something can hit you
upset your life
destroy you daily routine
make you aware
of the fragility of life

and of the statistically proven fact
     rarely ackkowledged
that bad things may also happen to you
not only to others

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

at times
we write out verses in a rush
    what we are feeling
believing this is poetry

we may do well to keep in our mind
how the grandfather of romantic poetry
defined his writing at the time

    powerful feelings
    recollected in tranquility

which means,
    in short
that just to let it all hang out

    is not poetic

only when given shape
by rhyme rhythm or meter

we recognize that personal experience
can be an image of much more

    an effort of how we admire
    the wish to articulate human desire

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 weave a tender fabric
of many gentle threads

   if needed
you can pull it over you
and feel cozy

I am there for you
in times of bliss
despair  
or anger

to lean upon
also to hit
yell at or fight

I want you
wildly at times
rough   uncouth

and sometimes
wordless
only by soft touch

I need your smile
your laughter
shiny eyes
your tears
your counter-argument
your wisdom
your advice

my love of you
is always total
a force replenishing itself
from its core
not diminished
or impaired
by dark moments

it has no reason
needs no logic
nor explanation

you are
my love

and would I cry
were I to lose you
     yes

my light of many decades
dimmed beyond return
would make the world
a dreary place

filled with the shadows
of our dark imaginings
we‘d kept at bay
with our love and joy
and our laughter

without you
they would gather force
draw closer

     a pack of hungry wolves
     sensing a weakness in their prey

yes
I would cry
were I to lose you

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;  
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:  
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,  
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand;  
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;  
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;  
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing we did make).

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;  
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;  
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,  
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:  
I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.  
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:  
(I measure time by how a body sways).

have you ever been wondering
how death tastes
right now?

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

love
is not a cake
with only so many pieces

it is a force
ever replenishing
bursting forth
from your innermost

it is what you
can give to others

and yet
your self is only
its temporary vessel

however much it may be based
   on individual biochemical reactions
love is the cosmic power
that holds together
our universe

it can
   lift you sky high
   flatten you against a wall
   take your breath away
   leave you wordless
   throw you
      into a dreadful abyss
   misle your senses
   make you talk gibberish now
   beautiful words then

it devastates you
   one moment
and give you unspeakable happiness
   right after

it makes you care
   for your progeny
   as well as for your elders
it makes you do strange things
   in daylight
   and in the dark
it makes you walk for miles
    to see the one

it makes you
   help a blind woman across a busy street
   throw money into a beggar’s cap
  donate to charity

it makes you burn with desire
   to share your utmost self
   with an other
   illuminating the few days of your life
   with the hope of eternal brilliance

it can do all that
because it is
   not a cake
   but an ever-replenishing force

yours
as long as you live

and the cosmos’
as long as it exists

burning rain forests
wild animals with shrinking space to live
growing air pollution
smog in major cities
more than 3,5 million deaths
     due to respiratory diseases
global warming
new insects and other beasties
    in the formerly cooler regions
extreme hurricanes  rainstorms  heatwaves
excessive use of fertilizers by agro-industries
bees are dying
blossoms are left unpollinated
biodiversity is in a flat spin
deserts keep growing globally
fossile fuels are still polluting the air
curious dolphins die in the water of the Thames

after so far hundreds of thousands died of Covid-19
it is high time to see the larger picture
to comprehend interactive phenomena

the pandemic brought earth a little recovery time
the waters have cleared
you can actually see fish in the canals of Venice
satellite pictures show clear air over metropolises

suggesting: the new normality after the pandemic
must be significantly different from the old one

do we really need hundreds of thousands to die?
does it need a virus for us to understand

that we need a different relationship to nature?!!

my love is like a glowing rose
that grows in an ebony chamber
forever there to stay alive
forever to remember

forever to remember there
how strong once burned a fire
defied the sun and blinded day
so high it dared aspire

some day a storm again
will blow through open doors
will stir the slumbering ember
and raise a flaming rose of love
that burns the ebony chamber

I had to keep back tears
when I discovered
that the plant
which I had nourished over years
      first in a ***
      then in the tiny frontyard garden
      where it had   after a while
      found its space amid the dominance
     of  honeysuckle & the bougainvilleas
had simply been cut off at the stem
by the guy I had paid to clip the hedge

     which he actually butchered to a degree
     that it looked like shrubs by the trenches of World War I
     devastated by artillery, grenades, and machine guns

