Storm days

As I step out of my house
the storm tosses sea gulls
accross the bright blue skye.
A near full moon
is fading, as it sets
and the air feels
like years ago,
when I used to take
my bike on a train
to the baltic sea
and fight the wind
high up on a cliff path
asking nobody’s permission
to feel alife
in the bright and beautiful

A sacred Tango

Seven months pregnant
carrying my daughter
proudly in a tight black dress – well,
everything is tight
at seven months.
Most guys too afraid
they’d drop me
on the dance floor
and I’d have my baby
right there and then.

But he had danced
his own wife
through her pregnancies,
years ago and knew:
a pregnant woman
is a thing of strength
and beauty.
The three of us danced
so gentle and light,
enfolded in a cocoon of music.

We are still strangers.
But years later,
when we see each other
we smile and feel
the echo
of that dance
in the air.

A friend’s son

Maybe his heart
was too kind.
Growing up
with yard chores,
Sunday dinners,
patient trees and
the American dream
for breakfast.

Where boys go off
to defend their country
and return as men.
Or so
the story goes.

But how could the grass
and the trees
and the neighborhood girls
prepare his sweet heart
for what he would see
and what he would do?

And how,
when the boy returned,
his heart cracked
wide open,
could they catch him and
keep him safe?

The clean team

What if
we only worked
with the good people
the upstanding and
the kind, the true servants
of the public,
in places, where poverty
and suffering
are caused by the weather
or world markets
and these, our good people
were selflessly doing
whatever they could
to avoid disaster?
What if
we only worked
where we are
not really

The ease of doing business

A warehouse full of cash,
black plastic bags
piled three stories high.
For every bridge, road
and sewer plant
in the state.
Not to get the contract
but merely
to be considered.

Our hands are clean.
We are just having tea,
to discuss
how we can help.
And anyway,
we’ve never seen
this warehouse.

It might just be
a fancy tale
of that business class guy
who shares
how his money delivery guy
had forgotten his gun
in the money bag
and thus
had to dig his way
through the hill,
bag by bag,
till he found his piece
and returned to the office
waiting for the next
delivery run.


Let go
and embrace
out and in,
don’t cling to it
with a tight chest
white knuckles
and crushing,
what is delicate
and tentative.
Don’t push it away
to preempt
the inescapable loss,
to feel: If I can’t
stop it from stopping
at least
I can control
when it happens
and how.
Just breathe
so you can be there
as long as it’s there
and carry the memory

Reaching through the fog

Last night I dreamt
they had come back
from the dead
to play with their grand kids
for a while.
I tried to take pictures
capturing memories
without discussing
what we all knew,
that they had to return
to their natural place.
Only this morning
under the shower
I wondered
why I never went
to sit close to them
and enjoy their presence
but hid
the camera.