I see the swan and the man with his white beard. The sea lies still. I turn to watch the full moon anew. Something is shifting and it’s not the swan nor the man. I am not breathing in this world. Boxed in a room

, men constantly move furniture as I’m drawn to the window. Their muttering is endless and I’d rather set my gaze on the swan. Something is incessantly twisting, and the wring in my hand parts for thin air. I cannot hold on to the abundance of unrest and illusion. But the parting clouds…oh, the parting clouds, and the man’s white beard hold me close. The window: I caress it’s simple frame carved out of the same wall enclosing the world. You too may think of the swan and the man, and you too may feel them just as your breath gains or looses dimension. I want nothing more than to feel the floorboard pressing against my naked feet as I lean over the proven sill and welcome truth.

I know something is coming. Something I cannot touch, something I cannot name, and finally, something I cannot evade. I retire my own name along with everything I think , makes me into who I am. I slowly peel away my identity, one facet at a time. The knowing warns me to leave behind my cataloged self, to step out from under the attributes I collected at length, and stuck to my mortal frame. Exposed flesh , and the tick of my heart, the slate not cleared, but placed at a distance to see and observe without engaging. When the previous establishment is removed, I commit that, which then appears to you. Now that knowing I cannot grasp , has grasped me and will not subside. Somewhere within I form the word „yes“, and lean back, falling, falling, surrendering absolutely. Then, a blindfolded man in uncharted waters, led on by no one and nothing, not vision nor sound, in all familiar ways completely lost , and still…regardless still, so very still, not by voice and certainly not by the rumbling soul – deeper, still.

Flushed by the appendix of this cherished life, emerald green is my color. Just my color  for tonight. I cling to it affectionately, but not in desperation, for I am a romantic. Tender is my touch as I orchestrate my every being to receive the iridescent light. An outbreak upon impact as the radiant complexion paints every part of me. I am the emerald in hue and passion, green my tongue, pressed against my teeth, green the hair stranded sparingly across my brow, and rushing through my veins

, green blood in haste to meet the pump and hurry the spread – summon the romantic, let him free to reveal the gems glistening in all corners of the world.

Straight-up, and never look down. I absentmindedly caress my crown; jewels are lost on me. I ponder more earnestly on the shape of my head. Easy in the absence of time, surely it has retired to bed. So, with time out of the way and my royal circlet slightly askew, I dwell on matters only my heart warrants safekeeping.

My heart speaks a truth, my tongue never will. Through the tiny keyhole I manage to scrape away a fragment of truth.  My fingers gently unfold the crease of integrity , and some part of me reads the dedication to life’s most simple revelation. Easily overlooked, the plain – like child’s play and two wooden sticks , now sword and lance. I cradle the sweet, sweet nectar, infusing all of me with vigor and might , slipping pouches of golden dust, sprinkled across my crown. I bathe my soul in the soothing hum, and hear the song, and sing the hymn, and sink into the chorus‘ chant. Drums beating and chimes in chambers rolling swift. I draw a blank in every attempt to form words with lips and hands. I cannot say – you will understand – we only share this truth in silent love.

How could we not meet again in this space? Time. If for a snippet of your essence I stop to look around, all fades. In your presence

, or under your shade, I have grown. Now the shadows flicker across the barren walls, a canvas, and the projection of life. In your light truly just a flicker.

In my hurried existence I neglected to nestle against you, to curl up underneath your wings, to close my eyes and trust your guiding hand. See, this grown man is but a cover for the golden band that holds the beating heart of a little child. Long have I sheltered the curious belief that you are haunting me, chasing the life out of me, like a brush steadily erasing the lines we use to track the footprints you leave between night and day. I yearned to get away from you, to harbor my life in a space that you could not touch with your solemn affair; to no avail.

With age I am none the wiser. You left traces upon my skin. Relics of the past, ancient specks infused with life. Oh time, what I don’t know today, I made up manifold by sailing across the spinning world of love’s free spirit. I sank my finger into the damp sand, watched the entrancing circle spread lightly in all direction, just as a wave gingerly stretched over the beach to envelope my ankles. The limitation I felt you imposed upon me had lifted, or rather shifted, shifted in my mind. At the core you and I share the same beautiful nothingness. If left untouched here lies the ornate peak on which we stand. I have come to dance once and for all in the space that has no beginning and no end.  At last, you and I are not separate, not friend, nor foe, solely the tremble in close affiliation, like two strangers bound by the same heart, an everlasting glow in the boundless. Flicker on, quiver still, simmer in vastness – peace.

