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 

Touching Floodland

life’s face phosphorizes ugly
squinched, unhinged & torn
parts of my body
rotting meters deep &
carry grief
in heavy vessels, wounds
fresh & raw with pain, weigh me
shoulders stooped, i

fled here from the city,
drowning in futility & raid, rage
between the dead,
knocking on doors we fight,
tightly locked with steel bolts
hold us until

someone steps
too close and dams burst with
a thunderous crack
face in the mud &
touching floodland,
ripped & split, i’m digging graves
for the pain – less, go, let me -
Go,

I know you can’t see – lies
bouncing back like
moon-pale, off-scale skeletons,
a ghastly army, envision decay,
mission-making-us-think
we already stopped
breathing but we still gasp, lying

on our back
with open mouths, body crinched,
fight until someone
throws us back & hoarse-tongued
clumps glued to my neck,
riding back the roots we came
from

.
my one shot wednesday poem comes straight from the cemetery where i fled to last week…and yes…after all it was a good time..
due to a business trip my commenting will be a bit delayed…

..grab your pen and join the party over at One Stop Poetry…sign up opens 5pm EST 

>thirsty for life

>bowing low

next to B3, the road

which runs 

from south to north, north to south

without ever breathing 

or sighing or loving those who travel it. 

he, grey hair, back bent in sorrow,

flowers in hand, small cross

morning, mourning

rips my heart raw, bloody

as we pass, blowing

fourteen meters swaying wind into his face, 

then leaving him alone again,

touching concrete grief for seconds, wish

i knew the story

wish i could – hold him close,

laying down

blossoms of sadness, of hope

for the people i’ve lost on my way

to speed, to carelessness & lovelessness,

toss the driver from his seat, take

the steering wheel & turn on the wipers, erase the tears,

tears welling up like mean dwarves

and i long

for petals raining down,

for a cross to bow before and

an arm, wrapped ’round my heart,

telling it there’s a new road,

another north to south, an

east to west and a hope

to find what gets lost

so easy at the side

of madness-covered routes

and i’m breathing, breathing tears and their taste, 

salt on my lips

makes me thirsty for life

linking up with One Shot Wednesday - and i’m still on the road, still traveling – but will try to comment back by the end of the week…

>all the way down

>it’s not about spanish tunes, lost 

on the floor, hidden in loops on the carpet,

bouncing back from deaf, tired walls like

boozed soldiers when the battle is won.

it’s about fighting, losing and feeling

black lashes brush soft on pale skin and

letting you kiss me all the way down to the

ground, the earth, the real where it started,

where i get quiet, where i feel your strength

burn my night until i can smell again, until

it tastes right, until it was not, it was never 

anything else but you & me on the floor

in the silence, the dark and getting lost on

your lips with what you call love – and it is.

free fall

just the two of us were left,
busy hotel breakfast room;
amidst blackberry jam and
scrambled eggs,
you began to talk of passion,

of diving through the sky
which kept you going all those years
when you were struggling
with the illness
because you loved
the falling free while being bound
to something
you could never shake off

around us, people moved – i didn’t
you told me how
her parachute got tangled up,
you knew, there’s not a perfect safety,
but in a way
you never thought it could be real
when she got smashed
before your eyes

my eggs turned cold,
reflections of your pain in lukewarm coffee
and i have never found the words
to bring us back to business, falling dead
as we hit crashed sky

>smoking them silent

>

they still call you, 
these voices, you say, feeling
hoarse like abrasive belts
thick and full with
their lust
and you never
got rid of that scent
of sweat, of need,
find release
for the pain, insane
when they held you close
to the ground, buried hard
beneath the weight of their grunts,
madness floods,
ejaculates fast until
nothing was left
to deafen that smell
it helps
to burn them slowly, you say
in your mouth – one after one – all
at once, don’t stop ’til you’re at ease, ’til
they burn your lips and glassy blisters
flaming release
until they can’t touch,
until they roll to the edge
until they let go ‘cos
you smoked them low
and supine

This poem is my response to the One Stop Poetry Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge. The prompt was shot by photographer Fee Easton, featured today on One Stop Poetry.

>become, become..

>a stream like colored drops of rain
springs from its well in tender heaps
become, become, not merely claim

a painter – and i paint in vain
my rainbow sparkles as it weeps
a stream like colored drops of rain

how can i stand this sizzling pain
no shapeless slow-go, jerky leaps
become, become, not merely claim

my dream is spilled out to maintain
the low, the flow – and on it creeps
a stream like colored drops of rain

life seemed so easy to regain 
live for the day and play for keeps
become, become, not merely claim

and in the end, what will remain
when drop by drop your pencil seeps?
a stream like colored drops of rain
become, become, not merely claim

We have a second Villanelle round running over at One Stop Poetry‘s new Poetry form class.

Join us for a closer look at this musical poetry form, evolving from italian country songs and with a structure, dating back to the 16th century.