frisky freckles frolick
over his fair-featured face
like a flickering fresco
of furious lusting frenzy

a vibrant flirtatiousness
fills all her fibers
she falls into his arms with finesse
foreseeing fond fantasies

******* with fearsome delight
after failure of foreplay
the foman farts in fectasy
his font flushes fondly

though he almost faints in the feat
for his front has become
far more fragile
than in former feasts

    fewer the forays
    more frequent the flops
    further away
    desires formerly frequent

yet his feelings
still flow to flowering females
forever fertile and fragrant

therefore
he never thinks
of a final
farewell

this time in Vienna
in my little nation's capital

a young Muslim still in search of himself
believes he has a mission
to **** as many infidels as possible
to avenge insults to Mohamed
and Allah by all those secular Westerners

armed with attack rifle  handgun & machete
he shoots his way through the Vienna party mile
not knowing whom he attacks
killing four  wounding twenty-three
driven by his duty to defend Allah

never questioning why the Almighty would ever need
to have his infinite greatness defended
by a confused youngster's shooting of innocents

some say
the world is out of kilter

others predict
that things are always getting worse
and humankind is doomed
to some terrible  
    though unspecified  
fate

yet others see the second coming
of their god within their lifetime

    somehow
    ‘no future’ seems to be
    the fashion of the day

what if
     rather than just complain
     about how wrong things are
     feel sorry for ourselves
     and conjure up the end of our days
we take some action
don’t leave decisions in the hands
     of corporations and ‘professionals’ and the 1%
    of politicians who are puppets
    of lobbyists and billionaires

what if
     the 99% wake up and cast their votes
     in their own interest
rather than that of candidates
     who eloquently advocate
     simple solutions for complex problems
     showing
          without knowing it
     that they really have no clue
     what they are talking about
    
what if
     we decide to elect leaders
     who actually drink the water they are preaching
     who after they’re elected also walk their talk      
     stick to their programs
     keep their promises
     to make
           with our help
    the world a better place

what if ……

If you want to see the light,
OPEN YOUR EYES!

Some people know
how to surround themselves
with shields of rhetoric
appropriate to their time

they find believing followers
who take a while
till they are undeceived
and then grieve ever after
in somber disillusion

Some people know
how to excel
by crying 'wolf'
when all around
are only sheep
easily frightened
into trustful obligation

Some people build their lives
with shocking frankness
on the patience
of their fellow beings
claim for themselves
what they would not
concede to others

Some people!

once you let your poems
fly freely
out into the world
anything can happen to them

and it does

I slept too long
do not know why
had my coffee at 9am
doomscrolling the news
on assorted media
(inter)national
        same difference

did not brighten my mood

the same idiots
spew the same phrases
they voiced one month ago
nothing has changed

and they call it progress

few tourists
on this september afternoon

the sun warms
   without sound

the langobard museum
    is closed

next to it
a noisy little waterfall
   flows undisturbed

a boy
keeps flipping flat pebbles
   across the quiet water
   down from the fall

for a few hours
   the past  
   remains victorious
in the clash of centuries

* *

that lovely night
when suddenly
you put your hand
   upon my knee
and later
snuggled up under
   my paw around your shoulder
a gentle flame sprang into life
   from dormant embers

when afterward the two of us
were rocking to a softer tune
than music would us have
   (we never made it
   to the dancing floor)
the brilliance of your eyes
shone through your flying hair
  the flame leaped high
  and built a wall
  hard but transparent

completeness was

   within

           * *

it may well be that I no longer am good company
     or that I never have been anyway

it’s not that people make me feel like that

it is myself that questions me
and I am spending more time with myself
     than anybody else

I have noticed lately
a touch of crankiness
looking at me out of the bathroom mirror

I wonder why

is it just age encroaching on my life
with its assorted ailments
or disillusionment of archived teenage dreams

I look again at the reflection of myself
and see what I did miss before

there is a spark of youthful mischief in these eyes
even the serious bearded lips seem ready for ironic smiles

maybe no everything is lost

maybe I can myself keep company
for some more years with little strife

even, perhaps, until the end of my sweet life

to give
while taking in

to feel
your life in mine

to rise
with you
on growing waves

to be aware
   in almost desperate desire
of nothing

but you

         * *

apparently
we live in times
in which disasters chase each other
around the globe in never-ending sequence

    or is it just the real-time news media hype
    that gives us this impression?