I think I will not ask
for his services any more

if you don’t like the way things are
either change them
or change your attitude

some venerable cities
hide their soul
   behind endless accumulations
of steely glass facades
   reflecting anonymity

in Athens
all relics of the ancient times
that once helped shape the Western World
appear like foreign bodies
   in a sea of faceless concrete cubes

   most prominent
   Akropolis and Likavitos hill
   tourist-infested and forlorn

and it is only
when you meet the people
   and see them go
   about their businesses
that you perceive
tradition here
   is strong
and still lives on

a colorful river of words
flows out of the cave
towards an ocean
under azure sky

will it diffuse
in the blue
waves of the sea

or

stake out
in distinctive colors
a current of meaning

it travels without trucks
builds quickly
and undoes itself
with ease

its walls are just
    my frames of thought
its bed
    the conscience of a day
    well lived
    with few regrets

its gourmet restaurant
mostly beckons somewhere
from across the street
where people meet
keep company
and eat
and share
and talk

if the results of your negotiations
remain below the expectations
of your great leader

you better write your testament
say goodbye to your loved ones
and prepare for death
instantly or piecemeal
in one of those well known
penal colonies

whereto the great leader
relegates those enemies of the people
who fail to give himself
     and his good buddy Donald
the precious soundbites
they need to announce
over the global media

to demonstrate
their nuclear good will

we know
     we will die one day
but we don't believe it

all those people
do not know you

you do not
want to know them either

who wants to care
about strangers

you see a video in which
the bad guys hold the floor,
   where helpless people die
a dime-a-dozen death

and you forget
it is just a magnetic tape or disk
has brought these figures
to their nameless destiny

the bad guys may be amiable actors
   privately

in your illusion's grip
these people really die
and you
   do nothing
for their lives, their souls

not even push
   the saving button
   on your remote control

              * *

to all my fellow poets who were kind
enough to read my verse with the somewhat
forbidding title “not about you”
like it despite of it and
     more than that
elected it as Daily

as well to those
who sent nice messages
and greetings

I send warm thanks

you made my day

a sunny one
opened bright patches of blue sky
between wet clouds
and brought me better morning news
than any of my papers could provide

Merci once more

warm for the season
clouds hanging to the ground
hiding the sun
making mid-day feel like dusk

such days may make some folks
forlorn and grey
and they prefer to stay indoors
secluded, warm, in cozy places
practicing various social graces

for me
the blurry silhouettes of familiar shapes
open the doors
to visions of a magic world

the old oak tree down by the grocery
looms huge, somewhat mysterious,
almost a bit uncanny
an ancient giant rising from his lair

the hedges in the garden
have grown into dark vanishing walls
the path between them leading
straight into misty white uncertainty

even my neighbor’s little dog
   appearing suddenly
looks like a werewolf’s tiny brother

I do not bother
nor do I take flight

I am befogged
yet I do recognize
abundant water in the air
enhances our view through ambiguity
makes us enrich our world with meanings
more fantastic
    and quite otherwise
than those when days are clear and bright

when you grow up
in a world where old is not useless
but means connected
to other times that made yours possible

then the weathered beams
     of an old mountain farmer’s house
          lived in for generations
give you a feeling of security and continuity

the solid doors of venerable city buildings
     signal achievement, comfort, safety
     knowledge and culture
     brought to you across the centuries

the crumbling arches of old castles
      remind you of your country’s history
      some of it glorious  some not
      for better or worse

even your faded family photographs
      can make you wonder
      suggesting all the generations
      that passed so you can have
      that special feeling

among the tall slenderness
of poplars framing my view
the poised spire on the home
of the Sisters of the Holy Cross
looks tiny
in its striving heavenward

I do not know
that poplars think of God
   when they grow towards the sun
   and every year bring forth new leaves
   brave storm and droughts
   survive

I do not know if the nuns are much concerned
about their spire’s minor reach
their rules are as clear
   as their evening songs
   floating across the garden
   on moonlit winter evenings
their dedication is to care
   and heal some of the human suffering
   with love and prayer
or with magnetic resonance
   in more contemporary ways

the poplars grow
   and annually sprout new life

the nuns preserve
   the frailty of human bodies
   for after life

* *

congratulations on this special day

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

today 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 in our age
try to persuade us that these are the only worthy goals in life

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

Why do we crave so many things
though they leave us unsatisfied
and send us out again for ephemeral
seconds of vanishing gratification?

