day 1: BREAK.
Blood on my skin,
like wine spilling from a glass.
Do you see
my darkest of nights?
When it is just
Wine should be in a bottle.
Breaking in broken pieces,
Morphing into shades.
Painting playful pictures in the air.
day 2: SENSE.
i am soaking
silencing my turbulence
for just a moment
day 3: MYSTERY.
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.
day 4: HERITAGE.
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.
day 5: COMPANION.
to my partner in crime.
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,
did I ever tell you, how much you mean to me?
I wish I could.
day 6: RHYTHM.
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
day 7: LIMIT.
FREIRAUM / OPEN SPACE
stay at home
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
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?
day 8: ESSENCE.
Once a vowel danced
thin line bend to shape
in a characters hive
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
akin yet distinct
piercing twining shadows
of a new reality
kindly keen burgeoning.
Suddenly a heart beats
static line dancing in amplitudes
fragmented shapes to lively word
aching to be meaning;
and covertly it was
day 9: POTENTIAL.
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,
speaking to this little voice on planet earth,
that he was.
Overwhelmed he stood
an universe within a swarm of universe
within outer space.
And the closer he listened,
his ears began to hear,
filled with endless
day 10: REST.
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
stress level: dark red
the sound of a siren warning
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
a spring of refraiming
where bed and fridge are living
became the whole sea
on 39 squaremeters
trepidations like a submarine quake
trembling rhythms that were
fear of the next stormy surge
written to eyes that are familiar
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
sun breaks through the cloudy sky
I am leaving the sea, going for a walk
at least this shift is possible
when breaking waves are shaping
a narrow alley and a bench inviting
on the margin of the hustle and bustle
strangers passing by
some are jogging
I notice bits and pieces of conversations
lonely gloom sneaks up
companion envy whispers
a single cello line breaks in
five euro in a hat
and I am resting
a fragile melody calms the sea
my bones get lighter
I am soaking this moment of
and the sailor starts to grasp
home is not a place
home just happened
This pieces are part of a series of prompts challenging myself to create while Corona Shutdown in 2020, as a follow-up of #createanyway.