A Winged Bird

I am who I have always been
a shiver of soft reeds beside the river
or the cascade of  waterfall.
Gypsy crows rise  to a soft dawn sky
gathering their kind they circle
back for me.

 

I can scarcely  bear the

splendor of the world,

it’s wonder humbles

the wisp  of me.

Minutiae of eyes and ears

and speechless tongue

Stunned by the promise

of a  red sunrise.

Elegant trees  lift up

their mighty arms,

grand  gods in prayer,

host to creatures

large and small,

a cornucopia of life

fills their noble crowns.

 

I want to sail across the sea,
this tiny fleck that is me,
a winged bird   bearer of
no possession,
fragment of the universe.

 

 

fine art America

 

Translation by  Bernd Hutschenreuther

Ein geflügelter Vogel sein

Ich vermag kaum, den Glanz
der Welt zu enthüllen,
ihre Wunder schmälern
noch meine Winzigkeit.
Details von Augen und Ohren
und Zunge, stumm,
erstaunt vom Versprechen
eines Sonnenaufgangs.
Vornehme Bäume erheben
ihre erhabenen Arme,
mächtige Götter im Gebet,
Gastgeber unzähliger Geschöpfe,
abgezupft in rot und grün,
Füllhörner mit Nüssen und Beeren
zieren ihre edlen Kronen.
Ich möchte das Meer durchsegeln,
winziger Fleck, der ich bin,
ein geflügelter Vogel, Träger
keines Besitzes, ein erfreuliches
Fragment des Alls,
einem jeden sichtbar.

Deutsch: Bernd Hutschenreuther

 

You

brilliant bird your

fire still in my hair.

Gravity has pressed me to you,

Hold me in your cupped hands.

The wind has blown away all sanity

And we have become the feathered

tongues of muted birds

The hollow bones of faithless lovers.

Burnished anger waits silently

never be to be spoken

But sails away on

the wings of migrating birds.
 

 

Svetlana Ponamarenko

 

 

 

 

 

 

last refrain

The earth is powdered snow.

The sun rises in myriad hues.

Nightingales  refuge in my  closet

to mourn December’s last refrain.

Contrails light the  wings of Jays

that flit beneath the lit doorway

settle softly into January’s chill

Shelter  in a pale winter bed

 

 

 

“One day we will learn to give and receive love like an open window and it will feel like summer  everyday”

author unknown

 

Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi

Der letzte Kehrreim
Die Erde ist Pulverschnee.
Die Sonne geht auf in unzähligen Farben.
Nachtigall suchen Zuflucht in meinem Schrank,
beklagen den letzten Kehrreim des Dezembers.
Weiße Streifen blitzen hinter den Flügeln der Häher,
die durch die beleuchtete Türöffnung flitzen,
sich sanft in die Januar-Kälte setzen,
Geborgenheit finden in einem hellen Winterbett.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carousel

Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs,  roil  over  ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of  Mountains.  I hear the voices of ancestors,  perverse whispers of hate and grudges,   they are witness to our deception. They  know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same  darkness as theirs.  When we once again come face to face  they will  tell us how the hours passed so quickly.  You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest  a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown.  Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings.   Save me from this carousel,  my arms outstretched not knowing I am still  spinning.

 

unless you ask

Unless you ask

I will always make you go

before the birds invoke the day,

leave our scent on the crumpled

sheets to the cats.

Though it is somewhat embarrassing

I love most among poets Aristophanes

and sultry dreams of cherubs that twitter like

juvenile birds drunk on adventure.

Unless you wake me to the soft sound of Coltrane,

the rich taste of espresso, the breath of fruity herbs,

I will always make you go before

the sun breaks the horizon.

 

 

 

Painting by Michael Lipke   (1953)

 

 

Singing to Birds

Leaning into dreams

 free falling adventure

anarchistic hummingbirds

hover in mid-air.

Tiny ballerinas too

light to bear their  shadow

vibrate the air like the

laughter of children.

I open my heart  like 

raining down clouds to  

the sweet intoxication of

the promise of spring.

 

 

 

Bellavista

 

art: Dawn Chorus by Bellavista