stranger

only the fingers dancing
on the keyboard bare
feet
in shoes

and this language, too,
is different
this world,
mother,
a stranger


this is an English version of a German poem i wrote many years ago, and rewrote now, as its sentiments still ring true

Fremde

in schuhen laufen
ist nicht bar
fuss tanzen
und diese sprache
eine andere
auch diese welt,
Mutter,
eine Fremde

दिन
रात
सुबह
: कल
मिलेंगे हम
फिर
आप चलते हैं

शाम आ गया
: अकेला

verliebt

jedes jahr
liebe ich das junge laub
aber es ist nicht treu
zu schnell kommt der sommer
herbst winter frühling
schon wieder bin ich verliebt
in die buchen

abend

selbst der fluss liegt spiegel
glatt und die
wolken warten über
den baumwipfeln


(yes, i do write poetry in German sometimes)

waiting

the rain that
was coming down in sheets
stopped
waiting
the warm sun on my back
the train passes
under the rainbow
i continue my journey

here

this is (not)
where i belong
only the birds´ song is familiar

still the same tunes
at dawn upon waking

after the rain of an evening
the same melodies

relativity theory

time and distance
measurable dimensions
relative to the position
of the observer and the object and
relative to the material circumstances
thus effectively
felt dimensions

love, too,
though immeasurable is
relative

to the object of desire
relative to the circumstances
a felt dimension

experience teaches us
to anticipate windchill

when the bud bursts
leaf or flower
frost passes through the woods

rain at night

in the darkness
raindrops fall
like pebbles on my face

nobody

she is not
she has
no 
body
sunlight filters
through her air
and her water
flows gently

no form
no body
that is hers

no body

death
is
no
body

earth
water
fire
air

only the elements
are selfless

afterwards

afterwards
we gather the fruits of our love from the blanket
afterwards
I give you my hand


I must have written this when I was 19. a bit disappointing to see that at 33 I still write poems about hands...

home

home is where my hands are

tearing salad leaves
wet from washing
kneading the dough
for bread
wiping noses
and the table after food
folding clothes
and tying my hair up

home is where
my hands are

these, too, are real:
the raindrops
the path
the trees
anemones
the blackbird
your hand in mine