we taught each other
to enjoy
a lingering kiss
   soft touches
     loving glances
the built-up tension unreleased
    but in secret solitude
       at night
a yearning for fulfilment
   never to be granted
as we moved out of school
and into different lives

I saw her last
only a few years after
  alarmed by news from mutual friends
two days before her death

she did not recognize me
   any more
as I stood terrified
beside her bed
in a secluded section
of the cancer ward

I had arrived too late

my loving stutter
   already out of reach
her blindly searching gaze
passed on through me

it hurt
like nothing else before

I cried my grief out
in long sobbing nights
yet still not long enough
to heal the pain
nestling since then
   quietly
in thinly calloused
wrinkles of my heart

            * *

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

until one day it crystallized
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 recognize 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

born from the brilliant blue
   of northern skies
it found a way
   through shiny eyes
straight to my heart

an instant passion grew
unfolded into years
   of anxious virtual meetings
times spent in harmony
as well as strife, support, and care

days of wild ecstasy
   followed despair and alienation
closeness and distance
   took their turns
and more than once
what was to be the final cut
grew back to bloom again

over the years
love has grown more sedate
but not less tense
   at times perhaps more painful

but still as true
as on that day
when in the sun of northern skies
it found its way
   through brilliant eyes
straight to my heart

          * *

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

pain caused
by love
    and also death
not ever goes away

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

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

love's pain
   is not
a topic I embrace
or would write fervently
about

yet to ignore it
   hurts
as I have learned
more than to speak

and also
  it might mean
that I love
not

     * *

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

with love
I have learned
not to ask why

feelings
have no reasons
the logic of thought
cannot explain

love is

happiness
as well as pain

gratefully
I accept both
knowing I am alive

even if you
do not love me

I simply am
   perhaps madly
in love
with you

     * *

bristling
    with self-defense
a curt reply
comes quickly to her lips

she thinks
she knows the world
and does not care too much
   about adults
who have always been old
   by definition

looking out for herself
   at sweet sixteen
her body is some thing
   difficult to control

only when
it is obedient
to the swirling figures
   of her dance
her eyes shine deeply
and she has found herself
in delicate motion

grey and black
and powerful

its pointed cone
***** in
all shapes and colors

we do not know
how
where
if

they come back

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

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”
rarely fails
to shine his eyes
though he is not a man
    to shed tears easily

apparently
the harmonies
touch strong emotions
   spawn deep dreams

this time
the power of music
graces momentous acts

Europe is growing
75 million people are joining
decades of separation
are beginning to end

he looks at mediated images
of exultation across the latitudes
   fireworks  songs  speeches
   fears and hopes

and wishes
   wildly
      almost desperately
to believe
these are the right steps
in the right direction

             * *

how do I get to know this me?

ask my friends
     or enemies
who I know
     are biased one way or the other?

find myself in meditation
     with a guru
     or just with myself?

what if I discover
     there is more than one me
     that I have many selves?

must I accept
     all of them
or can I choose the ones
     I like best?

life is difficult ..

the way I consider the world
as one who has rarely been heard
is through a glass darkly
no matter how sparkly
or bigly the presidents fared

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

the  air-conditioned railjet takes me
with strangely whincing wheels
through winding tracks
along the mountains of my youth

clouds are hanging low
    after recent rainfalls
fog shrouds the forest hills
    in mystical silhouettes
rises slowly from the valleys
revealing an old castle here
     a younger hotel there

the next stop announces
     my birthplace
today's wet greenery passing by the window
makes me wonder what it was like
almost seventy years ago
     two years after the end of a war
     that destroyed many places on the globe
     and killed fifty million people
for my mother to give birth to the first
     of two sons
with a husband who
     at the age of 21
had just made his way
      not quite nine months before
escaping from a Soviet POW camp

     took him and a friend one month
     walking by night
          hiding by day
     through all of Poland
     to end up in a British field hospital
     from which they fled
           gratefully
     when they had regained some energy
     jumping trains from northern Germany
          to eastern Austria
     coming home just before Christmas 1946

