2020: #enjoycreating. (II)

Cracks.

Blood on my skin,

like wine spilling from a glass.

A purulent

wound.

Hurts.

 

Fractured.

Body broken.

Do you see

my darkest of nights?

When it is just

Me?

Wine should be in a bottle.

Shouldn’t it?

 

Light.

Breaking in broken pieces,

scattered.

Morphing into shades.

Painting playful pictures in the air.

A promise.

 

Invites.

Fragile beauty.

without words

i am soaking

silent beauty

silencing my turbulence

pieceful

for just a moment

until…

When the early sun orchestrates

the rise of a new day,

when birds are promising

the earth still orbits around the sun

and a new morning conquers,

when silhouettes fading

into facades of brickwork

and the scent of brewed coffee swells,

I know for certain

a miracle just happend

and it will linger.

Once there was a cake.

A dough of flower, eggs, milk and cocoa.

Pudding saturates him.

Two days of waiting was his secret ingredient.

Every year, he was the taste of Easter Sunday.

A recipe given from grandmother to mother,

and she shared it with her son,

like a precious treasure,

designed to be given to his offspring.

 

Once there was a book.

A small thin collection of yellowed paper.

Its smell reminds of wooden shelfs in antiquarian bookshops.

The pages are worn,

telling from dreams they have heard,

wars they have survived and

eyes of curious readers they have seen.

And a grandfather gave this precious little piece

to his son, and he continued giving it to his offspring.

 

One day a son found a small thin book in a box on his attic.

The carton stayed there after his last time moving.

Dust covered every empty space.

He forgot about this box.

and he forgot the book inside.

When he took it he felt the light heaviness of history in his hands.

Opening the cover a recipe of a sweet Easter cake fell on the dusty floor.

It was locked between pages like a pearl in a shell.

Immediately he felt the taste of sugar, pudding and cocoa on his tongue.

Memories of his childhood awoke.

He remembered sitting with his siblings around their family table,

anticipations of sweet cake and wild adventures dancing.

Hibernating dusty on his attic they knew where he came from.

They were his story, entwined with him,

like bridges to his beloved.

 

Back in his flat he went to the kitchen.

Today was his little Easter Day.

And while the oven was heating up,

he sat on his kitchen table,

opened a book with well-thumbed pages

and started to read.

to my partner in crime.

 

Dear One,

did I ever tell you, how much you mean to me?

 

You – another migrant between worlds,

companion in trying to make sense

out of all these pieces,

that I hold in my hand,

that I call myself,

trying to be whole.

 

You – dreamer beyond boundaries,

loving the mysterious,

stepping one foot into the unknown,

believing in miracles,

yet with the other one certain in the mundane.

 

You – who lives in the ambiguous,

prefering good questions rather than answers,

being earnest in pushing forward,

yet childlike in standing still.

With an infectious laugh

you take my life with ease,

yet believing my hardship.

 

You – lover of vagabonds

tending to break the rules,

but never myself.

Your home is not a place,

it happens

to me.

 

Dear One,

did I ever tell you, how much you mean to me?

I wish I could.

 

In love,

Yours.

rhythm rimes reality

on ancient alleys walking;

aegis afforded by archetypes

of flow founding footing;

guarded ground is guaranteed

unless utility evaporates;

hence heartbeat haunts to hesitate;

 

and out of pulse

i am falling

FREIRAUM / OPEN SPACE

 

shut down

stay at home

social distancing

stiff limits to our care?

language of restriction is filling

the air and newspapers.

 

fear and faith wrestling

protective walls crumbling

a fresh and wide field

in front of our feet

whose voice shall be heard?

 

ruins yelling for attention

doubters shouting against

the overwhelming silence

in ourselves

a silent whisper of the wind:

what if there is open space in limiting?

 

endless possibilities buried in the ground

a watering can in my hand

and a choice:

panic monger or architect of hope?

Once a vowel danced

thin line bend to shape

arousing attention

in a characters hive

flattering.

 

Yet another line chimed in

broken pattern patched

made in the image of consonants

by heart another swaying vowel

edged and edgy.

 

Revolving each other

wooing lionizing drawing closely

they entered common ground

enigma embosomed arcane affair

wonder written to voyeurs face

stunning stuttering

OY.

 

Triplets emerged

akin yet distinct

thoroughly consonants

piercing twining shadows

of a new reality

kindly keen burgeoning.

 

Suddenly a heart beats

static line dancing in amplitudes

inhaling exhaling

breath transforming

fragmented shapes to lively word

aching to be meaning;

and covertly it was

STORY.

OBEN HOCH / HIGH ABOVE

 

Once there was a fairytale,

carrying the sound of the unknown,

hovering over possibilities,

giving birth to a voice.

A little creature,

made from dust,

yet a complex being.

 

Uncertain if his vocal chords would know,

how to work,

he opened his throat,

giving room to a swelling vibration,

resonating in fresh blue air.

His body shook, surrounded

by shimmering tapestry of sound.

A soundsmiths’ work

rising raising swaying.

 

High above he discovered

the endless ends of nothingness,

and mystery

speaking to this little voice on planet earth,

that he was.

Overwhelmed he stood

still resonating,

an universe within a swarm of universe

within outer space.

 

And the closer he listened,

his ears began to hear,

the nothingness

filled with endless

everythingity,

and within,

tenderly swaying,

he was.

I.

rushing through the train station

up and down, up and down

further up and down

desperately searching platform 2

where my train will leave in 10 minutes

returning back home

but I don’t find any freaking

platform 2!

stress level: dark red

the sound of a siren warning

 

II.

first I need a coffee

feeling like the train to nowhere

rolled over my bones

what a bizarre dream, I think

trying to wake up I hug my mug

coffee comfort prepares

for another day

 

III.

a spring of refraiming

the haven

where bed and fridge are living

became the whole sea

on 39 squaremeters

trepidations like a submarine quake

trembling rhythms that were

home

 

IV.

fear of the next stormy surge

written to eyes that are familiar

with tempests

aching for lighthouses on the shore

something solid promising shelter

oftentimes fog thick as wool

covers the horizon

an craven inkling of light,

supposed to solace

the ongoing shaking roar

 

V.

sun breaks through the cloudy sky

I am leaving the sea, going for a walk

at least this shift is possible

moving away

when breaking waves are shaping

shore’s silhouette

 

VI.

a narrow alley and a bench inviting

on the margin of the hustle and bustle

sitting observing

strangers passing by

some are jogging

I notice bits and pieces of conversations

lonely gloom sneaks up

companion envy whispers

 

VII.

a single cello line breaks in

five euro in a hat

and I am resting

 

VIII.

a fragile melody calms the sea

finally

my bones get lighter

I am soaking this moment of

relief

and the sailor starts to grasp

home is not a place

home just happened