A true season

​I have come to
see your beauty.
In the sky and
by the lake
With such beauty.
Treetops dance
in the wind
Clouds cross the sky
turning into rain.
And I whisper
quietly to myself.
These are such
life – sizzling days.

Summer of 76

Up and down the paths I walk.
It’s bearable.
After all, I survived
hot summers before.
Especially the one is 76.
Back then,
summer weaved its magic.
The days were keen and mellow.
Everybody slept like babies.
And nobody was
corrupted by blood or fire.

Light years away from my time

All day, news with shimmering veils.
But no one is watching.
The rain falls and fills the gutters.
A small colony of ants
flicker in and out.
Only the sound of
cicadas rises above
the low echoes of
unanswered questions.
And some people have
never been in love.
The rest is your journey now.

Between love and duty

Do you love me because of duty?
Or to travel such roads,
that the universe has nothing
to make you think or cry?

My life, once built on her.
Soared away like a morning bird.
And I found nothing to gather
but rice-heads in a dry field.

Then, beyond the horizon.
You said one word,
with lips so chilled.
And now men ask me
‘Who are you in love with?’

And I no longer weep.

I think my blood remembers.
The old dream-songs by the canal.
When the sun came up
we would live each day
as if it was the last.
It also remembers the
tumble with torn hands.
And deaths horrible final embrace.
But most of all, it remembers
the love, the kisses, the dreams
and nothing more.

Down on easy street

I cannot not write
romantic poems like Rilke.
Or conjure up images
like Emily Dickinson.
But like them,
I do not want to live in
the realms of praise.
Nor spend too much time
addressing the blue veins
on the dry streets.

You told me, I was older
and less handsome.
You are right.
But over the years,
I have clearly grieved.
The pain still runs
through my limbs.
Burned inside me like a voice
that keeps calling me back.

But I am still not
just eating seeds.
Or watching the
reflections shimmer
on the water, until
they disappear.
For me, silence always breaks.
And when it does.
I will be smiling in a café.
Drinking coffee
and writing my poems.
And life will not be deceived.
What about you?

Easy street

​I haven’t learnt yet
​to live in the realm of praise.
​Nor address the blue
​veins on a dry street.
​Now I am older,
less handsome.
But I am still not
just eating seeds.
Or watching reflections
shimmer on the water.
Until they dissappear.
What about you?

Somehow, I’ll find my way to you

Through a haze that makes
the sky and the streets one.
And a different feeling in my heart.
I did not stand alone today.
Nor, will I wait for spring
to speak of silence easily.
For I am held captive
by this deep love.
The frustration it melts,
and power it gives – lasts
till the sky lights again.

Disconnected by timing

My poetry, like good love.
Sometimes comes
in active moments.
Other times, I roam
about the streets.
Like a rusty samurai,
full of old memories
of life between the wars.
The landscape changes
but there are still
broken clocks
and broken hearts.
Enough to write a poem
and to make me feel
I am not alone.