Is it an absence of essential qualities
that makes us feel unfinished?
Do we indeed believe that more is better,
restlessly chasing for the shiniest of all?

We seem to be obsessed with filling
all the empty spaces in our house of life
with things
barely a place left for ourselves
to comfortably lounge and contemplate
and
    maybe
find the missing elements
waiting
    to be found
    within
and not without

monsters come in many shapes

some are cuddly
some truly terrible
   bad-blooded beasts
   and look it
others hide their monstrosity
   behind a cordial facade

the most dangerous kind
that makes you like them
only to discover
   at some crucial point in time
how monstrous they really are
how in cold blood
they do their monstrous deeds

and you forget
that monstrosity
   like madness
may be a different kind
of communication

             * *

the sea
is a silken blanket
under slow-moving clouds

feisty cats pretend
   not to notice us
   enter the restaurant

   when dinner is served
   they assemble around us
   quiet but insistent

your eyes talk to me
our legs touch

I kiss your hand  
   and
when the candle is lit
   the waiter gone
distract you a little
   with a hidden caress
from enjoying your
hors d'oeuvre

        * *

the poet is a fragile me
that longs to gain eternity
by power of the word

the greatest fear is that
no poet but a nerd
    who cuddles into words
    and there gets lost
is what is heard
    outside this world of letters
and at the most
can claim illusions
    that may better
    the understanding of a verse
    of all the meaning it conveys
    the sorrow pain concern and love

and then again
    as said above
what reaches out beyond
     the mind that spins these notions
     of love and other great emotions
may just appear
as nothing but a comma
    in the ocean
    of words around the globe

that’s what we poets fear

how difficult it is
   in a particular moment
to find the words
   that can articulate
   the general in the specific
and vice versa

when sensibilities are tense
words easily can be received
quite differently
from what they actually
were meant to say

   hearts can be shaken
   feelings hurt

it may require weeks
to heal the wounds
a turn of phrase has cut

   sometimes unknown
   by s/he who spoke

and then
   if deeds are not available
more words are needed
   to undo the harm
   old ones have wreaked

explain
   define
      and modify

to keep the dialogue alive
that circumscribes
   forever undetermined & opaque
what is in us
and needs to be

said  

           * *

not only for Christians
ideas of coming back to life

    like older myths
    of fertility and rebirth

are infinitely attractive

impervious to experts
untouched by suffering immigrants and workers
heaping vile insults onto all opponents
remarkably ruthless in praising himself
at every inappropriate occasion

a man only in love with his own self
of whom many hope
he'd soon follow
the story of Narcissus
to its classical end

speaking
we give voice
to our lives
blend our voices
with millions of others

do we create a sound
in the universe?

do we get across
one single word
that signifies
happiness
    the terror of the soul
       a brilliant concept?

or is it just noise
we produce

stellar statics that
scholars in another world
spend their lives
to fill
with meaning?

             * *

there still is a president  named Trump
who starts every day with a bump
he storms the fake media
and blames Wikipedia
for rating him below Forrest Gump

no dreams tonight
though the moon does shine bright
yet clouds make it look
a little bit like a crook

they shroud its pale shine
misty rags do entwine
even hide the whole disc

then again with a whisp
a distorted appearance
suggests perseverance
     of the heavenly body

we love its continuity
amid life‘s ambiguities
welcome the now shiny round face
with a heartfelt embrace

poetic justice
is not reality
yet
we keep on writing

waking slowly to the singing of birds
after a hard day
      and a late night
finally granted deep sleep
     dreamless in memory
my lazy soul is quite happy
with being
   nowhere in particular
for a while

white walls enhance
   bright spots of sunlight
finding their way
   through time-worn blinds
from the radio alarm
   human voices send sounds
   as comforting and meaningless
   as the song of birds

it takes some time to re-establish
   a basic sense of time and place
moving through by now familiar spaces
my eyes record the necessary data
my hands prepare breakfast
my feet take me to the table
my senses register the sight and taste
   of coffee and ham and bread
and the luscious
   deep red
   strawberries I bought yesterday

when I kiss you good morning
   on the telephone
hear your voice
and wish you all the best for a day
   of enervating committee meetings
I cannot tell you of my joy
of waking to our world
that holds
    the sun    
    the birdsong
    the luscious ripe fruit

    us

            * *

death floats through the cities
casts its shadow across the deserts
sneaks into villages and huts

sometimes quietly
sometimes with a deafening blast
leaving corpses and rubble in its wake

no time a safe time
no zone without its horrors
no end of suffering for humankind

religion once more a deadly weapon
harnessed to serve power and greed
all saviors sacrificed in vain

the United Nations
ever and again call to raise billions
to help countries devastated by war
or other mostly man-made catastrophes

