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

walking
the streets of Vienna
with you
things come alive

   venerable palaces
   waltzing around St. Stephen's

   beautiful white horses
   from the Spanish Riding School
   galloping through the Schönbrunn Park

   old Sigmund F.
   ogling the Viennese Choir Boys

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

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

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

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...

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

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

I do not know

maybe I should
hold still more often
to reassess my way

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

unburdened by knowledge
or traditions of polite civility
some powermongers
     brazenly
demand attention of the media
force their way onto title pages
assuming that bland lies
     combined with contradictions
     and outrageous stupidities
     mostly echoing sycophantic TV news
will satisfy their followers
ensure their loyalty
and even guarantee
their reelection into higher office

     there is a tendency
     to underestimate ‘the people’

they usually take their time to watch
and talk  and reconsider
     after all
     one does not lightly
     throw away the expectations
     one has projected onto the preferred

then comes the point
when ruthless ignorance
      and greed for power
become too obvious
      too much

people no longer do approve

the powermonger tumbles from his throne
his reign remembered as a somber blob
in people’s history

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

not until
   not so long ago
I recognized
that saying thanks
   only with wordless deeds and gestures
may not be enough

we need to
   hear
GRATITUDE  
spoken out loudly
   in words

silent appraisal
   is not enough
   over time

so I speak out
in deep appreciation
   of your hard work
   to make us
   stay together
against tall centrifugal forces
the division of
   distance and time
   distress and separation
   barriers of the quotidian
   multiple obligations

I thank you
   for being with me

even at times
   when you are almost
beside yourself

I thank you
   for being with me
and being you

         * *

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

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

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

           * *

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

september has become
the cruelest month

reassembled
hollywood disasters
at their worst
flipped into reality

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

what is the point?

to prove
   that one can bring
   disaster
   to the undefended?

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

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

does wordless violence
solve anything?

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

domesticated energy
serves the omnipotent
   two millionaires’ sons
   turned public enemies
upon whose final global showdown
depends
the fate of yet more
   women
        men
           and children
to satisfy the need
for a just universe
where power flows
    undisturbed by laughter
   and the sounds
   of real people
        living
   in a real world

September has become
the cruelest month

reassembled
Hollywood disasters
at their worst
flipped into reality

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

what is the point?

to prove
   that one can bring
   disaster
   to the undefended?

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

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

does wordless violence
solve anything?

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

domesticated energy
serves the omnipotent

   two millionaires’ sons
   turned public enemies

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

when death comes closer
it can make our bones
show prominently
under taut skin
revealing
harsh edges
where before flesh
was softening our countenance

what sharpens our face
blunts our senses

   is this a friendly face
   familiar
   or just the shadow
   of an anonymous nurse
   doing her duty

words spoken
become difficult to understand
and to reply
a major effort

the touch
of a caring hand
feels sweet
but to respond in kind
   is almost impossible

between relief of letting go
and fears of the raw loss
of our world
decades of living bear us down
a sense of systems closing quietly
prevails

you wonder whether
you will see again
the friendly face
that says
   it will be back
tomorrow

my friends said last night
I should write something light
something shiny and bright
to the readers’ delight

no fights and no terror
no soldiers no war
no suicide bombers
no refugees galore

after all   it’s the season
when altogether we sing
of the love that we bring
to each other
    within reason

so I am doing my best
NOT   to make a clean breast
    of the worries that plague me
cuddle deep in my nest
only welcome the guests
who brings me good news
and carefully wipes
all bad cues from their shoes
ere they enter my house

so  
to rouse our good feelings
we all listen to the chimes
of the church bells a-pealing

and to a poem that rhymes

involves little brain
just basic arithmetics
lots of gut feeling
and trained physical action

works for surviving
in the Hollywood Wild West

not recommended
for leaders of nations

a certain morning stiffness
in your joints

you find your face
in the bathroom mirror
and wish you hadn't

the puzzled wisdom
    of middle age
wavers from your eyes
deepening wrinkles
   of many laughs
   many frowns

   how many more?

   nevermore ?!

the room becomes aflutter
with poesque ravens
the presence of absences
fills the void
your life is on the brink
of deconstructing itself
to the periphery of the universe
a discourse of silence
forever becoming ... becoming ...
what...?

   nevermind!

so

you close your eyes
   hard
for a minute or two

when you look again
you meet the stare
of a not-so-bad-looking
man in his best years
  
   graying sideburns
   receding hairline
   20 pounds too many
      BUT
   a firm decision
   to work them off
  
   still a bit sleepy
   yet determined
   to shave
      get dressed
      have breakfast
  
   and teach
   that wonderful seminar
   on 19th century poetry
   to eager graduate students

when we hear the silence
in our closed eyes
direct it into our soul
let it conclude its work
become our consciousness

far from the world’s noise
if only for moments
in secret    with no audience
we become one
with nature quietly shaping our lives

when words cannot speak anymore the situation is serious

when I was young
my little world
held only few phenomena

   some friends, the parents
   school, my new bicycle
   and my beloved books

the path was clear
horizons had no ends

and I walked on

sitting up straight
     suddenly
apropos of nothing

another arrow
from reality

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


* *

days will not pass
   nights always come
   too late
when you are not with me

the cloud that is not you
hangs over me like fog
   strangely transparent
my senses have grown blunt
for anything that is
   not as intense as us

but people smile at me
and I can talk and act
   it seems
quite normally
   they do not know
   that they are only speaking
   to a friendly shell

my real shadow
is holding yours
in our dreams
until we wake again
   and walk  
into each other’s arms

you listen to what passes for the TV news
you read some
but not all
of social media views
you notice that
despite all internationalism
it‘s mostly old sensationalism
combined with more or less suggestive speculations about
how many people may have died in forest fires
to what imaginable depths the president aspires
whether the North Koreans have more rockets
     despite the wonderful achievements
     of the national superdealer
who of the leader‘s staff might be the next
      to lose her job or his credentials
etc. etc.