and as my hometown disappears in fog and rain
I hear the muted noises of the high-tech train
     now on a steady downhill track
musing how easy my own life has been
no wars, dictatorships, catastrophes

how we are born into a world
so different from our parents‘
raised by their words and values
to make our way

time eagerly devours
   every moment
leaving behind
   a stench of indigestion

unaffected elegance
genuine kindness
warmhearted affection
infectious optimism
female role model
working for a better future
wisely responsible
naturally humorous

simply lovable

under a thin new moon
a black car passes by
   followed by a yellow one

two identical business suits
   disappear into the alley

leaving me to myself
   on the narrow balcony
   of my third-floor hotel room

where the night wind blows
thoughts around the corner
like cigarette smoke

               * *

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.

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.

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

mirror, mirror on the wall ...
what the hell happened?!?

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

she takes care of you
and you are embarrassed
   because you want to be free

she pays for your studies
and you resent it
   because you want to be independent

when you are flat on your back
she flies in for the rescue
brings you home and nurses you
   back to life
and you hate her for it

because you know
you can make it on your own
   but will not do it
until
she sets you free

            * *

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

             * *

perhaps it is the weather
a prolonged absence of the sun
or presence of the winter cold
or just a temporary fashion

the media as well as many webbéd sites
simply abound with dreary blather
     of lovers lost and death so cold
     the lonesomeness of every single soul
     and how s/he suffers when s/he writes
spelled out at length with no discretion

we know that people suffer from depression
or unquenchable anger at the world
and how through proper treatments
you can considerably relieve the pain

fix them in words is one of them
    but may not be enough
sometimes a mix of pills and pen
may do the trick and help you
    write yourself through your misty prison walls
    discover unlocked doors hidden in plain sight
    step out into the sunshine
        from the darkest night

you are the sun
    whose radiance illuminates the world
    lends brilliance to your life
    sheds light on everything you’ve done

and soon you’ll notice
even the weather is getting bether …

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

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

out of a dreamless sleep
my wristwatch's chirping electronic beep
   brings me back slowly to the world

not without doubts of some primeval kind

I try to cautiously adjust my mind
and turn
   with sudden fear and apprehension
and find
   the world is still alright
and you are here

         * *

when I wake up from my dreams
   have to leave you
       then it seems
that the mornings are much colder
and I feel a little older
all these mornings without you

when I stumble out of sleep
   sad     because I cannot keep
loving images of you
           in my mind
and my body aches with longing
    for your warmth I cannot find
all these mornings without you

then I wish that time would fly
dream of mornings on which I
   turning over drowsily
find you sleeping next to me
happily can lift the cover
and come closer to my lover
oh, these mornings, loving you!

   * *

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

for those whose mothers are no more
the annual business hype of what to give
    and where to take your mother
is but  a sad remembrance of loss
stirring up memories of happier times
when she was still a pillar in your universe
loved and revered, and sometimes feared,
who taught you, patiently or not,  
the basics of survival in your expanding world.

She knew, while you were as yet unaware  
that all her loving preparations
would over time mean separation.

When you struck out to shape your life
all by yourself and left her with her fears for you,
her wishes,  and the hopes that what she tried
to give you was enough and right,
your heart and mind were elsewhere,  far away,
focused upon the future of your independent life.

Your years run fast and busy, and suddenly one day
you stand before her coffin
and discover that it is too late
for all the questions never asked.

What you have left are memories
and a vague sense of having missed the chance
to see - and maybe even understand a little -
the woman she has also been
throughout her life, behind her loving face
of a dear mother’s care and grace.

for those whose mothers are no more
the annual business hype of what to give
    and where to take your mother
is but  a sad remembrance of loss
stirring up memories of happier times
when she was still a pillar in your universe
loved and revered, and sometimes feared,
who taught you, patiently or not,  
the basics of survival in your expanding world.

