we do so
without rationale

we feel
we cannot live
without the other

the cosmos will collapse
if s/he does not
reciprocate in kind

and in our hearts
a brilliant future blooms

whether it rains
or not
we do not mind

nor do we care
about wars' usual body counts
and the disastrous global news

when we love
we do so
in wild abandon

just for us

       * *

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

much of my time
I spend apart from you

by necessity
     choice, or coincidence
I am not sure

we have our different obligations
which also   paradoxically
allow us freedom from each other

make us elated
when we are together
again

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

        * *

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

avoid military service
due to a bone spur
for which there is no evidence

have managed to tell
an average of 16.5 lies per day
since elected into office

slander possible opponents
and everybody else who
has a different opinion

divide their country
at a time when unity
were most desirable

sets police on peaceful protesters
just so they can pose for a photo-op
before a church flaunting a bible

but only for self-aggrandizement
    
     no prayer
     no empathy
for those who suffer most
    the victims of racist violence
    the thousands of deaths from the pandemic
        caused by his delayed actions
    the 20 millions of unemployed

people there are who
are simply too incompetent
to lead a country

(To be sung to the tune of Leonard Cohen´s
"Suzanne led me down the river")

at the buffet of the station
you are looking at the women
in your dreams they're always younger
and they don't have these hard lines
around their mouths

at the buffet of the station
where you chew your lukewarm hotdog
you are listening to the drunk bums
who abuse the red-mouthed women
whose hard lines are cracking open
for a twisted smile
now and then

at the buffet of the station
you are sipping your stale beer
and you're watching all the people
and you almost ask yourself
why you are there

and you smoke your final cigarette
at the buffet of the station
and you pay the shabby waitress
with the hungry eyes
and you stoop to take your briefcase
and return their empty smiles
and then you turn away

but you know when you come back
another train, another day
there will be the same fixation,
the same peoples, the same smiles
at the buffet of the station
as they always are

and you never can forget them
always hear their hollow laughter
always see the painted smiles
and you know that they are
part of what you are

now and then

              * *

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

             * *

all poetry is personal
some more than others

to just spread out your private feelings
     in your verse
may not be everyone's delight

but if you choose words
so that the many find their voices
    in your own
you may be lucky
to achieve all poets' dreams

your personal voice
becomes the public

the current occupier of the white house
is unable to lead the battle against the pandemic
sends unmarked secret police
    to push peaceful protesters into unmarked vans
lets police use tear gas and rubber bullets
    to clear a place for a photo-op before a church
    into which he has never set foot
    holding up a bible which he most likely never read
spreads birther lies about possible opponents

tries to defund the US postal service
    because he is afraid of mail-in votes
attempts to destroy anti-pollution laws
    that improve people’s health
wants to abolish Medicaid
tries to celebrate a wishy-washy peace agreement
    between UAE and Israel as his success
    throwing the Palestinians under the bus

    & cetera   & cetera   & cetera

all he has managed to do in three-and-a-half years
is destroy many achievements of his predecessors
destabilize world diplomatic alliances
insult longtime allies and cuddle up to authoritarian leaders
killing 170,000 {updated 300.000] Americans due to his lack of leadership
sending tens of millions into unemployment and joblessness
and blame everybody else in the world for his blatant incompetence

today the USA have lost all credit
among the global community
and left a vacuum
    China and Russia are racing to fill

make America great again?
the best cynical joke of the past 120 years

not only for Christians
ideas of coming back to life

    like older myths
    of fertility and rebirth

are infinitely attractive

have I ever imagined
I would enter a bank
masked
asking for money
and the give it to me
with a smile.

