Skip navigation

Tag Archives: poem

I wanna tell you a story

in morning grace

enchanted light, noble dark

dying along the line

all the effort we put in

a new beginning

day by day the same wheel

brave and grateful

we start we end we glow

then come and see

gardens down below

fall is over, seasons’ queen

or I shall write you more


to the next

a Mercedes’s engine

will take us

elsewhere in town,


wound long hair

no longer crying

nervous fingers on scrim

scratched desires a blow

pocket and liquid

all our good expectations

for nothing

me  at time

floating floating elsewhere

trying to arrive at the surface

even I take by hand a simple cause

even I beloved by stories

just stories

so funny so damned and

affections, supplies,

yellow roses pulled each others.

no ordinary place.

no ordinary ground.

so the world

is missing


nor do I write about drops

and missing faces and ecoes and February storm

a castle is a castle

she told her tail

a castle downthere

on the white wall

she signed the picture

demure hands, a fortitude as well

let her not think to photos

and other pretty souvenirs

and money

they lay under clothes

hidden in the wardrobe

Past tense is so cute and nervous

so lonely the forget-me-nots

no angels danced within microcosms

on the upper floor a vacuum cleaner

and dish washing somewhere

overnight a lot of things

appear not enought and the time spent

looks like one-day flies

simply finitude


from outside the gallery

from outside the gallery

beautiful for the eve

all along dinners and delights

these  wings are pretty quick

out of the corner of one’s eye

holydays are lining up

the best yet

and poets will talk

about love and dust the last




which land is my land,

thiny border

holy ground

forgiven gardens and comets

host as I am

nickname as I am

heart and frame can be

in green on blue

shake it if you please

walk the line over the sun

so large our peace on Earth







we’re loving each others forever

half in time with disorder and readings

and chopping kisses for cherries

and miracles in sweetie lies

such a theme of dusty

occupations all around

sucking precious hours

in love affairs we are just segments

never for the entire space

we are goods, letters, parcels

delivered somewhere

and loved to be loved

and never get lost

sycomors are so far so simple




It wont happen is what

it is –

It’ll lose touch –

It was the same in past eternities

It will be with the bees


the feeling of in and out

your feeling of being alive

is the feeling of in & out

your feeling of being  dead

u n a l i v e

when it comes you wont

sneeze no more, Gesundheit.

It wont happen, is what

is –


it aint happenin now

Smile  & think deeply



One Art


The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.