I want to fly but fall like
a silent prayer.
My limbs are an anchor
as I slip beneath the surface.
Opened mouthed my lungs expand,
struggling palms lie flat
as gentle waves of the river rock me.
Seaweed strands of hair mingle
with the sigh of my breath,
my only thing of value.
Everything beautiful is here,
all that was lost.
Birds chorus to the stones.
A thousand warriors rest in an
estuary of flowers.
art by Abel Tasman “Blue Bay”
They settled a shack down the dirt road.
She came on Tuesday to help with the laundry.
Her sparkling eyes glowed when she
laughed from her belly.
He baled hay and mended fences,
his rough hands ached and bled.
At the end of the day we served dinner on
the porch with white linen and sweet tea
in bell jars to ease the sweltering heat.
From the dining room table we could
barely hear what they were saying.
When she and I were alone she said he
drank their money away with the
children needing shoes.
I gave her a sack of apples and
slipped a dollar in her pocket.
Fall came in brown and gold
like skin and teeth.
Smoke hung heavy in the air that night.
They found him swaying
from a tree like an October leaf,
thick calluses covered his hands.
They don’t hurt anymore.
Folded beneath white caps
rosy crystals stack in layers,
letting go their hold-fast
seashells loosen their grip.
Released from the rushing tide
tendrils of slippery seaweed
catch among the sea oats,
prisoners of the dunes.
A shroud of melon sky climbs down
the sweeping vista.
Seafaring specters bob among the swells
drifting apparitions devoured by the horizon.
Gulls hover between sea and sky
wings plunge in and out of azure
their throaty caws console the lonely sea.
Lying back on clouds capricious birds tweet
into my ear so I open my empty palm
expecting metaphors to light like songbirds.
From here I can see the river Delta,
dark green tarpaulin stretched across the hemisphere.
Murky waters reflect gray skies and broken hearted
memories flow past with fleeting clouds.
Just before sleep captures my mind I consider
You say I am your guardian angel and the warmth
of my breasts your confessional.
Together we Suspend above the boredom of life
sinking in ruins of madness.
art by Karol Bak
I wrote this just for you
I want it to be perfect.
Its verses clear as a summer sky
carnation clouds ascending.
May I lean back in your rose colored
swing until it is time to go?
I don’t want to own,
I just want to be here.
Translation By Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi
Ich schrieb dieses Gedicht
nur für dich.
Ich möchte, dass es perfekt sei,
mit Versen, hell wie ein
aus einem Garten, den ich erschaffen habe.
Lehn dich zurück in meine Rosenblüte,
eine farbige Schaukel und
geb dich Tagträumen hin,
bis es Zeit ist zu gehen.
Ich möchte, dass du regierst …
Ich will nicht besitzen,
nur dabei sein.
On sleepless nights
I stroll the left bank in black sequined heels,
My eyelids heavy with sparkling glitter.
I find you there among the art,
tear through our veins,
settle in the pool of our hearts.
Candles flicker their last warning in a
dark cafe where we sway like
winged willows to a song far away.
Then you are gone,
a Modigliani reclining.
Never hearing my whisper,
the only french I know.
Mark Spain Art
When I rub against you
you stroke my ears and tail.
If I stretch and softly purr
you run your fingers through my fur.
Your touch is warm like freshly dried
socks that I toss and chase.
Without my claws I am helpless
but when I am threatened you
always rescue me.
There’s so much I want to tell you
but not a word comes from my throat.
Photo by Heart