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

             * *

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

poetic justice
is not reality
yet
we keep on writing

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

when presidents blow a gasket
the world goes to hell in a basket

tonight the full moon
looks incredibly beautiful

making us aware of
how little we know
about our universe

time eagerly devours
   every moment
leaving behind
   a stench of indigestion

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

life on our globe has turned
truly ‘complificated’
and many struggle to maintain
a semblance of the ordinary
in our daily goings about town

face masks, regulations and prescriptions
have changed how we can interact
if we may at all
with each other, friends, family, or strangers

physical distancing may rise desire
for at least digital social closeness
yet in its wake
emotional remoteness seems to grow

hanging like a shadow over
occasional live meetings with old friends
children, aunts, uncles, grandparents etc.

we watch them with veiled suspicion
they somehow look a little less familiar
since we met them last time
who knows what they might carry

strangers watching strangers we have become
growing more alienated from each other

there is an ache

it cuts
at moments
through your heart

   strong as the wind
   that makes the desert move

it stays with you
for all your life
until you breathe your last

  and even then
it will not be enough

last night I went
to a movie rated ***
as I had assumed
in its course I consumed
a remarkable amount
of visual ***

a rare accumulation
of buttocks and *******
and genitals and pimples
floated over the screen

   all the heaving and thumping
   looked like old-fashioned plumbing

   it was the least exciting thing
   I had ever seen

I wonder why

it is not that I'm shy

maybe it's the explicitly
commercialized felicity
as mentioned above
that reminds one so strong
of the things that belong
   to love

the time we spend in doing things
we think are necessary
with hindsight may appear like idle play
wasting a precious part of the allotment
we have been given on this earth

the problem is we do not know

and so we take the risk and muddle on
trying to do our best
hoping it will not be our worst

how hard
   under earphones
   oozing Viennese waltzes
to accept
   your absence

suspended
   in blinding sunlight
some 37,000 feet
above the Atlantic

          * *

And would it have been better, after all,
after these months full of suggestions
leading all ways to find the one
that would
perhaps
point to a chance
for change in stasis,
running the risk it be
revealed as but another dry oasis
adding to those we left behind?

Would it have been less painful
to postpone, again, the action,
have suffering continue as before
when it appears to have become a habit,
but does not seem, for that,
less of a pain that daily tears your heart?

How to improve the second-best solution,
feeling the best is out of reach for now?
How not to hurt the other,
driven to take the first step
out of tune
in the prevailing dance of possibilities
that threatens to go round and round again?

How to let temporary logic
rule over whispering love,
how to ignore my pain
that looks at me out of your eyes
in shock and disbelief?

How to explain
that I do love you even more, not less -
when your blank look cuts me
in half and lets me know that you
believe old fears have now come true?

So, would it have been better,
after all,
after the pain, the hard words
and the crying, the mutual reproaches,

to have left things unsaid, untouched
and stumbling as they were?

I do not know.

If it turn out
this change was for the worse
and not the better,
I will have learned
maybe you, too
and we can take our steps
into our futures
sadder and wiser
   for all the years
   spent separately
   together

          * *

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

ice is in the air
it fills all space
and leaves
   nothing
untouched

the noncomittal voice
of an unfamiliar priest
bounces off
the hard air
   unheard

dark clad people
  white faces
frozen to the cemetery ground

someone
who has not yet
fully understood
softly
   defiantly
places a flaming bouqet
of red roses

my gaze
cuts through
the strange flowers
to the time
that was

a whiff of green

promising to bring back
the god old coal mining jobs
drilling and fracking for oil
on federal land
loosening pollution standards

does not really jive
with sudden claims
to work for the purest air
and the best crystal clear water
of the whole world

yet another pathetic attempt
by a pathological liar
to make facts
fit his egomaniacal fictions

that whiff of fake green
does not smell good

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

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

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

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

     follow the flight of birds
     into the sun

there come the days
when frost falls on the soul
tells us to shore up prudently
against the times
of shorter days and darker nights

gather your sticks and bones
and keep them well
so they will burn
   with life and fire
and warm you in the evenings
until that moment when
    in flashing rainbows
you expire