yet even if I generously discard
the ****** massacres and crises
far away

there are enough rough dreadful things
that even if they don’t affect me ******
do touch my heart and make me grieve
with the afflicted

methinks we’re coming near the point
when the majority of normal people on our globe
will rise an tell fanatics of all creeds
to shove it  
     take a shower  
          just go home
and let us live our lives in peace !

that many followers
    of the man who
        in their scripture
    died upon the cross

keep praising this
    as sign of his great love
    of humankind

yet seem to only love
themselves?

the days go by in pleasant routine
only occasional disturbances
     with grandkids  unexpected visitors
     the mailman ringing at the door
          because the letter would not fit the box
     the neighbor asking for a favor gladly granted
     someone who wants to sell some things

the days go by
      preparing meals  go shopping
      splitting the firewood
      running the wash
      checking the email
      go swimming and do AquaFit
      occasionally have a lunch with friends

the days go by

and I occasionally wonder
about the undesired goal of passing all that time
as days go by

my lover's eyes
   are island seas

changing their colors
   to the wandering of clouds
lit by an inward sun

at times
   a brilliant hard shine
   of greenish gray
   with tints of brown

at other moments
   the sad grey
   of pastel slate

and then
   some times
   a dark green velvet

drawing me in
on endless gentle waves

the rhythm of my life has changed o’er time
from hectic to considerate to more relaxed
things that pressed urgently in previous years
now suddenly can wait a bit, and without fears
that anything important might be missed

the wisdom of maturity, or just the laziness of age,
allows me now to cast a much more probing look
on our daily world, watching events and people
with more distance than in younger days

whether this is a  blessing in disguise
I dare not say, I’m not the sage
who tells you where the long-sought treasure lies
but just a greying man who tries to figure out
what his life and the world are all about

my father’s younger brother
was quite an interesting fellow
worked over time in different jobs
and on the sided wrote poems
stories  novels  texted songs

we lived about 150 miles apart
exchanged occasional mails and comments
on each other’s writings

then I received an email rather strange
stating that he had underestimated
his sickness but wished to have no visits
at the time

it seriously felt
    like something was not right

and two days later
    I was just about to call
a weeping aunt was on the phone
and told me of his death

from what she said
it was not nice

he died of  cancer of the pancreas
could hardly move in his last weeks
and only weighed one hundred pounds
down from 200   when he died
guess his demise was a relief for him
    as well as her

how sad that he  a man of letters
     who wrote thick novels and articulate verse
could not find words for his own pain

maybe  like many of his generation
he felt his sickness was  a shame
or he was furious at his body   or his fate
or did not want to burden others
or did not like them to be witness
to his waning health

I do not know

what I shall remember
is the loud silence
in his last mail

          * *

the night in which
the dead come alive for a while

only to be frightened
right back to death
by the terrible masks and pumpkins
of the living

in Duino
no access for us
to rainer maria's view
across the sea
from the castello

a servant of
il principe
   who owns the place
   and whom we happen
   not to know
bars our way
beyond the open gate

therefore:
no elegies

your body
   my body
together
   apart

they remember
they recognize
   each other
register sensations
exchange molecular information

   receptors and synapses clicking
   data processed in nanoseconds

output:
you are the one I love

a thousand apologies more will not
make spoken words unheard

why is it
that this day weighs heavy on my mind
though nothing special has occurred
except the usual bad news
     of deaths and fighting and catastrophies
     greed and abominable politics

my private life is safe and fine
remote from all the global strife
it runs a fairly pleasant course
with just occasional disturbances

could that weigh heavily on my mind?