She knew, while you were as yet unaware  
that all her loving preparations
would over time mean separation.

When you struck out to shape your life
all by yourself and left her with her fears for you,
her wishes,  and the hopes that what she tried
to give you was enough and right,
your heart and mind were elsewhere,  far away,
focused upon the future of your independent life.

Your years run fast and busy, and suddenly one day
you stand before her coffin
and discover that it is too late
for all the questions never asked.

What you have left are memories
and a vague sense of having missed the chance
to see - and maybe even understand a little -
the woman she has also been
throughout her life, behind her loving face
of a dear mother’s care and grace.

For those whose mothers are no more
the annual business hype of what to give
    and where to take your mother
is but a sad remembrance of loss
stirring up memories of happier times
when she was still a pillar in your universe
loved and revered, and sometimes feared,
who taught you, patiently or not,  
the basics of survival in your expanding world.

She knew, while you were as yet unaware  
that all her loving preparations
would over time mean separation.

When you struck out to shape your life
all by yourself and left her with her fears for you,
her wishes, and the hopes that what she tried
to give you was enough and right,
your heart and mind were elsewhere, far away,
focused upon the future of your independent life.

Your years run fast and busy, and suddenly one day
you stand before her coffin
and discover that it is too late
for all the questions never asked.

What you have left are memories
and a vague sense of having missed the chance
to see - and maybe even understand a little -
the woman she has also been
throughout her life, behind her loving face
of a dear mother’s care and grace.

always there

and suddenly gone

too quietly
too fast
  to adapt to the absence
  of your presence

why did you not
go to your check-ups

why did you pretend
to smile
when you knew
you were dying

why

   why

      why

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

salty and wild
and hard to mount
even by master surfers

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

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

the hill of Sisyphus rebuilt
close to my heart

the pandemic is endemic
that’s why it has its name
if you ignore all your medics
only you are to blame

for the deaths among your people
    the highest rate in the world
you sure made America great again
in disasters corruption unemployment
and mismanagement of a deadly crisis

out of misguided vanity
in times when simple sanity
would have sufficed
to save thousands of lives

do presidents get sentenced for mass ******?
if not
they SHOULD!!!

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

listening to sweet string music
played by street musicians
on both sides
     of the now peaceful
    Austrian-Hungarian border
in a landscape beautiful
     cultivated  and serene

the knowledge
that over many centuries
in this lovely landscape
the border was serious
and hundreds of thousands
lost their lives
in battles   on minefields
in persecutions

almost brings tears to my eyes
in helpless anger
over humankind‘s inhuman waste
of lives

my garden has a butterfly
each time I see it flutter by
I wonder why it is so shy
and does not want me to come nigh

I guess its ancestors detected
that many of them were collected
to end their lives pinned on a board
then eyed by beings they abhorred

as I prefer my animals alive
I love to see my butterfly
amidst all daily haste and strife
just beautifully flutter by

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

my lover's eyes
   are island seas

changing their colors
   to the wandering of clouds
lit by an inward sun

at times
   a brilliant hard shine
   of greenish gray
   with tints of brown

at other moments
   the sad grey
   of pastel slate

and then
   some times
   a dark green velvet

drawing me in
on endless gentle waves

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

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

naming the world
is our daily task
temporary and forever new
challenging and ambiguous

   like the name of the rose

only few names last
most are forgotten
the young ones usually
do not understand

   a rose is a rose is a rose

names can move masses
   Oedipus Napoleon ****** Ghandi
   Jesus Stalin Mohammed Rockefeller
or just a few
  or one or two

names are what
remains of us
   aids to some fleeting thoughts
   in the dear memories of friends
imprinted on official pages
   and electronic discs
strange signs for future generations

to name
   against the flow of time
   what we see hear feel taste smell  and do
   our dreams and visions and desires
   the thoughts we have and those
   we do not dare to think
   and to name those we love and hate
fills our lives

  the rose is

             * *

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

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

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

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

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

          * *

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

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

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

follow the flight of birds
into the sun