when no mornings
follow nights
cities lie without their lights
little beasts root happily
children can live all their fears
   forests break
   mountains shake
then it’s time again

rockets roar with deadly freight
sharp explosions rock the night
   soldiers shoot
   graveyards bloom
it is war

when scrawny skeletons
creep through the streets
parents weep
dead bodies radiate
   new death
and crumpled shapes
   spread more disease
then it’s time again

the general orders strategic attacks
and watches how the metropolis cracks
   rivers stink
   battleships sink
it is war

when the bakers bake no more bread
when the butchers chop off their hands
when the doctors’ only prescription is death
   corpses float in the village pond
   and supermarkets stay closed
24 hours a day
then it’s time again

maybe the ultimate time
for the warriors to storm from their heights
to the valleys to lance and destroy
   they also **** women
   all children are dead
   the moon is all red
   the stars are so wan

   we are counting the corpses
   as long as we can

it is war

Queen Elizabeth II
Great Britain's and the Commonwealth's pillar
of courage and stability
for seven decades
is no longer

she will be missed

People that 'are'  
of those who still 'become'
speak lowly
treasuring the edge
they have
by luck or by some clever sleight of hand
gained in the race for 'being'

Sometimes I wonder
where I am
  am I  
or am I not
do I become  
  and if so
will I ever be
what others are
where others are
(or think themeselves to be)

Maybe
those who appear so sure
   of what and where they are
have at their backs
the everlasting fear
that when they are
   where they have liked to be
there always are
the others who were there
   some time before
and now
are somewhere else
happy again
that they are
where and what
others still struggle to become

Methinks
to be where I am
suits me fine
I do not care exactly
where
this is
if only I still see
a chance that I become
that is  
            I change
and not just be

There is
it seems to me
too little space
between to be
and
not to be.

      * *

try to imagine
your own death

at first
your mind just balks
at the idea

but once you concentrate
you may get puzzled
at the endless opportunities
you have
  of dying

warming to the subject now
images start flitting through your mind
like you were flipping TV channels

you see yourself dead
  with a trickling bullet wound
  in some dark street
  victim of street crime unpredictable

or have a vision
of a scene of accident
where white-clad helpers
carry a distorted body
to a waiting van
in vain

or you are in a clinic
rigged to electronic gear
the nurses look discouraged
slowing beeps
flattening curves on monitors
and you feel darkness creeping in

or you blow-dry your hair
with the old dryer
and the bathroom floor
is just a little bit
too wet

a plane falls from the sky
in a fireball

a stone gives on the mountain path

you ski into whiteness

the railing breaks

lightening flashes

a snake bites

what.... -

all of a sudden
  options explode
your mind reels from the truth
that death is all around
in infinite variety
and may be yours

now

or a second later

imagine

there is a dog
that barks
with such a
   hoarse,
   unhappy whimper

I only hear it
   from a distance
and wonder
what it wants
to say

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
that we know little
   and that
at the wrong time

such days of quiet loving warmth
of joy and mirth between the two of us

sun-flooded islands in the paltry seas
of middle-age when waves of disillusion
break hard against your course
and
   lest you are alert
may leave you stranded
   just off shore
in waters flat with bitterness forever

such saving days of joyous love

                    * *

(Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886)


I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –  
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –  
To an admiring Bog!

grief can be a temptation
and relief

you plunge into it
immerse yourself
dive to its depths
look at the world
as through a glass
darkly

you meet the others there
   who plunged before
you talk to them and feel
the water slowly rising in your body
and recognize that they
drowned years ago
and you have not

yet

factual or fake
terse or sensationalist
trying to be as objective as possible
shamelessly partisan and polemic

or simply hate speech
esoteric remedies for all problems
cat videos and personal snapshots
on asocial networks

whether we believe it or not
it is difficult to avoid it
in our great age
of real-time digital information

the abundance of unreliables
is almost legendary    
     like hearsay in the Middle Ages
     when wandering minstrels
     spread the tidings
        more or less

a challenge to all people with brains
not yet oversaturated with daily trivia

to decide what to believe

doublecheck

do follow-ups

most people
do not want to hear about
views different from their own

so
though you may think otherwise
if you want something from them
   love, attention, business, money, ***
you tell them what they like to hear
to fill their needs
to please

yet
after a while
you recognize
that with each time
you cater to the needs of others
you give away
a part of your integrity
and that you better
   watch out carefully
lest you become merely
the sum
of their reflected selves