a crumbling asphalt road
   is the only way up
winding amid wild slopes
young brush  and vinyards
heavy with grapes

in the distance
we see the evening sun
   catch bare white mountain peaks

   on the hills before them
   glitter little towns and villages

the air is mild
chestnut trees
   keep dropping their fruit

the farmer's restaurant
   announced downhill
is closed

so is the church

a German shepherd dog
   silently
lies watch over the winery
   behind a cast-iron gate

the castello
turns out to be
   a not very impressive ruin

advertisement and reality
seem to have grown
far
     apart

what makes me write
is the quiet of the hills
   through which we walk
the sight of the full moon
   we enjoy
   with my hands
     cupped over your *******

our togetherness

          * *

when winter is saying goodbye
our nature prepares for a high
all juices start flowing
the farmers start sowing
but the snowmen are beginning to cry

the loving way
   you take me in

and send me out
into an orbit
lit by a million suns
moving in spiraling commotion
toward their brilliant center

the way
   you loving
take me in

when our mind is full of great ideas
we want to write them down
yet there are times when we  discover
that there is no connection from our brain
to all the instruments we use
to transcribe our flighty thoughts
    to give them shape on paper, screen, or in the sand

sometimes it helps to pause a bit and reconsider
what we do really want to say  
    focus and concentrate
    articulate precisely yet suggestively
our indomitable urge to formulate
    the turmoil of emotions we may harbor
    our wild ideas of revolution
    the overbearing pain of loss and separation
    grey landscapes of depression
    attractions of dramatic suicide
also the joy and pleasures of deep love
    of unexpected friendships found
        where even angels fear to tread
    the happiness of our children
    the love we recognize
        often too late
    our parents have bestowed on us

et cetera  et cetera

the catalogue of our themes
expands through our lives
so do the challenges
of how to tell the tale

it helps to aim for clarity
we have to  let our instruments of writing know
which of our turbulently swirling thoughts
should earn the privilege
to become words
    and be communicated
to people who
    before they read our verse
have no idea at all
    that we exist

and now the numbers
are rising again
hospitals filling
ICUs getting sparse

it seems this virus actually is
a bit more dangerous than the common flu
no matter what irresponsible leaders
across the globe keep telling their citizens

against the advice of medical experts
despite almost
30 million infected
1 million dead
and hundreds of millions of jobless

encouraging their followers
to ignore safety instructions
making them believe it is OK again
to spread infections on parties and in discos
or massive election campaign events
continuing the vicious circle
… continuing …. continuing …. continuing...

is a familiar phrase
we like to flaunt
    especially
when we would like to utter a complaint
    about contemporary grievances
    god and the world & cetera

in doing so
we keep good company
from Socrates to Livius
    to Shakespeare, Goethe, Emerson,
    Whitman, Fitzgerald, Hurston, Vonnegut,
     Morrison, Angelou, Nabokov, etc.

I guess this is because
the times like these
are always those
in which we live

In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.

His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

the sight
of a blonde Austrian 5-year-old girl
happily hugging a Senegal mammy in Vienna
joys me beyond belief

congratulations on this special day

remembering the gain of freedom
from unjust monarchy
after hard struggles for democracy
and universal human rights

we also need to be aware
of new dependencies and tyrannies
that have since come among us quietly
and with deceptive lures of easy lives and riches
of glamor  reputation  millions of virtual followers
& other such amenities
try to persuade us that these are the only goals of our lives

the most decisive loss of independence
is when we do no longer feel its absence
and happily embrace the bars of our golden cage

we have found each other
   across thousands of miles
   across different cultures and traditions
    
we have found each other
   among seven billion plus people
   on this globe

   finding each other
   was the easiest part

   strangers in the night

   staying together
   has been truly challenging
   at times

idiosyncracies
failures deficiencies fears
hopes wishes dreams
illusions and taboos
pieces of history from previous lives
   keep popping up at crucial moments
   in often Freudian transfigurations

   innocuous words
   may trigger convoluted memories
   freighten new contexts
      with old pain and sorrow

   a gesture
   a tone of speech
   a situation
   suddenly turn into déjà vu
   twisting their present freshness
      beyond belief
   into habitual frames of order

   the prisons of our pasts
   do not offer easy escapes

yet we have found each other
   among the billions on this globe

there is no other but the each
   to build a life together

I wake up
my arm
finds you not

only a pillow

you are not here

anymore

love that is generous
and waits not
   for a thousand little things
   to feel diminished

love that speaks openly
   rather than store up
   the souring years
   of unsaid bitter trifles

love that enjoys
   it is returned
knows that it is unique
   yet may not be the only one

love that does not possess
    and has no need to rank
    itself on a monopoly
    carrying the seeds of self-defeat

love that gives freely
   and takes in alike
   but never needs
   to add up scores

   is such a love
      inhuman?

