Thank God you are not here tonight,
I'd lose my consciousness, my sight.

If you came back at early dawn,
I'd forget my rationale, my pride,
They'd disappear like dew in lawn -
Admittedly, that's my other side.

The sunrise might bring you back, my dear,
Only a matter of time, I fear...

2011 - 4/20/2014



from blue sights of a lost one

from afternoons of nightly touches

from heart-warming lies


from ghosts to hope for

from the heat of the deleted

from smiles tuned down


from sweetness, real and artificial

from joys, transitory and corrupting

from the depths of a stranger



Those warm afternoons of amber sunlight:
Skin glows, and my hair is set alight,
Pages I'm reading - a little too bright,
But that's just a fairy, it's alright!

Sometimes I realize that this is a dream,
I could close the book and then scream,
Lose the caramel shine, the mild gleam...
Since that's just a fancy, a tiny sunbeam.


I still remember that first sunrise
That you shot at me like a deadly glance.
Oh, you are vanilla sweet and wise,
I listen to your history and dance.

Now you wait for me
With your premature spring;
I look up and see -
Green is a good thing

Because you smell of color green:
Of some forbidden grass and wet leaves,
Steamy passions and spleen
Of thunderstorms that the sky heaves.

Mister Twain was more than right,
You are a southern belle or beau
Wrapped in blossoms, a fine sight.
Wonder why my answer is a "no".


Berlin, the Beautiful*

Going to Berlin
Wearing hopes in my hair
Chills on my skin
A promising affair

I know there is a man out there
With a white hat on dark waves
Guitar music for a low fare
And sometimes he misbehaves

We'd sit by the Spree
Because our dreams are warm rivers
Too cold for Wannsee
Please... don't send the shivers

He'd write a new melody
Heard in my eyes
Score written on my body
That readily flies

I'd make up some awkward lines
On a sheet of blue sky
A transparent poem that combines
My sigh and a nice try

There is a place for museums in this city
High-brow culture at the zenith of fame
Our twosome is art, too, mad and guilty
It's a moving sculpture of a flame

*cultural references intended


What if

What if you land on my shoulder

Like a wind-blown petal

On white linen or a towel,

Leaving your shadow on my skin

For a couple of seconds

While the pollen would stay forever?


What if you land on my lips

Like a cold raindrop

On a humid summer day,

Long enough to give me the taste

Of clouds and heavenly spheres,

Not enough to still my thirst?


What if you land on my mind

Like a little bird

That chirps about wondrous forests,

Miraculous trees of life and death

And nests for secret lovers;

The winged one would fly away,

Its songs – a lasting sound of thoughts,

Though never reason enough

For the bird to turn around.

Plucking from a Phoenix

Do broken flower stems
Strangle the blossoms beneath?
Do hidden or lost gems
Have  sharp and wounding teeth?

Do bleeding animals
Attack the weaker lot?
Do falling petals
Make the grass rot?

But when we have fallen on the ground
And chunks of our souls cannot be found,
Why do we pluck the feathers
Of the birds inside of others?
A loving heart is not a phoenix,
Its clock of forgiveness ticks.

On Tornados and Sprouts

Silence before storms, they say,
And silence afterwards, I feel.
I wish the tornado would stay,
At least the madness is real.

Grey dullness stops the growth of branches,
Buds of inspiration remain tight;
I need extremes and avalanches,
A blazing day, a freezing night.

Leaves of juicy, splashy pulp,
Shaken off and carried away,
Fierce, raw emotions engulf
My creative sprouts and play...

The bruises may be sour,
Licking them could burn my tongue
Even at the very hour
Of creatively playing along.

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