some music
makes you feel
so very old and wise
so full of aching joy
and knowlegde of the world

it sums up
   all your life
   in sound

dew drops
   brilliant in the morning sun

haunting your memory
   beyond recall

the day you went
   into that other world
the day spring began
is etched into my memory

I know
thousands of mothers die
every day

but this time
it was you

my mother

to bend
to the limits
of our life

hurts

almost beyond words

When I consider how my days are spent,
with work that leads to work, with little time for meditation
except for a few moments, now and then
on trains, or planes, or in the car,
at times I feel our Western civilization,
may not have taken us so very far.

Not that I am ungrateful for electric light:
it eases one of our deepest fears -
of nights that cast a dazzling darkness on creation
until another sun returns it to our appreciation.

Yet I do wonder if our brilliant sight
derived from deftly harnessed natural powers
makes us indeed see more of that strange world of ours
than saw an old man's dimming vision under candlelight.

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

the expression
on the face of people
close to death
is different

their eyes look elsewhere
they seem to see
a world alien to us
yet eerily familiar
   a place we have known
   to exist
   but never acknowledged it
   to be important
   for ourselves

they will not tell us
what they see
    their lives fast-forward
like films
    a brighter future
   the blackness of darkness

we will not know
until we ourselves
have that same look
on our face

also
unable to tell

after some grey days
comes the sun
   summer heat
spectacle on the Seine

to commemorate

"La Route de l'Armada"
a fleet for tourists
that never was

yet nice to watch
   nevertheless
with fireworks
   & stately masts
sails folded orderly
decks scrubbed
the crews all smiles
ready to answer
   all the children's questions

in between
gray & inaccessible
some men-of-war
of more contemporary make

among them
   somewhat tarnished
one single ship
that really carried
allied soldiers
in its sightless hull
on that gray morning

and suddenly
   if only for a moment
you smell the sweat
   of fearful courage
hear ammunition
   click into magazines
the waves break dull
with hollow sound
amidst the crashes
   of firework artillery
that splits the waters
upward from the ground

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

my eyes
  see yours
when they awake
to face the world

your lips
return my smile
in dreamy moments

your face
looks into mine
from my reflections
in the polished glass

my voice responds
to yours
in endless dialogue
through time and space

your body's loving warmth
has taken home
deep down within

I have got you
under my skin

your presence in me
my presence in you
when we tear at each other
in anger and despair
hurts terribly

signs of love and hate
collide
spawning wild words
hard feelings
dark bitterness
escalating

until I remember
that we found each other
miraculously
in this world

forgive me

I love you

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

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

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

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

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

I should have known

when I recalled
the color of your eyes
soon after I first
looked into them

and when I went on
noticing your absence
  looking for you
  among the crowd

I should have known

when finally
I saw you walk in
   wet with rain
and felt like singing

I should have recognized

   but probably did not
   dare admit to myself
how much I longed
to be
with this lovely
woman

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

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

our kisses
   are desperate
      and wild

we cling
as if we did not
trust reality

and need a while
before our minds
   follow the warmth
   of our bodies

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
it fied 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

she had promised

   he kept waiting

he knew it would be
   late

and kept himself busy
fighting against
   the lump he felt
   beginning to form
   in his chest
when long after midnight
the phone continued
not to ring

he thought of
how she would enjoy
exhilarating company
   and be happy

in the end
when her voice
   would come
across thousands of miles
exhausted yet pleased
he would swallow hard
and simply tell her
"I love you"

of love I sing
of music it can make
   on strings of joy
   tuned to your melody

of how it touches keys
whose resonance reverberates
in unknown caverns
of the soul
   lit by a sudden harmony
as flighty
   and as delicate
as humming birds
   buzz through your vision
at summer dusk

and as persistent
in their imprint
on your inner eye

as that of four swans
rising in a line
towards the morning sun
above a misty pond
long years ago
when you were wandering
   by yourself
and questioning
the wisdom of the world
and of your almost
thirty years

wisdom still
does not go unquestioned
   love remains
the beauty of that moment
   grows

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

dreams of April
turn into snow

swirling in the wind
under a leaden sky

growing dark
with lost memories

quietly
over the past week
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in their country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

businessmen, remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and those never-ending nights
at the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
at the time when nature’s breath
goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

Or were it better
that we also took a rest?

slowly
we recognize
the shapes again
still hovering between
familiarity and strangeness

gradually
the view becomes accustomed
like in a meeting of old friends
whom years have changed
yet let them keep their essence
that helps us to remember
how we once shared
a space and time
in our lives

eventually
walls become transparent
as we step cautiously
into the new old house
walk over stairs
that lead us
to the rooms we think we know
still apprehensive

they look different now

we balance carefully
between past and present
forever hopeful
we are coming back
to the home
we left
eternities ago

the world phenomenal
  it seems
has always been
a threat or a temptation

to catch it all
in its totality
or to improve on it
with thought's ideal rules
  sharpened by generations
have caused discussions
over centuries

the other night
we saw a stately scholar do
   rather spontaneously
an old Greek dance
in one of Athen's old-town restaurants

her body moved
graceful yet meticulous
  gave shape to measured
steps and figures
  known over centuries
  in the small village of her birth

and while she shared with us
the ancient spirit of her place
  her dancing caught
  the joyous moment of that night

                    * *

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?

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

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

without remembering
our past
we cannot understand
   the present
   plan for the future

   that is what they have told us
   in so many words

with advancing years
memories accumulate
   eventually
making up most of our lives

and yet

memory is there
   life is here

the present always
outruns the past
leads us into futures
we do not know

those who think
detailed knowledge of the past
would help them cope
with future life
are right
    and wrong as well

we imagine
our future modeled on the past
with the present thrown in
for good measure

and yet

the future may be
   the present is
      the past was

to live in it
makes you an addict
of events that were
once upon a time

   no matter
   whether fairy tale
   or trauma

the art of letting go
is in demand
and in much need

to square the circle
of life’s mystery

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

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

                    * *

quipping maliciously
the learned scholar
outdid himself
and keeled over backward
into a huge barrel
of seething criticism

be honest

do you always
like yourself
   your partner
   all your friends
   your job

do you feel
at times
that you are quite abominable
   your friends are boring
   have turned into enemies
that your beloved has become
   an obligation rather than the joy of your life
and that your job is just
   a never ending treadmill

if all of the above applies
then it is time to take
   a step or two
   back from the everyday

look at yourself
as from a mountain top
and honestly acknowlegde
that you belong
   to the seven billion people
   on this globe

who struggle

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

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

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

her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral

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

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

* * *
                                                              ­                        © Walter W. Hoelbling