Friday, May 21, 2010

...farbenlehre (II)...

hungry like rarely before, waiting for a drop to fall
to give life, its all, to complete a foulish heart.

dreaming half its life, that nature is unable to harm,
on purpose one should only be forced to breath.

yellow waiting for so long, to see heavens blue, melting, becoming the green of hope,

passion has to grow; yet too much won't ever be enough.
winding, turning around, fed by its hunger, eating its success, time is no longer.




the beat of your heart in harmony with the sound of light, a moment just right,
enough might to return life, even into a foulish heart.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Friday, May 14, 2010

...F - like...

* or the status quo of a life as a country, a city and maybe even me.

A sixty-nine month wide gab, showing that far too often it is “an emptiness” which makes things work.
If not wrong, guess it is a word from Lao-Tse who found out, that it is this, the very reason why a glass, a window or a door exist.

Recent correspondence made me think much, about being real, finding words that rhyme and meeting a mountain too dangerous to climb.

Yet, there must be a reason to this all.

There aren’t many rules in my life, having learned to keep it simple; many times even more than needed; think the main “guiding line” I try to live by, is the wish to understand

Must seek what is possible, looking for solitude, fasting, work, vigils, bareness of the body, readings and other virtuous exercises, free the heart of hazardous passions; make and maintain these levels of perfection of love - ascend to soar.

It will be worth nothing, to have done anything, if everything is far from its attainment, I have to do everything. For it won't be enough, looking at the devices of this art, obtained and prepared, only to posses, unused; so the fruit of its benefit will be nothing but the mere possession of the instruments.
So is fasting, vigils, contemplation of Scripture, bareness, and robbery of all assets not perfection, but the means of perfection, because in them lies the ultimate purpose of all.

In vain therefore will carry out these exercises whoever has extended not all virtuous efforts to reach, who has the instruments of science, but knows the target not, in which all the fruit is included.

What then could disturb purity and peace of mind is to avoid as harmful, even if it seems useful and necessary

F – like forcing to fill the gab.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

...5.7.5 on a wednesday...

truth is always felt
speach, breath, love - don't always rhyme
edges seperate

Sharing a bench with two people, listening to their discussion. Even though I did not understand a single word yet of their language, it felt as if sitting inside a living room. This the reply upon an e-mail received.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

...for YOU...

no forces left,
nothing that holds back,
silence received a crack

onwards and up that hill
listening to the song within
as long as it takes,
until fear wears thin

hope to pick up, lifting
to the top, and

Sunday, May 9, 2010


Only fourteen other nights that I’ll live here, in the scent of pine forests, then, for you, to you I come.
Before the first snow falls from the sky, we will marry. Our life’s long for this, like a sick man longs for the morning. The wedding dress is ready, brushed each week, the rings, like dreams of a house in the middle of birches.

With our eyes we can not look at the sun - but our love is way too bright, not to follow the gestures of our hearts.
It will unite us again and prepare from two different grapes, one good wine. Meant for each other, from youth, two plants that are only able to bloom, when they support each other. When we played together, people talked to each other: determined to be a couple. At that time I cut crowns from paper for you, wrapped you in colourful curtains, cloth ... my prince, my elf, from a far country.
For you I want to be someone else, holding on to you, clinging to life.
Without you there is no future, no sky in the distance. Then I am a dry leaf and would love breathing life out, here in all the solitude, while the monks sing in the Abbey their Psalms.
You are the dew that brings me to life, in you reflects the glory of heaven. I count the days, patiently and carefully, like a woman who winds a ball of wool. I will not be afraid.
The farmer and his wife, with whom I live, are of the same type as the bread that they serve me daily. They have sown and cut the seeds, they bake the bread themselves, and it is heavy and dark.
They don’t say much, now and then a word about work; and still, they don’t look into each others eye: it is as if they were speaking in the dark.
I often wander to the mysterious lake in the forest. A thousand years ago a prince drowned in it. Some nights you can see the gold of the crown shining in the water. Old people say, that monks walked around the pond at night, singing “Libera nos, Domine".
I sit here and dream to see a glimmer of your face in the silent, deep water.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

...falling apart...

– and apart from the noise of the wind blowing in her face, not much else was to hear; perhaps, the quiet and persistent roar of a distant, not identifiable device that reminded of a steam engine. Although she did not cease to provide resistance to the power of nagging at her determination, she was in a complete lack of security, gradually becoming prey; everything seemed in places, as if in a state of occupation, where and when one doesn’t make efforts for anything, preferring to avoid any sign of human presence.

In this terrifying perfection of silence, one wouldn’t hear any wailing or beating noise; the almost flawless silence seemed to respond to any crime. She realises that the hair-raising events, the participant or witnesses she has been, where more than arbitrary products of imagination, were evil undoubtedly was a connection; an accurate and appropriate relationship, longing for an explanation.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

...5.7.5 on a wednesday...

lives being decided
within a room three by three -
what is really real ?

Monday, May 3, 2010

Tuesday's Poem: My day

At midnight you did spill me a drop of hope,
at one forcing me to climb a hill,
at two preparing me to cope,
at three I was nearly giving in to another will,
at four thought it would be a sin,
at five birds started to sing,
at six realised that it would only be a win,
at seven already an hour on a dreams wing,
at eight still asleep, deep inside
at nine awake, feeling its might,
at ten apart from thoughts, mouth still silent,
at eleven images became violant,
at twelve body searching for something to eat,
at one wished that love and air would be able to feet,
at two thought only of you,
at three going through something blue,
at four hoped it would rather be green,
at five was seen and talked with,
at six felt a bit mean,
at seven tasted your silent kiss,
at eight wished for another dream,
at nine building me a thought, against to lean,
at ten felt very cold,
at eleven longing for a hand to hold,
at midnight awake still, measuring the ocean, that has to be filled, drop by drop.

For further thoughts, found during this Tuesday, please click: here.