I suggest we operate by the causality principle:

the countries who sell all those arms
    and military support to the warring parties
    or leave the natives no land to grow their own food
simply use the money gained from their sales and appropriations
to help the refugees they created
    build up all the cities their weapons destroyed
    provide a living for the farmers whose lands
         have been sold to agrobusinesses
    pay for the education of all the children
         unable to have schooling
    reconstruct the societies their greedy actions destroyed

sounds like a fair proposal

doesn‘t it??

speeding southeasterly
   away from the metropolis
suburban shopping malls give way
   to fields of corn
chased by sunflowers between pine forests

the train pushing
with 100 miles per hour
against the heat
  of a summer noon
towards the mountains
hidden in a haze

then the ascent
on the old artful track
wheels screeching
at the narrow turns
between occasional small houses
built of stone
a hundredandfifty years ago

the silhouette of a big bird
   among the spruce
of cragged peaks
   outlined against the sun

steep mountain meadows
   mowed in morning coolness
the grass already turning into hay.

my birthplace coming up,
a renovated station,
a short stop,
   moving on -

I see
an uphill forest road
on whose high point
a wily stone
   thrown long ago with young ferocity
had killed a squirrel
   instantly


   none of my tears
   would make it jump again
and climb up on its tree

with gathering speed downhill,
on through the river valley
flanked by wooded hills,
spiked with farms
and cluttered haystacks,

rushing by
old steeples in old towns
with some new factories,
until a confluence of rivers
   another stop.


then turning southward
   downhill still
more narrow in the valley
past steep rocks
old castle ruins above sprawling freeways

until the hills recede
and cumulating houses
in a widening basin
suggest the temporary end
of traveling

surprised
   I step out

wondering how
to resume

the days fly by
busy with all those useful things
I do to make a living
of some sort

and all throughout
your presence in my thoughts
   wondering how you are
   whether your days go well
even though we do not talk
about it on the phone
as often at the time

always the feeling
of a saddening lack,
missing your voice,
your touch, your laughter
   even your grumblings
emails and sms’s help just
   to know that you are there

yet nothing lifts my heart
   and blows away
   that melancholy gauze
until we meet again
and I can hold you tight
and dance with you
   all through the night
into a brighter morning

             * *

there is a time
when love is
    shades of blue
    azure and cobalt of old lakes and seas
under long shadows of the morning sun
painting the sky in rose-rimmed lapislazuli

ride the night
   on fiery wings
   beyond the moon
   to the one you love

lie open-eyed
    clothed only
    in you nervous skin

feel the whisperings
   of the forest
   under a star-speckled
   summer sky

hear deer
   rustle through dry leaves
   on ingrained paths
    
breathe in the night air
    in deep drunken draughts

let your mind wander
    across oceans

be alive

when your children
get killed by a lunatic
with a semiautomatic
in their school

and your president
flies in to meet the bereaved families
but in his fake condolence speech
does not mention even once
the words „gun control“

then it becomes very clear
whom you should vote for
in the next elections

when the heads of nations forget dignified tones
we are well on our way to that „clean“ war with drones

find love come back
true soft lips miss
body wrap arms legs
kiss

an evening sky
of slowly waning azure
hints at the radiant horizon
   behind rooftops

little clouds
    are blown by high fast winds
and quickly lose their rosy edges
   on their journey East

your voice
   tender and small
   as the evening song of blackbirds
recalls the importance of moments

I look into your shining eyes
and see the sunset sky
   reflected forever
in brilliant rainbow colors

               * *

during a starless, sleepness night
   when thoughts and feelings
   are confused yet strong
I hear
Corelli's measured, jubilating voices
praising God

and sense
a master's pride
   immodest
   in its musical perfection
   of transcendental adoration
reach out through centuries

the voice of human suffering
expectant of salvation
yet defiant
sounding victorious
even in its most humble moment
of timed defeat

the beauty of power
born of fragility