           * *

we live in times
that make it difficult
to differentiate reality from fiction

     not in the field of literature
     where borders always have been fluid

but in quotidian discourses
of politicians  television  internet
speakers present unproven attitudes
as if they were reality unquestionable

and they get huffy and evasive
if proof comes out that they are wrong
they claim that they have been misquoted
or at least misunderstood

and even if they do recant
this never hits the front page of the medium
but somewhere inside mixed with trivialities
few people check

so it seems to be up to every one of us
to use our brains and bother
whether the data we are being served
are edible or rotten

bccause these speakers
seem to have forgotten
what communication is about

we need to really understand each other

It is better to light a single candle
than only complain about the darkness.

one by one
   people disappear
   from our lives
some quietly
some as high melodrama
   some as low

the world of possibilities
   shrinks
open horizons narrow
the sky
   once the limit
has turned into
   a transparent dome
offering glances
   of space beyond
   out of reach

one by one
   birthdays arrive
   with higher numbers
until we find ourselves
   high up
on life’s pyramid
   with a wide base
   but shrinking space
   on top

             * *

when in the world’s (supposedly) leading democracy
a new president starts his office with

     making life more expensive for average home owners
     signing orders threatening the health of millions
     restricting the publications of researchers
     denying global warming
     encouraging coal and oil companies
     forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
     going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
          to justify his ridiculous lies
     blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
     barring leading media companies from press conferences
     waffling about his Russian connections
     refusing to release his tax returns
     ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
          like the old Chinese did, to little avail
     issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
          causing confusion and harm and even deaths
     banning even green card holders from entering the country
     filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
          he promised to clean during his campaign
          people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the     system
          but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
          and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
          as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
          like their private family businesses, for profit
fraternizing with kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
     'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
      and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
     in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
     is quite OK for his campaign team members
     his son and son-in-law & cetera
nominating well-known union busters
    into the Federal Office of Labor
    and a billionairess widely unaware
    of the existence of non-private schools
    as Secretary of Eduction
banning grandparents. grandchildren
     as well as aunts and uncles
     of gratuitously selected countries
     from joining their families in the USA
 believing that the US president & his cronies
     stand above the law 

[ctd. fron line 2...] THEN
it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
    if any
of democracy he has in mind

is simply abysmal

no speech needed

when the president of a country
that considers itself
the global beacon of democracy
insults his friends and
courts dictators and mass murderers

something is terribly wrong

when we are young
we fill our days
with everything that comes along
seductive glances lead us on
pleasures delight our senses
we feel great and strong

then comes a time
when days are filled
with children  family  and work  
with barbecues perfectly grilled
the same old jokes told for a rhyme
and little else

transition to our later years
fills days with memories of earlier ones
life’s frost has whitened our hair
we may start thinking how we were
when blood was fresh in our bones
when we faced our future with all trust  no fears

by now we know what filling our days should hold
that our thinking may be clear and bold
provoking to the young and make them dare
think their own brilliant thoughts and be aware
that we have all the time the world can give
but none to spare

thinking of things to put to verse
   in times that often are adverse
   to topics that involve the universe
   and other serious matter
is difficult

world politics is quite atrocious
the culture scene no less ferocious
and so if you are somewhat cautious
in your choice of themes
few are left

you might start out with poised pen
for something serious & pertinent - but then
you have a quite inspiring moment when
you realize what truly is important
in our lives

just find the words
others can understand

the night in which
the dead come alive for a while

only to be frightened
right back into their graves
by the horrible masked spectacles
of the living

thinking of times
when walking for a mile
took you into a different world
climbing a hill
    through clinging underbrush
filled you with apprehension
of what might be awaiting you
beyond the crest

then
to slowly open up
the pages of a book
was always more
than just a ritual of escape

the not so casual touch
    of a girl’s hard breast
    a boy’s lean hand
upon your shoulder
sent shudders down your spine
of inarticulate hot expectations
and brought wild images to you
at night
in lusting isolation

to keep this core
   the sense of awe
   of wonder and excitement
alive in you against the waves of many years
is not an easy feat
   yet worth the while

it makes you see
    when many just walk by
life’s gracious beauty of small moments

                        * * * *

there must be something
about the shifting shapes of flames
that keeps us riveted

visual spectacle
combined with purpose
   burn it up

and when it dies
the desire to have
   more of the same

feed in another log
watch eagerly
how it catches on
bursts into yellow reddish stars
   *******
burns bright for a while after
later glows darkly
and dies unless refreshed

a suggestive
   yet illusionary
image
   for our lives

listening to Benny Goodman’s smooth version of  ”Tiger Rag”
composed at a time when tigers where not yet an endangered species
     when soldiers were dying in World War I
     and would die again soon after Benny first recorded it in the 1930s
    
