sombrous

          born at the brink

          of moonshadows and dusk

          we adore the quietly

          smiling face pinned

          to this ultramarine sea

                    dark yet glistening

                    trickling into the mist

                    of our autumn souls

                    seeping the wounds

                    to fill subterranean caves

          bear with the trees

          that have shed their leaves 
          for they stained your eyes with gold

                     bear with the trees

                     that retracted to their roots

                     for they await

                     a warming sun

                     to fill their veines

(inspired by Yelena)

Surge

The Ninth Wave by Ivan Aivazovsky [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Relentlessly must follow
one surging wave another
amid the endless sea

A liquid mountain range
crowned by a whitecapped snow
from heaving rage to waning foam

Behind this wall: a veil
unto horizon's haze ̶
blue reign, infinite darkness
no land for sailor's gaze

Seafarer, lift your wings
toward the seagull's cry!
On white dream's billowed sail
toward the cloudy height!

Rest 'neath her shining star
upon her bloom-strewn lake
cradled inside
her moonlit boat
anchored in timeless season.


(for M.)

Adrift

The river's drifting slowly, grey and silver

beneath soft bulky clouds laden with shadows,

uprising dreams heaved by a western wind.

A flock of gulls swims with the current,

vacation travellers beckoned by breath

of distant seas, white cotton balls

knowing their home in wides and wilds.

Our roots afloat, enmeshed in driftwood

broken from glowing trees

in sparkling autums

before first snowfall.

The sky breaks not;

only a remote thunder

rumours and dissipates,

leaving the earth

unquenched.

Summer Field

Enchanted is the hour
before the break of night:
Illuminated lies the fading day
with weight upon our hearts
as darkening dream.

In stainless blue
the skylark tweets
as if a mockingbird
jeered the futility
of our souls' striving.

The corn stands bold
amidst the waning heat
awaiting scythe and mill
nurturing those who can
no longer feast on words.

A golden glowing eve:
corn poppies' fragile sway
in sighing wind
caught in those countless ears.

You are a summer field.

vacation diary (II) - urlaubstagebuch (II)

glückfriedlich träumt
im spiegel glatt
die kleine meeresbucht.

im oleanderzwitschern
blühen die vögel.

im kiefernduft
zirpen die grillen.

schafe mähen
das gras
und in die stille.

der halbe mond
zum trocknen
in den cirruswolken.

mücken surren
schläfrig noch
den abend ein.

altgewohntes
ist wie immer

neu bestauntes wunder.

A Note on Death

Right from the beginning there is this shadow walking behind us, invisibly waiting, patient and calm, a warrior anticipating the fortress' fall without fight, facing defenceless inhabitants. When the lights fade the shadow shows up in full fright while we darken, finally merging with us, consuming, becoming us.



(This emerged after I almost finished reading the exquisite novel The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - spontaneously I was thinking, "Why couldn't she write a more fortunate end?". Books mostly end before the end; eventually it's life that writes the stories.)

Embers of Dawn

Risen from blue embers of dawn
garlanding hilltops of verdant grass,
in a crevice, concealed from the clamour
of the mundane, she fills her well
with fresh waters, pure as autumnal snow.

Enclosed by the mountains' range
her valley is flooded with birdsong
weaving soft sunlight among the trees
that keep secrets of old, untouched
by whispers of malignant weeds.

At eve, with beckoning chimes of
the chapel's bell, her prayer lifts
the spirit of those who are gifted
with the balm of her verses,
bathing in warm vernal breeze.

Soft-pawed comes her footstep,
lithe as the fragile birch
keeping watch at the sea.


(for my friend Yelena)