* *

learning once more
of innocent people killed in the name of whatever
    some psychopath’s personal  crisis
    a violent protest against other cultures
    or an abuse of some religious creed

the motivations may be different
yet the results are all the same

the wanton killing of women  men  and children
who do not know that they are ‘enemies’
of someone whom they also do not know

the murderers may have been led to think
that they are heroes for some glorious cause or god

fact is that they are simply murderers

and I believe
they will not even receive
their 72 raisins when they face their gods

because to ****
in the name of any god
is always wrong

Having just climbed
      through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
     instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
    fearful lest I blend suddenly
    with the white horses
    and the fields of the Camargue
    far down below

Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun

her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs

her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral

A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm  
and self-assured

and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
    on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
    and still blows
through two feet of stone
  like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone

      * * *
                                                              ­                        © Walter W. Hoelbling

right in the eye
of history
I walk
among the crowds
that taste
the absence of confinement

   an unfamiliar space

between the band stands
on the avenues
where people
test a freedom
   newly won
still strange
as yet in need
of daily reassurance

crossing and recrossing
   the big gate
   and the bridges
that for generations
connected nothing
marked divisions kept
   by guns and barbed wires
   and well-lit empty spaces
   between walls
   watched from towers

the new reunion
brings happy smiles for most
   quiet tears for some
new doubts for many
who  are uncertain
   now
about their lives together
after decades
of separation

right in the eye
of history I walk

just now and then
a little bit afraid
that she might
rub her eye

just now

       * *

listening to the news
that brings disasters of all kind
with reliable regularity
     thanks to our sensationalist media

you may be tempted to believe
the world is going straight to hell
apocalypse is near & unavoidable

     whether by asteroids or comets
     the Russians or Americans or Chinese
    
fact is that rising ocean levels
are much more dangerous than changing presidents
flooding the fields and homes of millions
     in the lower lying islands of the South Pacific

the cold oblivion of the powerful
about the real people’s tragedies
is what I find most missing
in the so-called news

the year is new
the problems stay the same

the one or other
   may have gotten a new name
yet the proverbial hope
    that they would simply disappear
   with time passing
remains just that

still  every year begins
    with quickening hearts
    and firm decisions
    the best intentions
    and new hope
that we will finally do
those things which to achieve
we’ve had on our mind
all these 12 months
that now belong inevitably to the past

so   in the early hours
of the latest new beginning
we promise to be strong
always prepare to meet the unexpected
and get things done at last

but first   dear friends
first   we shall celebrate
our chance to see the new year’s sun arise

LET’S HAVE A BLAST

coming to think of it

the first woman
to whom I ever
had been very close
must have been desperate
to claim a father
for her three-month child
as yet unborn

she came into my bed
   out of the blue
with fierce determination

the mission failed
   I was too cautious
and her rash parting
left me wondering
at her dismay

not until some months later
   when I saw her push the pram
did I become aware I had
   unwittingly
emerged fairly unscathed
from ancient battlegrounds
of social order


* *

there is an American billionaire
who looks quite flamboyant and debonnaire
he was leading the race
for Republicans’ ace
and ******* his competitors everywhere
(unfortunately)

love came to me
in quiet
   gently
and found me
unaware of

how
   over the table
   of a conference lunch
I must have taken
to your ways

how
   sitting next to you
   in drowsy silence
   on the bus that took us
   to some wind-blown ruins
   of antiquity
your presence was
like that of a close friend
with whom I shared
a silence comfortably safe
knowing
no words were needed

only when
   on that merry evening
you looked
and moved
like happiness incarnate
and put your hand
spontaneously?
upon my knee
I recognized

how
   much
I wanted
   you

      * *

closing my eyes
I feel your lips
   close over me
   in firm embrace

close to your ears
I murmure
words of love

and then go on
to close my lips
   lovingly
all over yours

holding each other
    close
we close ourselves
to the rest of the world
   for a while

and open up
    to us

         * *

at least one shooting every week
congress & president mild and meek
whatever they might do or say
no blame goes to the NRA

that keeps abusing the 2nd amendment
     who needs militias today?!
and thanks to that ****** arrangement
more students weekly fall prey

to psychopaths in our states
whose weapons open the gates
to free indiscriminate killing
thanks to our politicians unwilling

to forego all the boons
they receive from their insane tycoons

I smoke like a chimney
   my ashtray fills up
   like never before

I smoke like a chimney
   to fill the void
   that surrounds me
   with your absence