in short
the world has mostly shrunk
to domestic politics and power games
plus a few places on the globe where
U.S. soldiers still are dying
     in order to protect their country‘s interests
     in oil, assorted mineral resources
     or allies of political expedience
or a few thousand refugees from countries plagued
      by persecution or dictators are
      marching for weeks to claim asylum
           in the home of the brave and the free
           under the statue of liberty
     only to discover that they are seen
     as an invasion threatening
            that blesséd city upon a hill

visions have grown smaller
more petty voices dominate the talk

a nation made of immigrants
faced with the poor who flee from their oppressors
decides to close its borders to the immigrants‘ next wave
oblivious of the times when they themselves
still searching for a better life
found a new place where they felt safe
led by the statue‘s torch that shone its light
upon a poet‘s words of welcome:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

small hands
like small minds
can never grasp great things

only small minds believe
putting others down
makes themselves bigger

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

we may loose
each other
as suddenly as
we met
years ago
under a bluer sky

many steps
have already
been taken

rituals of complaint
that point
to deeper troubles

no talk
about certain things

a joking camouflage
for unspoken
sadness

gestures of weariness
of irritation
and withdrawal

embarrassed silence
across the double bed

seven billion people
in their separate worlds

the next step
may be

so easy

* *

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

                  * *

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!

there are moments
when in the daily busy-ness
questions slink into our thoughts
making their way slowly
through the distracting perma-noise
of our world

     what will there be
     after all obligations
     tasks  projects  jobs
     are no more

do we fall
     into a blissful black hole

find ourselves stymied
     by the absence
     of the pressure
     to accomplish

do we slowly fade away
     feeling un-needed
      
maybe  
      luckily
find our private obsession
that keeps us occupied
until we breathe our last

who knows

we look at TV screens that show
thousands of persecuted and bombed-out families
on the run for safety and sheer survival

so sorry

borders are shuttered now
the boat is full   no more come in
we have to think of ourselves

so sorry

we sincerely regret that you
are suffering from cold and rain and snow
in your rickety makeshift camps

so sorry

we are sure there’s someone
to take care of all that mess

it’s just not us

so sorry

unknown morning birdsongs
make me aware
I am not home

our hearts keep beating
as long as they can

that's the sound of life

in september
the shadow of the arcades
is almost too cool

on the plaza
before the Romanesque church
children play soccer

their shouts
   pierce
the quietness

that radiates from the castle
   to the church
   and into the old town
   envelops the few
   customers of the osteria
   makes me want to write
   about us
   and the love in your eyes
over wine & ham
   & white bread
under vaulting walls

* *

in september
the shadow of the arcades
   is almost too cool

on the plaza
before the Romanesque church
   children play soccer

their shouts
   pierce
the quietness

that radiates from the castle
   to the church
   and into the old town
   envelops the few
   customers of the osteria
   makes me want to write
   about us
   and the love in your eyes
over red wine & ham
   & white bread
under vaulting walls

* *

a thousand apologies more will not
make spoken words unheard

for me
  
    ever since my mother died
    on the day spring began
    eleven years ago

my joy over the annual reburgeoning of life
also evokes the memory of death

I know
death is unique and final
     spring is eternal

but all the lovely flowers sprouting forth
always remind me of my mother’s love
of flowers and all other natural beauties
like sea shells  pine cones  precious stones …

maybe it was appropriate
    after all
for her to leave this earth
when it brought forth new life again
    bursting into renewal
as if to compensate us
for our loss

the other day
     it felt like overnight
spring flowers had appeared across the meadows
      cowslips  spring snowflakes   crocuses   daisies  daffodils

they tell me
in a little while  it will be spring
no matter that white caps still decorate the mountains
storms blow rain  sleet and snow across the land

the flowers know

they will not fold their leaves
grow back into their cozy soil and wait some more
they will defy a few more frosty days
slow down a little in their flow of energy
then blossom forth in all their power

show us that nature’s life renews itself again in force
no matter what our mood might be

flowers will bloom

in meadows finally released
from the cold grip of snow
spring flowers look so pleased
so happy they can grow

their leaves unfold
their shiny blossoms bring
bright colors back into our world
and make all birds sing spring

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

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

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

130 mass shootings
    in the first three months
      of. 2023

lately on the average
50 people are shot dead
    every day
in the land of the free and the brave

since 2020
gunshot wounds
have become the primary cause
of death among children and teenagers

why people
would want to live in a land like that
I do not know

to spend
the whole summer
with you
feels   unexpectedly
strange

leaving behind most
of my normal life
I have become
a thief

stealing precious time
with the one
I love

* *

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

as now
   we end

a cold anger
has almost
   killed my kindness

   turned me
   into granite  

lethal insults
hurled with fury
   shatter on my skin
   leave me
   untouched

I have become
quite invulnerable
to human outrage

maybe this is
what I resent
most

* *

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

I am the night owl
flapping its wings
stealthily through your dreams
with a soft  feathery touch
    you may remember
       you once imagined
like the figure at the end
    of the corridor
    whose face always remains
    in the shadow

I am the sower of images
   growing from the dark
touching your mind gently
tapping at forbidden doors
   closed to the brighter hours

I am the prowler of twilight thoughts
that lend shapes
     to your hopes
     and fears and desires
living their lives
     in between

I am the night owl
that shudders
    and folds its wings quietly
when the sun rises
    always too soon
patiently waiting again
until the day is done

* *