                * *

a balmy summer evening
on a countryside
dotted with villages

a man on his motor bike
100 hp between his thighs
a stretch of straight road
   rare in the these hills

he lets go

he can
he can do it
   tear early sleepers from their dreams
   make people flinch at their dinner tables
   plough through the fairytales for the little ones

he can
he can leave the noise behind
   together with the thoughts
   of his monotonous job
      security night man at the bank
      well paid, though
leave behind the memory
   of the diverted gaze of his wife
   who would gladly trade
   the 100 hp
   for one more room
   for their children

children

just in time
   he saw her
just in time

the girl carefully walking
   over the zebra stripes
with a mug of beer for her father
from the pub across the road

just in time

nothing spilled
   except a little beer
   under horrified eyes

children

another stretch of straight road

he can
he can do it
he can let go

he cannot resist

fierce
   fierce
blows the wind
   across this island
   off the coast of Africa
  
sittting on the ***** of a volcano
I keep listening to the sound of things

street signs clatter to each other
empty beer cans roll noisily
   through midnight streets
doors keep slamming
   to make their presence known
plastic bags hiss airily
and fly away
   like they never thought
   they could

the ears
of the little dog that thinks
   I am his master
stand at odd angles
while he is grooming himself
   on my lap

warm bodies
in a blustery place

the patio chair
   scrapes its way
   across the tiles
   inch by windy inch

my wine slushes in the glass

I share fiesta music
   from half a mile a way
   coming to me
   in gusty fragments
and almost feel the rush
   of low clouds chasing each other
   under a star-studded sky

here I am
on the ***** of a volcano
listening to the sounds of the world

                  * *

our classic tales of war and victory
tell stories of substantial gains
in land, human resources, treasures,
from Homer, Cesar, Charles the Great,
to Ghengis Khan, Napoleon,
the Spanish, then the British empires, etc.

today, dictators are delighted over victories
whose gains are endless miles of rubble
      shown on television
devastated cities bombed into oblivion
     that will take decades to rebuild
     and populate again
hundreds of thousands people killed
     mostly women, children, and the elderly
     who could not flee in time

how can one who has been the source
of so much suffering and devastation
     harvesting bombed-out cities
     laced with corpses
claim victory?!

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

               * *

at times we feel the need
to catch a moment or a feeling
in our poetry

we start to write
until the feeling has abated
the moment turned into the past

when we then read the verse
it may well be that
though our need’s been sated
the lines don’t look like they would last

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

until one day it crystallizes
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 learn that there are few
whom you would gladly have
   alleviate your burden
many just want to share
   the tiny part
you´d rather keep yourself

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

love can be a hard thing
in its time

it is the night
lit by the moon  
    best if it’s full
that gives strange shadows to familiar things
when poets are supposedly inspired
to write about their pain   their love  
     often the same
important thoughts of life and death
their joys of the quotidian   and
that you catch the day
and live it like it were your last

    you never know
    just a split second
    and your life has turned into your past

benignly, though, the moonlight introduces softer thoughts
of passion and of the beloved
    distant in space but always close in mind
romantic moments lingering in afterthoughts

some times  I think  that if it were not for the distance
that always separates those who have pined
for their reunion
the world’s treasure of poetry might just be half
of what it is today

the same may well be true for all the lines
penned under tears about that unrequited love
addressed to those unwilling subjects of desire
who often  in the course of writing
turn into objects of the writers’ ire

the moonlight’s pristine shine
    in fact a mere reflection of the sun
for a few hours of the night
changes our vision
opens up doors to different worlds
    full of desire, hope, and desperation
allows us glimpses of ourselves
that daylight never shows

we feel we can speak words
under the pale light of the moon
or the dark corners of the night
that would not make much sense
under the brilliance of the sun

the quiet splendor of the moonlight’s grace
lets us experience that other space
we tend to close and keep apart
in our hasty tour of every day

that’s why
in our few calm moments
we all should listen to what they
    our poets
have to say about the night
the moon’s  strange light
and how it keeps their thoughts in flight

I wonder whether
     in my advanced maturity
I'm getting sappy -
    a sign of second childhood
    regression as progress … ?