I wonder how it is that music can be so divorced from death

maybe because, for the US, wars have always been fought elsewhere,
    except for the Civil War - an issue that still occupies two research institutes

distance seems to create heroes more easily
     even though they are not aware of it
music helps to maintain the division between here and there

only when the draped coffins are unloaded
     those two worlds converge
and our sense of uninvolvement is exploded

the words
we whisper to each other
   of love  of comfort
   longing  and desire
cross separating oceans
with the speed of light

your voice so close
that I can  
   almost  
feel your body next to me
and catch myself
not to give in
to the temptation
of touching air

      * *

the venerable Plato would have shunned
the very title of this verse

for him philosophy and poetry
were as diverse as Spartans and Athenians
who fought each other in his time

yet later thinkers of the western world
    as well as many teachings farther east and south
were much less adamant to so divide
philosophers, statesmen and politicians
from those who gave aesthetic shapes to life
made people gather in their public places
in theaters  or just with friends next door
to listen to the words that offered powerful examples
    of love and pain and happiness
    of power   treachery and greed
    losses and victories   and visions
    of our origins and what the future might be like
and that to recognize and love the beauty of our world
    leads us to understand the depths of life
    so we may choose our paths accordingly

that was the time when beauty   truth and  good were
                                      one

such words are difficult to find in our time
when three-word soundbites have replaced coherent speech  
statesmen are few and politicians many
professionals claim expertise each in their fields
talk business only with their kind

philosophers  speak to each other
    at conferences and universities
poetics are not really on their mind

poets have found themselves part of the arts
whose function in the common understanding
is to embellish everybody’s everyday
with pleasant images and notions
mending the harm done by so many hurt emotions

Plato’s revenge   it seems
has finally come home to roost
and the poetics of philosophy
is surely  desperate to receive a major boost

there once was a gulyas-blonde assident
who posed as a white house full resident
his deplorable style
proved him an imbecile
disgruntling quite a few global presidents

what are those battles
we have been fighting
for so many months

to prove
   that one is right
   the other wrong

summoning friends
   or gods   or common values
       or personal histories
   for our support
we lash out at each other
   in wild despair
   trying to duck the bullets
      evade the thrusts
      keep our selves intact
          up to a point
      just shy of total agony

seemingly oblivious of the fact
   that what really is at stake
   is not victory

   but our joint survival

a business person
     of somewhat dubious reputation
ran for president
promising to drain those swamps
we all believe we know exist
    around centers of power

he delivered on this promise
in his very special way

draining the swamps
     of all the alligators
that are now in his government

go figure

the tears I shed
drenched a cold spring ground
flooding the creek
that will
in time
feed waves
and take them
to you shores

salty and wild
and hard to mount
even by master surfers

the tears unshed
have built a lump of stone
lodged heavily
right in the middle of my chest

I breathe
it hurts
and makes me cry again
but will not roll away

the hill of Sisyphus rebuilt
close to my heart

is it not strange
that the knowledge
of returning spring

helps little

in the here and now

to forget
the oncoming chilling gusts
of winter?

       * *

Don’t leave your home.
Don’t cross thresholds and borders.
The boats are bottomless.
Even if the sea does not swallow you
and you find dry land,
your heart will be broken.

You thought the softness
of your flesh would protect you.
You’ll be lost in the crowd of foreigners.
You’ll be no one, a number
in their eyes, cool with mistrust.
Your high cheekbones won’t remind
anyone of your grandmother’s
and your name stripped of its meaning,
pebbles on the tongues of strangers.

You’ll lose your ground.
Grammar of the new language will riddle
your bones, hipbones and spine
won’t align to sit on earth.
You’ll long for the scent of jasmine and bread.
You’ll miss the gold fish in the garden.
You’ll forget the names of trees and flowers.
You’ll lose the key to your house.

There is no refuge, no sanctuary.
The boats are bottomless, vessels
to extermination center of the sea.
Stay where you are,
where you know the color of the hills
in winter, spring, summer and fall.

colorful paint
on a blue canvas

    runs
    down
    in
   strings

crossing borders
   & languages
flowing into hearts
   & minds

   slowly
      at ease

the bottom end
   of the canvas
   is not
   the end
of the message
          *
          *
          

a special light
is in your eyes
illuminates my soul
and makes me feel
it only shines for me

