six million

a tiny station &
we’re baking in the sunlight

it is this space
between departing daily
and never getting there,

hitting the road of pain,
camouflaged with gravel, dying
in steel grind of rails,

you’re bleeding–

The afternoon smells dusty
and of red geranium,
decorated rows of silence
on the window sill

we still don’t talk much
cause i know

there are no words
for losing everything.

you live
in endless nightmares,
hands shake when you
take your cup

the trains are crowded &

you vomit all the way,

cooped in like cattle,
and the yellow star,

wrapped tight around their arm
is tattooed in your eyes–

None of them returns

You’re there each night,

each night suffocating,
conscience stabbed
amidst the rattling of the rails,
a rotting rat in oily puddles,

covered with their cries,
the smell of death pulls
on your teeth and knocks you
to the ground,

you’re sinking deeper,

deeper in the dirt

until there’s nothing left

but tears and shame

It is this space
between departing daily

and your hands

still shake

.

Six million Jews were killed during the NS regime between 1933 – 1945 in my country, the darkest and most guilt-burdened time in German history. I know this is a sensitive topic to touch and i feel small in doing so. This poem is not an accusation in any direction but written with high respect for the jewish nation and also with compassion for those, who were there, silently suffering, terrified and too afraid to help and carrying this guilt for the rest of their life.

Mark Kerstetter put together a deep and thought-provoking Poetics prompt at dVerse Poets Pub…it goes online at 3 pm EST 

no winners left

they say War Will Die
left bleeding
on the side of the street;

dust on blind men’s blades,
still warm and
lips in sneers

They want to sing rosy cheeked
kids to sleep before
darkness reaches them

and the scent of steel still
on their tongues as they
lick their way up her
thighs to drink to life, to

shut out the swords, the spears,
the coughed blood and
the – he didn’t make it…

They greedily gulp
humid warmth, suck
parted lips, tasting freedom and

See the trenches in her softness
There are no
winners left

..woo hoo it’s One Shot Wednesday again and the wonderful Adam Dustus will be your host tonight…write a poem and join us or just jump over to read what some fine poets brought to the table..sign up opens at 5 pm EST

>the end of the show

>

you took me to the end of
the show, script bleeding red
on dusty, wooden planks and
you were smiling – standing
ovations, “it’s over” you said,
endless relief in watery eyes.
you know (just a whisper),
it was never about bright
painted platforms and the
soft sway of red velvet drapes,
opening, closing, lying crimson
into the face of the easy to hurt.
no, your settings were the
creeping bugs in your brain, which
drove you to spit and to spit
those words along beaded seats,
full of hopes and wants and
greedy nightmare magic, dreamlessly,
repeat & repeat and -
make them feel the way they
want, but can’t bear – and who,
you said, could?


This is my response to the One Stop Poetry Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge. The prompt was shot by photographer Jacob Lucas. He is featured today on One Stop Poetry.

>you still hear the music

>

today, it lost
its adventurous smell, the kind you inhale
deep, smell again and again until
you’re drunk, excessively hungry or satisfied
and your nose gets dry from aspirating
the danger-soaked rifts of kilimanjaro 

where i danced, high from heights and
barefoot in heels, snow icing on skin,
pure thrill of holy moments running
the veins, doping me through the night
when we

ran out of snow, music stopped dead and
instead of dancing the ups, i mourn the lows,
touch my fear like alienated lovers in thin nights
and where shall we go from here? this child

was lost in its play, cherries in soft ice, hid beneath
piles ‘n piles of cream, dream and
keep on kid i say, don’t watch the night come close,
how it swallows your heart and you die
crimson, wet and lonely on the tops of your hills.

take this pen, write about fighting hard and
fish-like gasping dreams, soaked salty and slick
with your tears, spilled – like vomit now;
dig the snow girl and find those heels
cause you hear, you still hear
the music

i’m linking up with One Stop Poetry – come and join us, meet some crazy poets and spend some fantastic, poetic time together. Sign up opens today at 5 pm EST

>drip – drip – dreamless

>

it’s not about framing us in you said, it’s
about shelter and staying focused, about
listening to whispers of grain and staring

blue skies even bluer until smooth, endless
azure floats, like medical infusions, silently 
into your veins, so drip – drip – dreamless,

coloring your red blood featherlight and
make white clouds sway on your soul. you
know, i trade love to split you open, to

make you feel the vastness of the land,
tumble drunken on the brink of the moon,
balancing piled rocks with scratched toes and

that’s bullshit you say with clouded eyes,
sweat soaking your clothes with streams
of defeat & you water drowned gardens while

she’s playing the piano in her night gown
inside – always – inside and none of us
ever looked back.

this poem is my response to the One Stop Poetry Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge. One Shoot Photography Sunday, shot by photographer Sean McCormick 

 

>archaeological

>

(want me to read it to you..?)

it’s a bit like looking at a blue world,
reflecting in christmas tree balls when
small candles lost sparkling illusiveness

or like never really wanting to live -
breathless, having hopes pegged out like
washing in warm summer sun and

cherry blossoms falling silently like
snow, like snowing, snowing us in. me
blowing the wrong blues cause i forgot

the scales and the reed gets weak
and you, painting the sky indigo with
hands, reaching for discarded stars

when meteoroids fall with us, splashing
colors, fat and yellow as lemons under
brazilian sun and juices, juices dripping

from evergreen trees and get lost on dry
ground – like we lost – and we lost – so much.
i dig earth, typing records of crusted pieces of

where, when and how it began, spread on
blankets under vast skies, add figures, tags,
dust ‘em with a dash of daisy seeds –

and wait.

i’m linking up with One Stop Poetry – write a poem, join us and meet some fantastic people over there. Sign up opens today at 5 pm EST

>lost coins

>maybe it’s a bit like
losing coins
on the sidewalk, they

slipped through a hole in
your pocket – unnoticed,
melting into powdery snow

like little sailors, falling
noiseless and no one collects
‘em & who cares anyway? you

think you’ll miss them? well, it
may be a bit late. so you search
your pockets for close rattling metal

& what you find is the warmth of
your skin  and snowy air and you
feel a bit sad – or more – lost? hands

in your pocket, you look back
a long way, searching the snow
and wonder if it’s them that
got drowned or – was it you..