
and my belief they can inspire change
     when spoken clearly and with force

when I keep silent
I let others speak for me
in tongues that are not mine

all ways
   lead to the end
and there is little
you can do
  but try
to travel well

       * *

the night in which
the dead come alive for a while

only to be frightened back to their graves
by the horrible masks and spectacles
of the living

bristling
    with self-defense
a curt reply
comes quickly to her lips

she thinks
she knows the world
and does not care too much
   about adults
who have always been old
   by definition

looking out for herself
   at sweet sixteen
her body is some thing
   difficult to control

only when
it is obedient
to the swirling figures
   of her dance
her eyes shine deeply
and she has found herself
in delicate motion

the beauty
   of looking at the world
   from high above
   on a clear summer's day
includes the pain
of missing your hand
   in mine
to share this view
   of ancient cultivated land
while you
are flying over oceans
on your own
living

   like me

on sweet memories

of us

           * *

the other day
I visited my aunt
in the hospital

her face had become bony and sharp
she looked like suffering incarnate
with a mien you see
  etched into
on crucifixes
over the centuries

I guess that at this stage
traveling into a world
   without pain
is a desire
   strong and simple
those still anchored
   in this world
cannot understand

longing for peace and quiet
to rest your bones
   forever
closing the story of your life

and leave others
to make sense of it

           * *

I feel so uninspired
maybe because I’m tired
of all the nicely rhyming jingle
I’d rather wish that just a single
great thought or image would appear
of love or hate or lust or fear
unfold is imagery of riches
     no matter whether clowns or witches
that might be generally admired

alas, I am still uninspired…

people stuck in a mythic past
are unable to lead their country
into a great future

the milk of resentment
flows freely
when your children
   to whose happiness
   you have dedicated your life

    which did not make
   things easier

appear to be
   oblivious of it all
go on with their lives
spend time with others
   on days you miss them most
and grow defensively embarrassed
   when you show
   that you need them
   too

it takes the young ones
quite some time
to find themselves

and only then
they have the strength
   to gradually see things clearly
   and to understand

   the effort
   and the pain
it has taken you
   to bring them into this world

         into their lives

                * *

now that the world
may have a chance
to breathe in deeply
and exhale four years
of  incompetent U.S. government
we hope our wonderful world
      in spite of its assorted dictators
may have a better chance
of starting to renew itself

it is about time!

will we finally know
what we have always
   wanted to
when our lives end

   long expected
   always too sudden

or will it just be
   once more
the old wisdom

we know little
   and that
at the wrong time

Nothing can possibly embarrass me anymore -
I am a mother

all lives
are books
with unfinished pages

stories told
without knowledge
of the end

life stories
always incomplete
with open-ended plots

to be continued
by those who go on
living

the past casts
a long shadow
on our life

to unveil its mysteries
to trace
how we have
become what we are
demands a leap of faith

acknowledging
the nooks and crannies
of a life
that took its turns
not by strict logic
but at times
followed coincidental paths
   leading nowhere
& then retraced its steps
to surge ahead
sure of its goal again

running the wide road
to its predictable end
yet vaguely aware
of alternatives
that remain possible worlds
outside the choices
we made

meandering through life
at one corner of the labyrinth
we notice we have lost the string
that could have led us back
had we ever wanted

we do not worry much

to have it all
requires time and space
beyond our ken

looking back is fine
going back impossible

you have done wrong
you know it
you hate it
you cannot undo it

how do you cope with it
how can you
look at your face in the mirror
and live with it
  
how can you heal
the pain and hurt you caused
the wrongs you did

guilt is a dangerous friend
strong for some time
full with repetant deeds
   you go widely out of your ways
   to make up for past mistakes

yet over time
this may become a habit insincere
  you do the proper things
  but in your heart
  the hope diminishes
that they will show
   eventually
an exit from the past
   into a brighter future

leaving you
   stranded
in a world threatened by fake remorse
   where penitence becomes routine
   the rituals of asccusation and defense
play themselves out like in a loop
   in endless repetition
    without relief

the pain you caused
the wrongs you did
are thrown up in your face
with unrelenting fury
each time a knife
   twisting in slow motion
   right in your heart

each twist draws blood
and gradually you feel
   your lifeblood flow away
with each renewed attack
   determined will
   suffers another blow

temptation to give up
grows stronger and
   at times
seems like the way
   to ease
   tormented souls
   to break
   the self-destructive circle

if you fight on
   a battered knight
   in shredded armor
it is not out of guilt
but out of love
   that wants to heal the wounds
   you cut in selfish moments
out of responsibility
   for what you did
of which you are ashamed
and cannot love yourself
until she loves you back

   again

          * *

it is
one of the tantalizing
   fascinating traits of life
that in its myriads and myriads
   of shapes and images and truths
   nothing is certain

nothing
   to still our desire
   for knowledge definite

even the certainty of death
   evokes yet more vague expectations

we do not know
where we go
when we leave this world

have I ever imagined
I would enter a bank
masked
asking for money

lost in alien space
Italians
posted their home culture
and worked for it

today

the Americas
     (and the whole western world)

would starve to death
   without pasta  pizza
  
and Michelangelo

in september
the shadow of the arcades
   is almost too cool

on the plaza
before the Romanesque church
   children play soccer

their shouts
   pierce
the quietness

that radiates from the castle
   to the church
   and into the old town
   envelops the few
   customers of the osteria
   makes me want to write
   about us
   and the love in your eyes
over red wine & ham
   & white bread
under vaulting walls

* *

watching a TV broadcast
with Luciano Pavarotti
singing an aria
about a unique woman

     dedicating it to Lady Diana
     who is sitting in the first row

     a lovely and appropriate compliment

she died in the Paris car crash
not long thereafter

the world
is with me
on my way
through rolling hills
   green after spring rain

metallic evening light
casts into sharp relief
the contours of young leaves
and orchards blooming

a daring hare
   abruptly stops
      alarmed
by the approaching car
and in one
arching
jump
vanishes in the underbrush

the farmer neighbors
have taken to their beds already
when I nudge my engine smoothly
past their house
   and up the hill

to pick up my life
where I left it
   after breakfast

* *

the way I consider the world
as one who has rarely been heard
is through a glass darkly
no matter how sparkly
or bigly the presidents fared

"At the end of the day, only kindness matters."