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What I Am

I am a stray cat nobody wants to feed –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

I am a shadow in the darkness of the night –
I am a planet knocked off course
and hidden from the light –

I am an epiphyte high on a branch, alone –
I am disguised to look like my surroundings,
so you pass me by, unknown –

I am an eye that follows you around –
I am a presence that you barely can detect,
a movement; subtle, slight

I am a shade dissolving in your light –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

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The Arrival of Spring

Spring arrived
or so I decided

The dark fog
hovering in my head
I willed away.

At least for now
the sun shines
and the air is clear –

the cold awakens thoughts
and silences
the nightmares –

The snow of yesterday
already melted,

it took with it all traces
of our movements there –

the sludge seeps through my shoes,
no longer waterproof.
It’s good,
it helps me stay awake –

I hung away my winter coat
this morning
since I choose
not to allow the winter to go on –

and if the winter disagrees
so be it –
I’d rather catch a cold
than stay inside

My feet are freezing
but it helps me breathe –
it helps maintaining focus,
not to feel

and I will walk today
and stay outside
and try to think

and I won’t sleep until
the thinking
has been done

Spring arrived today
because I need it now –
I cannot wait two weeks
for clarity of mind.

I’ll air out my brain
and will the darkness away
and see what I can find –

perhaps some energy
that I thought lost –

perhaps a way to will away
the nightmares of the past –

perhaps a flower sprouting
in a pool of half-thawed
ice-encrusted mud –

perhaps to catch a cold –
that would be something new to think about –
perhaps I could –

perhaps a beam of sun
that cannot yet be felt –

perhaps a stray thought
that could help me write a poem
again –

perhaps some lungfuls of the air
might help me sleep
a healthy sleep
with no nightmares –

My feet have led me
out into the park
where they sink
into the thawing soil –

the earth seemingly knows
that I need to feel grounded –

With feet like icicles
I proceed
ahead –

the Spring of my making,
right here and now,
a stuttering breath –

an interlude between darkness
and darkness –
light, cold and wet –

alive –

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Thoughts. Slipping.

’bout what?
No knowing.

What for?
No knowing.

What for?
No knowing.

Too early.

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New Poem: “Present Past”

This new poem is contemplating the history of humanity and how we came to be – and for that reason it has been excluded from my up-coming poetry collection “Light Requires Darkness” as it simply didn’t align with the rest of the content. It is way too philosophical and not nearly personal enough, one might say.

However, despite that, I’d hate letting it go to waste, as I really wrung my brain attempting to write it in the first place. So, here you have it (and the collection will start to follow one poem at a time in the near future).

Continue reading New Poem: “Present Past”

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I Am So Glad That I Can’t See The Future

I’m so glad that I can’t see the future.
Because it would only cause me to
second-guess myself
and the decisions I am struggling to make right now.

Besides, I probably wouldn’t even believe
what I were to see –
if I’d had a vision of where I am now
five years ago
I’d thought someone had spiked my drink.

And who’s to say that the future
if I were to see
wouldn’t become something else entirely
because I were to have seen it?
Considering how nebulous a concept
even the present is
I consider that a highly likely scenario.

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I Wonder

I wonder if I am
the only thinking person in the world –
or if perhaps
the world itself consists of nothing but a thought –
I wonder if
these people passing me with endless words
are capable of thoughts
that aren’t stray or passing –
I wonder if the act of talking
doesn’t dim the mind eventually,
if all the noise obstructs the thoughts
that might expand one’s understanding of the world –
I wonder if
other people were to remain quiet
how much would they get to think?
How likely is it that they would
begin to write?

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It gathers on my drying lips –
the dust of our lives.
The dust of repetition, lives
of dust that we must live,
and dust-related lies as well
that turn to stories which we tell
and name as “memories”

Lives of dust – they dry us out,
they suck us dry until we die.
And all the dust, the day we die,
turns out to be what’s left behind –
an endless cycle of dust-lives
where only dust itself can thrive –
what is not worthy to be “lost”?