when even cheesy happy ends
on late night television movies
almost bring tears to my eyes

or is it just
fulfillment on the screen
     of ancient human dreams
that we can live in harmony
     happy in peace
    instead of war

no bombs  no deadly rockets
no children lost to famine or to terror
no need to flee the rubble
     of what used to be your home

I guess I‘m getting sappy

from the crevices of thought
have grown naked ribs of rocks
shaping into mountain cliffs
on whose peaks thick clouds are wrought

there I stand  shivering
   on drizzling heights
strain mine eyes to find some lights
so I see
     and not miss
steps that lead from the abyss

                  * *

a pernicious old troll
with restless fingers
    and maybe also a mouse
still haunts the White House

for his last days in office
he spooks out of all bounds
sends millions into poverty
destroys protected grounds
obstructs where he can

desperate not to lose fans
    from his base that still dream
    that he won an election
he tries to make it seem
     like he still is in power

but many have gone sour
there is talk of defection
and crumbling are formerly
supportive actions

yet he still claims he’s won
fires those who don’t agree
is unable to see
that his time is gone

brought to life
before my will

the day I was born
is not
a memory of mine

for this
I have to go
to stories told by others

family and friends
communities
   of the first second
some until this day
unknown to me

they knew me
long before I saw them

how can I have lived
so long
without memories
of my beginning?

       * *

you, father,
after your escape
   from Lemberg's deadly POW camps
on your long march through Poland
braved the terror of secretive days
and endless nights
and did not simply stop

you, mother,
were holding your own
   against death from above
alone with your mother

I thank you
for finding each other
   in a world half-dead from war
for following your youth
and not those old in mind
   of whom were many
who then could only see
   the end of crazy dreams

that you brought me to life
   without my will -
this willful act
   I gladly do forgive
as you have bravely shared
   in bearing the results

for, what I have become
    throughout the years
your love, your care,
   your wisdom,
   anger, disappointment,
   patience, and your grief
have shaped me as I am today,
   even though
   I did not always understand

from all of this have grown
   for me
      perhaps for you
belief in self
and trust in life

I thank you

         * *

the little strong man
gives orders
to ****
    to cleanse
         to resist
he reminds
his frightened people
     of the glorious      
old
     victorious times
     and the soul of their nation

and when he is sure
     that no real news
     is shown on state-controlled TV
he broadcasts
     his rousing speeches and
     those heart-warming
patriotic
          movies
of another war
to elevate the fearful

he pretends
     not to be afraid
of laser-guided bombs
cruise missiles
stealth bombers
and unseen stratocruisers
that hit
   or almost hit
carefully selected military targets
and spare civilians

or so they say

the thought that one of my friends
   over there
might die
   as a non-selected target
because of this maniac
heats the blood in my veins
    clenches my fists
       chokes me
        with a wild
fierce
    ravenous
    cold
   ANGER

When you have got
an elephant by the hind leg
and he is trying to run away

it's best to let him run

in an age that brings instant gratification
by hitting a button or two
we are perplexed that good medication
cannot be found in a month or two

patience is waning  so is dedication
after a month or two
no matter what the explanation
we start throwing a tantrum or two

in spite of our expectation
of a miracle or two
our desire for vaccination
may have to wait
for a year or two

relearning to be patient in this situation
may give us a headache or two
when we surmise that salvation
will not come
by hitting a button or two

I feel so uninspired

maybe because I’m tired
of all the nicely rhyming jingle
I’d rather wish that just a single
great thought or image would appear
of love or hate or lust or fear
unfold its plethora of riches

     no matter whether clowns or witches
     the sky  the stars the moon the sea
     and all the creatures there may be
     nature’s eternal universal charm
     the friendly dragon that means no harm
     fair maidens pining for their knights
     vampires haunting stormy nights
     fairies benign and leprechauns
     protecting all the loved ones

so that my lines be generally admired

alas, I still feel uninspired…

unknown morning birdsongs
make me aware
I am not home

the pain you feel
howls out within
to be articulate

and haltingly
   you start
to carve its silhouette
on people's minds

knowing that nothing's gained
unless your pain
meets with itself
in others