I am aware
that others, too,
feel deeply touched
by your bright radiance

I neither claim
possession nor monopoly
simply enjoy
looking into your eyes

knowing that things
keep changing over time
    oft in split seconds
nothings stays the same

only our words
    that name the world
remain unchanged,
once spoken

    a special light
    is in your eyes

over the years
life leaves its traces
on our bodies, our souls,
in our memories

    the moment when a broken twig
    just barely missed the eye
    of a cavorting child

the first time promises
turned into cheats, betrayal, strife
adding injustice to the loss of trust

    the day when suddenly
    you could not read
    the writing on the blackboard any more
    and needed glasses

the time when playing the piano
got so painful that you had to stop dreaming of a pianist’s career

    love’s first elations
    followed by despair and disappointment

some lucky instances as well
have kept you kicking & alive until this day

    crashing through the old glass door
    mostly unharmed
    with your first scooter

during a summer job at the steel mill
seeing just your leather working glove
    and not your hand
disappear into the hydraulic power press

   getting away with just a crick in your neck
   when your idiot friend caused a car crash
   that left only small pieces of your glasses
   in the wreck

out of them all
the scars of loss
    or threat of loss
are such that never die

    your little son saved
    by last-minute surgery

sitting at your daughter’s bed
for several days
until high fever finally abated

   your mother’s unexpected death
   on the first day of spring

the slow and dreary suffering
your father bore with desperate pride
a few more years

all these engravings
   and many more
written by the flow of time and space
are waiting just around the corner
    from your daily living room
mixed in with fonder memories
of joyous time and wonderful events

together they have shaped
the person that you are
your life, your world

which you still try
to understand

the line
   between
life and death

   split seconds

the bloodless face
does not respond
to questions
asked too late

in awe
we bow
to the rules of life

realizing
the limits

acknowledging
the truth of the ancients

about
how to cope
with dying

it has become
the daily accessory
hated and loved alike
sign of bad times
and limited mobility

by some
   equanimously accepted
   as yet another fashion piece
for others
   a threatening symbol
   of prescribed orders from above
for many
   just a necessary nuisance
    that will go away in time

we certainly need to change
our reflexes upon the sight
of persons masked

    before Corona
         at least in our latitudes
    masks were a sign of robbers and bandits

    now it’s the good guys who wear them
    the bad guys who don’t
    and … how can we be sure of that?

a real challenge to find out
just from the movement of the eyebrows
whether you face a friend
or not

sharing our duty
in ambulance cars
for several months
it took a masked ball
to make us meet

when I helped you
into your coat
in the wee hours
of a crisp December night
I just could not resist
to kiss the soft hair
on the back of your neck

you turned around
and held me close

though we did not
  share a bed that night
this was when we turned lovers
   without words

you were advanced in years
but not in love
so we explored together
a new world of sensations
love and pain and bliss
on benches hidden in the city parks
in my small Spartan student's room
and practically everywhere

our love and our bodies were
an endless source of pleasure
when I first kissed you
in a very tender spot
you simply fainted with delight

then came a perfect summer day
we horsed around in splashing water
when suddenly
   the world went still
our play arrested
   in a frozen moment
   a time warp
     to eternity
you still were close in space
    yet worlds away
distance engraved forever
    as one some Grecian urn



I knew then
I would always be
      alone
to face myself
    at my time's end

later you said
that I had looked
like I had seen a ghost

how right you were
took me some time to recognize

it was the ghost
of my most inner self
looked back at me
   out of the glistening surface
       of the pool
   out of the cloudless summer sky
   out of your loving frightened eyes  

a self that had not then
   and still has not
      I am afraid
the strength to bare
his softness
   to the one he loves
trying to save
a shining image
   crystal clear
but in fact
dimmed long time ago
along the roads of life

perhaps it was this ghost
that made us
   grow    apart

you wanted all of me
   and more of us
while I was still a student
   with a goal
not ready yet
   (would I ever be?)
for close menage á deux
determined but uncertain
   in his quest for ...
   well - in his quest

the flames were hard to quench
a whisp brought embers to a blaze
    by the mere thought of you

we broke
   made up
     only to break again
talked over issues
   faint with sleepless nights
embraced with desperate passion
   for the last time
and then agreed to meet once more

at last we were burnt out
         and
   looking at the ashes
knew that we must have learned a lot
yet felt no wiser

   only  very  
        very  sad

*  *  

some days there are
that make you feel time’s standing still

no matter what you do
it somehow in the end is inconclusive
leaves you bereft of any sense
    of celebrating an achievement

you find yourself in eerie limbo
    work without progress for infinity
a prospect rather dreary for your soul
tempting you sorely to do nothing
     succumb to a  paralysis
caused by external unknown forces

    demons, aliens, devils, hostile spirits
    dysfunctional governments or gods
    & cetera

on which you happily can blame
your inactivity

but be aware

life does not care why you do nothing
it simply steamrolls you
     if you are in the way

