Desire

Can we dig out childlike imagination,
refined from evil thoughts and hate,
take the power out of our rage
and let it go wherever it will go,
bereft of all its skill, de-crafted?

Can we achieve purified innocence?
That shining light,
so finely shaped,
in delicate immensity
trustworthy, yet unhuntable,
remains forever before our inner eyes,

lovingly calling.

Miracle

Why is the truth so seldom eloquent?
Because, gathered in shy array,
confronting divine intensity
human sounds die away.

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Bliss

Wherefrom original joy I draw
is when in other’s poems I find
a piece of my own soul and mind
re-written

Revealing beyond the surface of its words
some hidden truth from down the soul of man

Or is it just an anchorchain
with anchors at both ends
that links me to a fellow poet,

A soul that yearns for love and truth like mine,
yearns to feel the virgin beauty of Creation
Creative power of virginity
Innocent though sinful,

that received one day eternal knowledge
no one can take away –

– like me?

The Finest Coat Of All

„Fur coats of any colour“,
the furrier cried out.
„Mink, hare, wolf, polecat, marten,
nought to complain about.“

The customers were staring
at furry works of art.
The cold, sterile perfection
no glance at them did dart.

Nobody dared to talk of that.
Each voice a sharpened knife,
they touched the well-sewn masterpieces
whilst dreaming about life.

Then suddenly a grey-clothed and
distinguished shopping-goer
stood still, stopped, pointed hastily
at something on the floor.

„These shining eyes on fox-red ground –
– they sing of joy in life.
This is the finest fur of all!“
– And the fox barked in answer, approving.

Sometimes

When at times a female soul perceives
that although she’s happy with her life
a single somebody to talk to
is both needed and around –
– someone to tell the secret, mystic thoughts to
that only diaries are likely to keep hidden,
those precious sensations, flashes of the truth
that have to be spread because they’re true,
of which every flower sings a song
that children can decipher easily
(a skill that adults struggle to regain),
someone to reveal her thoughts to without sacrifice,
for it’s the same that other soul has felt –
– then, from universal subjectivity,
some well-loved verses may spring up.

Across

I’ll draw a cross for every man
who died at Wounded Knee,
for every woman, every child.
May through my poetry

rise up a tiny wooden cross
for all the world to see:
There was a trusting unborn child
who died at Wounded Knee.

I’ll paint a cross for him who said
he couldn’t keep in touch
with his vivid sense of sanctity
he once had loved so much.

I’ll paint a cross for everyone
who’s crucified this day
through arms, through words, through disbelief
or through the loss of way.

Too great a task for me to serve
innumerable ‘yous’ –
I’ll paint a single cross to see
within my poetry.
In verse I’ll write a single cross:
a prayer they deserve.

Spring

Lo and behold! The littl’ one holds the flower!
A deadlocked child finds room for joyful playing.
Those bursting buds give way to resurrection –
breathe! It’s Easter time again.

The Baby Dragon

(also to be read on Dec 25^th)

The eyes of the dragon
have risen again
to the height
of their threatening might –

yet carefully hidden,
thereby not to cause
the protected
to take refuge in flight.

Paddy’s Promise

Rose of the lilies, lily of the woods,
thy humble servant ever will I be.

Thy presence doth exceed an earldom’s goods,
may mine bring ever love and joy to thee.

Let me beneath thy chamber sing my airs,
for ever from afar watch over thine affairs.

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My Blues (Poetry Version)

Tonight I’ve got the blues on my mind,
and I wonder – would you lend me your ear, just for a little while?
I’m sitting here alone in my room,
and I need someone to talk to – could it be you…?

Let me tell you all about those thoughts that came to my mind
while my heart kept me alive here in my sealéd room;
I realize I’m not that sad about my blues tonight…
Yet I would like to bring some joy into the blues.

I’m sitting here right by your side
and still can’t get the blues off my mind.
I wonder – will this go on forever…?
Now, here’s a thought that might keep me excited:

What would you say if you knew what I am thinking,
what would you do if I forever had the blues…?
Now, let me tell you I’m so glad I’ve got the blues tonight,
And allow me to bring joy into the blues!

I’ve got a firm grip on the blues, I’m holding on with all my might
and don’t think I will ever let go.
Guess I fell in love with my precious blues tonight…
Please allow me to bring joy into those blue eyes –

Yeah, from now on I’ll have those blue eyes
on my mind!

After A Visit To The Roots Of Belief (Poetry Version)

A strong wish for some kind of unity
slowly creeps up in my mind;
it springs from the deep, hidden pools of my heart,
those pools of life-long desire
that’ve been nurtured by secrets of truth.

Questing for truth means standing alone,
perpetual questioning of right –
but it also means, sometimes, if only for a while,
staying calm, and feeling warm
near those people who then feel the same.

Continuous striving for flashes of truth –
– is it worthwhile the struggling inside?
I’ve seen war born from asking some people
to interpret the reasons for their hope.
Cult should serve truth, not replace it.

So… why not listen and trust in the lessons
of my own life?