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

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”
rarely fails
to shine his eyes
though he is not a man
    to shed tears easily

apparently
the harmonies
touch strong emotions
   spawn deep dreams

this time
the power of music
graces momentous acts

Europe is growing
75 million people are joining
decades of separation
are beginning to end

he looks at mediated images
of exultation across the latitudes
   fireworks  songs  speeches
   fears and hopes

and wishes
   wildly
      almost desperately
to believe
these are the right steps
in the right direction

             * *

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

my garden has a butterfly
each time I see it flutter by
I wonder why it is so shy
and does not want me to come nigh

I guess its ancestors detected
that many of them were collected
to end their lives pinned on a board
then eyed by beings they abhorred

as I prefer my animals alive
I love to see my butterfly
amidst all daily haste and strife
just beautifully flutter by

sometimes I think of you
   as of a gentle loving breeze
   whose caress
   makes my body ache

at other times you are the storm
in which I plunge in wild delight
and let myself be tossed
around the world

and then again
I feel surrounded
by warm playful waves
gathering force slowly
   down the stream
   then bursting forth
   in one magnificent
   deafening roar

amid the forests of my life
you are my lair
   of soft moss and leaves
   where I recline
   and live my dreams

you are the mountain
from whose top
   I look upon the deserts
   breathe blue skies

follow the flight of birds
into the sun

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

           * *

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

     * *

One for the NRA: Support your right to arm bears!

weariness of the bones
often
entails that of the soul

each in itself
can be enough
to make you crave
a friendly touch
  a word of love

when both compound
and there is none
  of the above
your heart grows heavy
   as a leaden pound
sunshine goes pale
rain turns into a flood
your soul turns cold
   and shivers
with the absence
of a loving sound

where is the wisdom
of my earlier worlds
giving me the illusion
I knew what I was saying

the years since then
have taught me insights
       unexpected  inconvenient
the wisdom of old age  maybe

yet I don't find again
the certainty of youth
forever lost
in the complexities of living

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

* *

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

there is
a very fine line
between
news and nuisance

when we feel strong emotion
we often have no words
that seem to fit our commotion
we coo and chirp like do the birds
   or moo like cattle in their herds
and only gradually we find
the words connecting soul and mind
so we can speak our feeling
rather than reeling
   speechless
in some unspoken power’s bind

* * *

pain caused
by love
    and also death
not ever goes away

as the biblical saying goes
we should love our neighbors
     like we love ourselves

looking at many people’s relations
with their neighbors
there sure is room for improvement

maybe we should love ourselves more

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

          * *

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

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

       * *

where are the times
when people could rely
     more or less
on what their leaders
     whom they had elected
spoke and did?

when there was yet no need
to fact-check every other sentence
of presidential self-appraisals
or denigrating tweets about opponents?

after three years of suffering
through all shenanigans of the most blatant kind
it seems that rudeness, ignorance, and lies
have quietly become accepted as new normal

we've learned that people we elected
     to fight for our cause
can say one thing
     and then the opposite
throw in a lie or two
and nobody complains
or votes them out of their coveted offices

in fact
thanks to the wonderful examples of our leaders
we now have learned to distrust everybody
even ourselves

eight billion plus of unreliables

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

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

       * *

considering all the people
    we have lost throughout the years
          grandparents  parents  lovers uncles aunts
               if lucky   no children
    we know that our time to leave this world
    will come to pass eventually

         and yet
    as long as we feel full of life
    we prefer not to think of this too often
    borne by the vague conviction
    that the survivors of our family
    will bear the pain of loss
    as we did years ago
and live on

when words cannot speak anymore the situation is serious

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

seeing
my father waste away
is painful

not so much
because I may look through a window
into my own future

rather because
his dignity has become
so frail
dependent on body functions
he has trouble controlling

it was difficult enough
to live with aching joints & back
and only one third of heart power

after the stroke
breath is even shorter
eating has become a challenge
walking is impossible

no go at all
without the little pipe
that blows oxygen into your nose

he tells me
he appreciates my daily visits
I am glad

trying to cope with the pain I feel
watching his deconstruction
smiling through unshed tears
trying to encourage him

to get up to eat
and grip his spoon
firmly

        * *

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

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

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!

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

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

                    * *

Killing in the name of whatever god is always wrong!

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

               * *

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

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

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

          * *

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

* *

violence is a  terrorist excuse
for lack of good arguments

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

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 annual gift-giving hectivities
in advent time
       when we are

            supposedly

      expecting the birth of our savior
defy traditional ideas
    of quiet meditation
drowning the sense of wonder
with relentless jingles for super discount sales
of things neither we
        nor anybody else
        really needs
even though they suggest we
        and whoever we give those goodies to
would be beyond  the moon

somehow
      Christ
       in spite of all this
gets born

it is a lovely sunny summer day
and yet the atmosphere feels different

as if a chilling haze had cast a net
over the luscious green of nature
darkened the pond‘s bright sparkles
made flowers droop their faces to the ground
trees sway their branches somberly
people look strangely serious

I guess it is the news that reaches us
along the ether waves
feeds our mobile phones  tvs  and radios
all about deaths  corruption  wannabe dictators
catastrophies  lack of support

no wonder the views of our world
are rather solemn
even on the brightest days

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

shall we worry
about the future of the USA
when rich sponsors throw their money
not at the next generation candidates
     for the presidency
but to the septuagenarian male contenders
of whatever party?

you sense it grow
and rather would not
     look at it too closely
prefer that it remain
just vaguely powerful

until one day it crystallized
into a sphere
     perfectly polished  brilliant
but hard to bear alone

you start the search
for one who would be willing
and of worth to share
     with you
what weighs you down
while it elates you
      desperately
at times

you recognize that there are few
whom you would gladly have
     alleviate your burden

many just want to share
     the tiny part
you’d rather keep yourself

others already bear their lot
and  willing though
could only join you for a while

love can be a hard thing
in its time

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

feeling
the instinctive response
of the puppy
    three months old
to my cuddling her on my lap
letting her chew
     gently on my thumb
turning on her back
     so I can stroke her belly
she looks like she is in dog heaven

unfiltered pleasure and trust

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

                * *

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 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