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
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
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
There are days shadows course
through me like a breeze,
pressing deep into my life line and
the air is the scent of a stale satin pillow
where I refuse to lay my head.
I don’t fear those intrepid ghosts,
I embrace and release them with
failed gravity or the force that once
held the cupped hand of my lover.
The sky was alive then with every shade of
blue and the clarity of Windsor eyes
where I longed for space.
Desire is a stranger, a lethal dose,
encountered beneath a sacred mound.
art by Laura Makabresku
I will channel stardust
of incandescent colors that sparkle
angel mist upon our English garden.
I wait for you there
an exotic flower enfolded among Roses,
Blue Bells, and Columbines.
The wind sings it’s hymn for departed
flowers plucked up by winters foraging birds.
In our Renaissance garden we will
Your stained glass wings, the sweeping
breadth of Monarchs, flutter fervently among the
The weeping falls of willows bow down.
Most of us have experienced it.
Unrelenting obsession that defies reason.
Denying its existence we shut down
its pathway, deprive it of oxygen,
shiver in the dark only to discover
it thrives on the night beneath
translucent veils that ignite
and inflame the fire of desire.
Between sleep and wake we
fall like stones into a silent lake
traversing birth and mortality.
Water pearls drop from unfastened palms
tiny moons slipping through fingers.
Deeper I find you in the iris of cat eyes,
not your spirit or rose tinged snow but
flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh is
an ancient strophe where we do not die
but flourish with the sprouting seeds.
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)
I feel you in the pouring rain
violent or soft as a summer breeze.
A bird in flight you disappear into
the pixels from which you came.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but I have become indifferent to pain
as cold as that seems.
Decaying gardenias fill my rooms with mortality,
decomposing petals saturated in dark secrets
kept alive by the ferocity of desire.
They rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr
of your sigh upon my skin.
We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.
Now I long for the clean scent of fall,
the smell of earth infused in deep roots.
Swaying wind chimes clinging to the arm of a live oak,
synchronized resonance of soothing sounds
for the twilight hours.