Candle burn my stick, my wick, my little grain swaying in the dark. Hush light, a flicker across my existence. I ceaselessly let my lips form tides of joy at your tangled play of light and shade. Now a knight as the old year whips days past against my low brow. Only time. So fretful , and still, but still, abrupt and itchy. Love dressed gleefully. I see tree stand , knight sink, candle retire, cold breath, breath. Just halt and hold, desist your immature drive and strive, mark only this step, a frame suspended in my core, heart once more, same flicker now wild and free. I sit in peace as all else turns.

Dreierlei von der Minze, zweierlei von der Liebe. Schade sie nur konzeptuell zu erfassen, die Minze. Sie vollends zu schmecken, den ihren Reichtum in sich aufzunehmen, hinter der Liebe im eigenen Sein zu verblassen. Eine Nuance vom Federkiel bis zu deren Spule, vom Atlas bis zur Axis. Die Minze halte ich auf vorgehaltener Hand, reibe sachte ein Blatt zwischen Zeigefinger und Daumen, und erwecke weitere Sinne. „Ein Blatt“, ertappe ich meinen Gedanken, und sehe es wachsen, vom Samen bis zum Blatt. Folge dem Lauf über Stiel zu Wurzel, Verzweigung folgt auf Verzweigung, sammelt sich in Erde, klammert sich an feinen Stein, findet Nährboden, weitet sich aus. Gräser von demselben Naturgesetz geleitet, Bäume auch. Spricht hier die Minze mit der Apfelsaat, nicht meine Sprache, wohl auch, wenn Sprache vom Herzen rührt, nicht vom Kopf. Zieht den Kern, weiss ihn wohl, hütet ihn, hilft ihm gedeihen. Sodann die Frucht im Sonnenstrahl erwärmt, Minze nun Säuglingsschwester, ein Schauer erweckt mich, mein Herzen lacht – dieselbe universelle Rede, dem Broca-Areal weit entlegen. Der Witz ist die Sprache zu verkennen, die Minze und Liebe vereint, die Minze Liebe ist. Ein Schmaus dann Tee und Saat

, Blatt und Frucht, heimisch unter Sonnen’s Glanz oder Wolkenmeer; beide gleich. Es bleibt nur jenem gewahr zu werden, was schon immer war.

The calling persists. An emerging feeling , friend or foe, reminding, yet tormenting. That inescapable drumming on the window to the universe. A complacent waking and stirring of invisible desire, mysteriously and persistently materializing just as all falls silent. Then pressing for action. Intrusive almost, without providing direction, at least not such as the mind seeks. The incessant knock, the untamed beast, forcefully rattling the binding chains. A cry for freedom in the electric muttering, passionately prodding a deeper longing, striking fertile ground. Without doubt there is a recipient to the call. A seed deliberately plunged into the waiting soul , one for each, distinct by design. A roar in a shell, aching to be freed, to plaster the canvas with life’s transmission.

Maybe choice, or fate, or the breathing ripples of being in this worldly experience. I am reminded of resistance or acceptance, taking hold of the inner force as if reaching out for the hand that guides the blind , a trusting endeavor. But really, I question choice: when life knocks, I answer. Lead on.

Meet hunger, perched on the windowsill, barking at stomach. What’s another kind of hunger? Rage or want, or rage in want, or appetite and craving: restless dark sky, expectant orange hue emerging still on mother’s horizon.

Fiercer yet: troubled soul in open water, thirst for wave and thunder, break keel, drown hull, the red in pomegranate spills.

No – really, the contours of a waking smile, sooner the muscles stretch, already discernible, like the child’s hand, an extension of pen and paper forming a round shape, top of page, reaching outward rays upon rays. Sun and smile – who would have known to find calm in stormy seas?

A plea for patience, guidance, help. One a signpost

, a sudden stirring from within. Scattered seed, weaved into earth, a threaded needle pricks and pricks until it’s heard. The other an urgent query for direction. It must be now. Handheld desperation, when thousand winding lanes come clashing and human babe must cross.

Certainty is fleeting when governed by thought. Dismiss belief. This one is by far more convincing and trustworthy, though it cannot be owned. Sign over sailor to sea, child to parent, soul to origin. The circling hand prolongs my sun, an always longing met and nourished.

Rather the circumstances were different – smoke obscures the poster hanging on the brick wall. Bold letters droop heavily from the worn canvas. At the right-hand corner, just where the wall slips out from underneath the banner, waits a little space. Waits on the soft graze of nearly folded wings. A brief chirp addresses no one in particular. Maybe the return home hastily announced. The swift breeze skips along the block as if to hide and remain unknown. A hurried peek-a-boo extended breath across the suspended drape lifts it by the hem , permeates a single moment with whirl and swoosh and uncoordinated flutter – hides bird and voice and wing, spells freedom in all caps. Something resonates within.