if at all,
how to approach?

if approaching,
how to be accepted?

if being accepted,
how to avoid
too much of it?

if successfully avoiding,
how not to hurt
or miss
the most important?

if not avoiding,
how to maintain
yourself?

if maintaining,
more or less,
your sense of self,
how to transcend it?

and if transcending,
how to appreciate
the other
for what s/he is?

how to be close
without the pain
  of loss
upon retreat?

how to acknowledge
that the other
  always is
out there
  and yet
in here?

     * *

when watching the news
many things sound abstruse

politicians speak out
but then they cast doubt
on what they actually said
and claim that they had
been sorely misunderstood
so for everyone‘s good
what they said should
     indeed
be deleted

with information thus defeated
we sigh deeply
     and though
we feel we‘ve been cheated
come home, take off shoes
and turn on the next news ...

morning mists
along hilly country roads

the sun
   not quite awake yet
struggling to rise
above a drowsy
   Sunday landscape
sends out occasional
left-footed rays

we speed along
   quietly
images of the past
time together
on our minds

   walks on the beach
   and through old lanes
   dinners at the ocean
   wild nights
   lovely late mornings

we keep passing early churchgoers
in stirring villages

the sun keeps gathering strength
the world turns clear

the mists of our memories
dissolve into
the moment of parting

* *

you have the feeling
days go by
   in a sequence of unnerving sameness
punctuated only by familiar rituals
   without alternation

a sluggish stream of time
enveloping
   a history
  of not really noteworthy past events
and similar future ones

everything stays the same
   nothing changes

eternal boredom

this is hell

         * *

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

it seems that Trump  Johnson  and Putin
are not really free of that gluten
which  though it be healthy
tastes only for the wealthy
like something not to dispute on

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

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

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 wine & ham
   & white bread
under vaulting walls

* *

before we elect politicians
they present themselves full of ambitions
when elections are over
they go under cover
and blame others for their demolitions

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

* * *

it is hard
   to love
and feel that love
   is not returned in kind

it is hard
   to feel unable
to respond in kind
   to love so generously bestowed
   deep and sincere

it is hard to see
   what might have been
   a love together
even at a distance
   falling apart
   in silence and in tears
   because people and things
   have come between
in bad moments

it is very hard
   to lose
a lover
and
a friend

* *

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

wind is my friend
blows my thoughts
into lines
like fish jumping for dragonflies
on a hot summer afternoon

rain is my lover
falls into me
in steady gentle drops
fills me till I am
about to burst

sun is my brother
warms my body
with orioles of ancient light
among dark shadows
struggling to maintain
their shapes

moon is my other
casts a spell
over the cricket’s song
the smell of honeysuckle
the silhouettes
of a silver world

wind goes on
to blow on other ones
rain gathers its clouds
and soaks someone else
sun goes down
into darkness
moon turns so wan
it hardly shows
between the stars

I do not take it personally

nature is
like that

* *

picking red currants
   in a familiar place
   now foreign to me
   after seven days
      of happiness
my mind
   is full of you

the mid-day sun
heats my body
as it did
   and still does
on the beach
where we lay side by side

looking at
the red
         ripe
             berries
my body aches
with desperate desire

I gather
Johann Wolfgang Goethe
   in his whimsy wisdom
was right to have his Heinrich Faust
   forego eternal bliss

   (and make a deal with the Alternative)

in his desire to arrest
a happy earthly moment

   transcend its evanescence
     in the flux of time

   give life to it
     by shape of word

and happily perish thereafter
   due to godly script

          * *

decisive words
   take their time

they reveal their significance
   like buds unfolding
   nourished by the soil of doubt
   the rain of memory and meditation
gradually to the troubled soul

until the flower
   of loss

   suddenly
   in full bloom

makes you tremble
at its pristine
    relentless
    beauty

      * *

I listen to the mid-day news
wondering vaguely why
it sounds so familiar
     more or less
like what I heard this morning

    we know that repetition
    is a major didactic principle

yet lately it seems to have become
the dominant discourse
not only in the news
but also in discussions, panels,
pop songs  advertisments,  etc.