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If I were a river
flowing through the land
my thoughts would be the delta
for they get out of hand
in their pursuit of oneness
with oceans of wisdom
which isn’t mine but others’ –
most of whom long gone

But could I live among them,
these great rivers from the past,
I’d love the chance to ask them
if their deltas too were vast,
growing out in all directions
full of questions, full of wonder,
and if they, like me, sometimes,
couldn’t stop their urge to wander

And if they, as I, are human
the answer should be clear:
This way we are created.
Hold thoughts and feelings dear
for they are all we truly own
and we can’t stop them anyway,
just like we can’t forbid the river
running downwards to the bay

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The happiness we find along the way
we’ll lose someday
but the happiness we find within ourselves
will never stray;
it stays to warm our hearts and guide us
right on till the end –
do not believe in buying joys; what warmth they bring will soon be spent –
no, you must find within yourself
the source you have which never wanes,
for that is all you’ll have to guide you
through your sorrows and your pains

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Reaching Out

To believe in something is to reach out
for something beyond our understanding,
and try to trust without our human doubt
that what takes place, it does have a meaning

Some find this meaning in an ancient book,
some find it gazing at the night-sky stars,
some find it behind every other nook
and others seem to think it behind bars

But reaching out we all do, in our way;
some deploy science and others religion,
some seek for clues and others choose to pray,
but all will yet agree; truth is beyond

Beyond our understanding rests the final clue
which we all wish to find, to comprehend,
but when our time for knowing it is due
we all may find our time already spent

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The Road Into the Wilderness

What do you know
about the road
into the wilderness –
framed by the pines
in silent lines
of endless loneliness

The road, the road
which trails its track
through miles of forest-land,
without a destination,
void of end, beginning
and of any plan

The only travelers
traversing this way
are the likes of me –
they are the ones who stray
out of the beaten track
wishing to truly BE!

And when they reach
this almost-empty road
they know what there’s to know;
the world is void,
the meaning’s gone;
there’s nothing left to know

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On a riverbank I sat
resting my feet,
my back against a steadfast
reliable oak tree;
if I could be as patient
what might I not achieve?
I’d grow into the heavens
if I dared to believe.
But those qualities I lack,
I’m too impatient; too distraught;
never to accomplish anything
seems to be my goal.
All this restless hurry
drains my energy –
I wish to flow like the river
and grow steadily like the tree.

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The Movement

Our lives are an unending movement –
sometimes rhythmic, sometimes not –
a stirring springing up to fade away,
a ripple in the fabric of the world;
just one continuous movement
carrying us underway,
complete with a beginning and an end
and a drawn-out intermezzo in-between
as were it in itself a poem
or perhaps a brushstroke drawn
by sure or unsure hand across
the fabric of space;

it can be smoothly, swiftly made by certain hand
as the finest works of art and science,
or turn into a broken, unsure question-mark
awaiting time to solve the mysteries of its existence

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Over and Beyond

What lies behind that hill over there
or deep beneath the steel of the lake
what secrets may these places share
and what discoveries lie in wait?

Over and beyond that hill
my feet do plead with me today
but once I’ve felt that short-lived thrill
and it’s a thing from yesterday;

whereto will my feet lead me then
towards the ocean or the Moon?
To the highest pinnacles and then
towards my mind’s impending doom

for when you have seen all to see
and answered all questions you wish
you’ll lose every enticement to be,
to live and to feel Earthly bliss.

Sometimes the questions in themselves
are valuables to keep and share
so value those above the world
they, not the answers, are what bring you anywhere

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Only This Lives Forever

a rhythm,
no, a beat –
but in-between
the sounds
it rests,
a string
makes music
without sound –

a pulse,
again, a beat –
an un-tuned,
fine-tuned air,
a seed
of music
in its latency,
each and every
property –

only this
lives forever –
only this
the beat
out of need