I smoke like a chimney
   and refuse
   to see my hopes evaporate
   like the fumes
   I inhale & exhale

I smoke like a chimney
   burning myself out
   draft by blue draft

I smoke like a chimney
   knowing I should not
   measure out
   my days & nights
   in cigarettes

   yet I do
   four   five minutes more
   time is running so fast

I smoke like a chimney

I am smoking for my life

naming the world
is our daily task
temporary and forever new
challenging and ambiguous

   like the name of the rose

only few names last
most are forgotten
the young ones usually
do not understand

   a rose is a rose is a rose

names can move masses
   Oedipus Napoleon ****** Ghandi
   Jesus Stalin Mohammed Rockefeller
or just a few
  or one or two

names are what
remains of us
   aids to some fleeting thoughts
   in the dear memories of friends
imprinted on official pages
   and electronic discs
strange signs for future generations

to name
   against the flow of time
   what we see hear feel taste smell  and do
   our dreams and visions and desires
   the thoughts we have and those
   we do not dare to think
   and to name those we love and hate
fills our lives

  the rose is

             * *

four decades of professional life
    considered with benevolence
(how else …?)
have altogether
not turned out so badly
even though no party politics
helped me climb the ladder
of not so easy scholarly achievement

often in the beginning I discovered
that my politeness was mistaken
for simplicity

and so I had to learn a bit about
   how I could stand my ground
to kick the shins of those who thought
    they could step on my toes with cool impunity

until they noticed that they were mistaken

over the years I found my ways to garner
    not everybody’s love
    but their respect and recognition
    
which is what we all mostly need

     eventually

digital availability
   around the clock
after a while
begins to feel like
permanent responsibility

your friends expect you
to be online all the time
    whether you like it or not
so they can share with you their daily trivia
of personal condition, discount shopping, their dog’s health,
the children’s good, their problems with their partners,
etcetera etcetera

I know it’s nice to hit a button
and hear the ringing of the other’s phone
the voice responding to your call

it’s fine when there are no alternatives

and yet

somehow the electronic chat
confirms more than redeems
presence of absence of the person

I feel like talking to an avatar
a disembodied voice
that has a virtual existence
yet whose life in the real world
still needs to be asserted
by meeting – and talking –
in a café
or simply on the street

on the first day of spring
my mother died

she had always loved flowers
and had turned
our interior hallway
into a luscious greenhouse
   father was not always happy
   about the falling leaves

in her later years
when skiing was no longer hers
she hated winters
   their long nights
   their waning sun

she was always longing
   for spring
waiting for the day
the morning sun lit up
the kitchen desk again
in her parents’ house
where she was born
   and had grown old

the night before
I had called and told her
that here in the south
the first flowers were already
   dotting the gardens

she had smiled on the phone
   almost inaudibly
speaking had become difficult

   maybe her last images
   were of colorful spring meadows

today at 7.10 a.m.
my mother died

spring has come

over millennia the question
     what is beauty
has occupied the minds
of great philosophers

museums, galleries, and private homes
     as well as public monuments
display the sculptures, paintings, texts, and movies
created by the artists of all cultures over time
with figures, colors, poems with(out) rhyme

looking at that variety
I do remember words of one much older
     “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”
Picasso speaks to one, Velasquez to another
some prefer Shakespeare, others e. e. cummings,
in movies we find Billy Wilder or Fritz Lang
right next to Eastwood or Sarandon

which of them we enjoy with great abandon
depends on whether  they can touch our heart and soul,
move us to tears, stir our thought,
or simply leave us speechless

we have that soft spot for the beautiful
reminding us that there are things that go beyond ourselves
     they touch us gently
     like the morning songs of elves

till suddenly the brilliance of human art
reaches the very depths of our heart