as if

repeating things
over and over again
made them ‚more‘ true

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

a glass of wine
   too many
can make us talk
may cut through layers
   of defenses
we’ve built around
   our core

and suddenly
we find the words
for thoughts we did not
even dare admit
   to ourselves

if we are lucky
it is the ones we love
   who listen to us
   in those moments
and understand
what has been growing
   deep inside
   unspoken
and gropes towards
whatever light
a slightly slurred voice
   may provide
in the wee hours of the morning
   speaking it all

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

reflections
of reflections
backlit by fire
and glaring light
in a world upside down
where masks reign

green

in its circumference
of mirrored silhouettes
that seem to be
looking for something
elsewhere

I have you
you have me
always will be part of thee

if you want me
I am thine
wake you mornings
rise & shine

shine and rise
and take me all
summer winter
spring & fall

have me
upside down & straight
I’m the lure
you are the bait

have me
down in bed & up
have me
in your chocolate cup

in your drawers
in your chest
everywhere
I’m in your nest

in your PC
in your tea
always will be part of thee

having me
means that I am there
where you are
don’t matter where

never leave you
always stay
no more sadness
always gay

have me

       * *

last night
I had a thought
that felt like it might turn
into pure poetry

I clung to it
and tried to make it stay
and grow

but it went on its way

and I to sleep

nothing but memories to keep
   of possibilities

when the loud beep of my alarm
woke me to other thoughts
and yet another day

from the balcony of the hotel
I keep looking down
upon the elderly man
living in a one-family home
across the street

he often sits
in a rickety chair
reading newspapers

in the mornings
an elderly woman
   his wife? the houskeeper?
airs rooms and sweeps

one afternoon
there are two teenage girls
chatting along on the balcony

but usually
it is the man
sitting and reading  
or     one night
walking the balcony

did he once
cry out silently in pain
when they built the hotel
and took away
his view over the bay?

or was he the owner
of the lot along the shore?

or are he
and the elderly woman
the grandparents
of the two teenage girls
spending the summer in a rented house?

I do not know

but I wonder why
he looks to me as if
he would rather be
elsewhere

       * *

there once was a president of states
who could not endure in debates
he insulted opponents
with verbal components
that were worse than what‘s outside the gates

different from TV
the shapes of waves and fire
never repeat themselves

the sharp cry
   of a buzzard
draws widening circles
   in the summer sky

below
   small birds fall silent

a qiet moment
   expands into eternity

I grow tense
and cry your name
wishing so much

   so much

you were here
to share

one of the orchid blossoms dropped
when I came back without you

the last one is opening today

beauty lost in solitude

               * *

some music
makes you feel
so very old and wise
so full of aching joy
and knowlegde of the world

it sums up
   all your life
   in sound

dew drops
   brilliant in the morning sun

haunting your memory
   beyond recall

when I don't have
the pleasure of your presence

I always wish I could

the power of disappointment
is always remarkable

how dark
a sunny day
how ordinary
the loveliest loving woman
how destitute
a happy life

in those moments
when we cannot forgive
ourselves

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

when those leave
who have always been with us
we halt
   our step
and let our thoughts
    go quiet

as if we
   in our young years' busy-ness
could comprehend

or steal a glance
   over their shoulders
of that distant world
whereto
in due course
we will follow

only to see
how far ahead
they will forever be

          * *

giving thanks
can be a very existential thing
as the legendary settlers in New England learned
when they arrived
   as illegal immigrants
and the natives
   though wary of their guns and swords
taught them to plant
   corn together with fish
and shared their harvest with them
   late in the year

giving thanks may be a very personal thing
whenever we travel far away
are given a friendly welcome
are fed and housed by the natives
and accepted into their families

giving thanks is a very human thing

it shows that we are aware
of the fragility of our life

that it always depends
on the kindness of strangers
who help us to survive
in their world

after all

we are aliens
in most parts of our globe

          * *

the last one
of the orchid blossoms
has fallen

down

I am leaving in an hour

            * *

love's pain
   is not
a topic I embrace
or would write fervently
about

yet to ignore it
   hurts
as I have learned
more than to speak

and also
  it might mean
that I love
not

     * *

what is this unrest
driving me to take on much
   too much at times
and find content
only in fleeting moments
when quiet comes
to be enjoyed
just to be shunned again
in favor of a newer goal

am I a driven man
   obsessed
   conditioned by
   insatiable needs
until the final quiet
   of the dead?