you better keep on swimming

for those who come home full of doubts
that they are still the ones
who bring democracy to foreign lands
  
let it be said that their specific orders
should be followed   no guilt bestowed
on any of their bunch

they have sworn oaths and their allegiance
to do their duty as defined by politics

if you want to distribute blame
hit those who from their safe positions
in comfortable chairs

send soldiers to their death
     and have no clue
what devastation this can do

as long as it functions
without any problem
it is merely your
    mostly unnoticed
tool to get through life

once it acts up
doctors step in
and you are lucky to recover

dragging our voices
through detailed agendas
paying meticulous attention
to points of marginal interest
to please bureaucrats
who most likely just
stamp RECEIVED
on the file
and lay it to rest
   quietly
in bottomless
desk drawers

the things and thoughts and memories
we keep so private
   not even those closest to us
   are supposed to know

are those that make up
our individuality

we need
   as experts say
this very core of our privacy
so we can say
   I am different
   I have a secret
      nobody else has

I am not sure
yet I have come to understand
secrecy also has disadvantages

torn between privacy
and the desire to share
   we are drawn towards confession
   or get paranoid
   in order to maintain
   The Secret

unaware
that almost everybody
knows it
anyway

           * *

"earth"
without "art"
is just "eh"

when no mornings
follow nights
cities lie without their lights
little beasts root happily
children can live all their fears
   forests break
   mountains shake
then it’s time again

rockets roar with deadly freight
sharp explosions rock the night
   soldiers shoot
   graveyards bloom
it is war

when scrawny skeletons
creep through the streets
parents weep
dead bodies radiate
   new death
and crumpled shapes
   spread more disease
then it’s time again

the general orders strategic attacks
and watches how the metropolis cracks
   rivers stink
   battleships sink
it is war

when the bakers bake no more bread
when the butchers chop off their hands
when the doctors’ only prescription is death
   corpses float in the village pond
   and supermarkets stay closed
         24 hours a day
then it’s time again

maybe the ultimate time
for the warriors to storm from their heights
to the valleys to lance and destroy
   they also **** women
   all children are dead
   the moon is all red
   the stars are so wan

   we are counting the corpses
   as long as we can

   it is war

             * *

was it the wind
who told me the story
of men who rose high
and fell mightily?

was it the cloud
that cast its friendly shadow
   across the land
   against a singeing sun
and gently veiled
things not to be seen?

was it the sun
whose glare laid bare
the doings of the world
so starkly
that it hurt?

it was the rain
that softened hearts of stone
and made them sprout
new life
in arid times

it was the earth
that from her center
gently whispered forth
the word that spread
across the globe
and made us thrive

          * *

images of the savior’s birth abound
in Christian lands

many rooms in many museums
have been filled with paintings of the scene
over many centuries

he
and his ****** mother
and his consenting father
in a manger
shepherds and sweet animals around

33 years later

what does it mean
    that he shouldered the guilt of mankind
    and died for us on the cross

what guilt

why did he have to die

born innocent by a ******
    visited by the holy spirit

the archetypal story
    of human suffering
begins with his birth

and has not ended since

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

      * *

whatever happened to the quiet time
of advent before Christmas day or eve
is certainly remarkable

no other time of our year
has managed to become so  noisy,
commercialized, stuffed full of special sales
with permahyped unique occasions
that only last for a few hours

Black Friday has become national hysteria day
people camping out overnight before the supermarkets
to be the first  
     waving on television
diving into the pool of wonderful things on sale
victoriously placing them under their Xmas trees

the stress this timely acquisition
requires from the donors
just adds another extra to the planning of their days

no time is left for quiet contemplation

and so
what used to be the day to celebrate the birth
of our Christian savior
has turned into a goods exchange
where size and value of bright packages
are meant to substitute
affections muted by the daily chores

maybe a more spiritual mood
might take us back to the original wonder

a legendary birth in that old world of yonder

this is
a thankyou message to you all
who have accepted me in your community
of poets trying to articulate
what we feel is important

often it's love,
     with all its ups and downs
sometimes  it's death
     or loss of friends and the beloved
sometimes it is political
    because one cannot stand aside
    when human rights are stepped upon
    and hate speech threatens those
    who have already lost their homes
    their relatives   their children

as poets
I believe  
we have an obligation
     not only to make life
     more beautiful with our art
     find words in situations
     that tend to leave us speechless

but also to speak up in times
    when fuzzy rhetoric
    spewed forth by demagogues
tries to paint cruelties in friendly colors
    and lack of principles as necessary adaption
    to current times

the power of the word
    not only made our world

it  is the only way
to save it