I do not know

maybe I should
hold still more often
to reassess my way

but though sometimes I fear
I go too fast
   so far
I'd rather run
than stand
and contemplate the past

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?

sitting at my computer
I hammer out my messages
to the world
sometimes mark them “high priority”
mostly just “normal”
unencrypted

grateful
that there is at least
one part of a technology
that connects people
rather than
makes them fight
over it

waking up to birdsong
   is lovely
but not always desired

yet our feathered friends
don’t care whether we
   suffer from last night’s fun&games
   or lay awake with troubles on our minds
        or babies crying

they chirp their heart out
   at the crack of dawn
to greet the still grey silhouette
   of the day
   soon to be cast in  colorful relief
when light comes back again
   and darkness cedes

they make us open our eyes
revealing to our sleepy gaze
      half-hidden still
      under heavy lids  
   the beauty of the earth
   an awesome universe
and make us vaguely wonder
   about the mysteries of our lives

                     * *

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

September has become
the cruelest month

reassembled
Hollywood disasters
at their worst
flipped into reality

as if
   we had needed that
as if
   we had not known
      that life is fragile
      and tall buildings
      can collapse
   taking thousands
   to sudden death

what is the point?

to prove
   that one can bring
   disaster
   to the undefended?

to demonstrate
   that minds bent
   on destruction
   can succeed
   if they plan long enough?

what a waste
   of lives and minds
and more to follow
most likely

does wordless violence
solve anything?

the heartless deed
the glamorous sacrifice
that calls for more
   and more
and more
neurotic spirals
of destruction, retaliation
and revenge
instead of global peace
now looms spectral war
born from self-righteous pride
the need to strike out
   fast and hard
against whoever fits
intelligence-created data
transferred to screens
   meticulously marked
coolly oblivious of the people
   who work and procreate
         and live
   in those fluorescent blips

domesticated energy
serves the omnipotent

   two millionaires’ sons
   turned public enemies

upon whose final global showdown
depends
the fate of yet more
   women
        men
           and children
to satisfy the need
for a just universe
where power flows
    undisturbed by laughter
   and the sounds
   of real people
        living
   in a real world

sitting on my loggia

on a balmy spring evening
   after a short return of winter
a drink on my side
the birds chirping their evening song
the sun slanted
straight into my eyes

my favorite radio station
has declared jazz day
so I have been enjoying
Dizzie Gillespie, Charlie Parker
    Joe Zawinul, Benny Goodman, & cetera

lovely

yet I have the blues

I had to take
my woman to the airport today
she’s now miles away from me

she mailed me
she arrived safely

I am glad to know

but she still is
miles away from me

I have the blues

how does one end reigning
seventy years as Queen
of a former global colonial empire?

     elevated to the supreme icon
     of what's been right in Britain

to be sorely missed
after the most spectacular
of royal funerals has become history

the seesaw of political smacks
sounds like fabrics by political hacks
solves none of the questions
adds diplomatic congestions
all it does is threaten attacks

Your eyes
when I am with you
sometimes puzzle me

Where does their loving gaze
come to a rest within me
when it sinks deep
inside myself

What do they see
when they get wide and soft with joy
and seem to look
beyond me
into secret lands?

And when they close
with pleasure
   and a little flutter
am I still there
within them
do they see
  me ?

will we ever get enough
be enough
for our greedy selves?

is there a saturation point
for our needs
our demands
to always have
more of what has made us
   feel so good
      or bad?

   you do not work enough
   you do not care enough
   you do not love me enough
   you do not speak enough
   you do not have enough

   not pay enough
   not sleep enough
   not say enough
   not learn enough

   not enough exercise
   not enough fun
   not enough suffering
   not enough dancing
      with the wind

yet we are able to
have enough
   drink
   food
   time
   trouble
   & cetera

enough is enough
we say

somehow
it never is

       * *