Tracing a psychic process

She looks at life and the trees

as the end meets the beginning and times of beyond

touch the limits of now


where fragments gather not forming a whole

in the behind of the shadows

to weigh it all down

and coat themselves in dust forever.

She looks at life and the trees

before they burst

where the roots are alive but not more;

the unseen binding death to life

in the very last moment which is empty like never before.

She looks at life and the trees

as she collects herself

– those pieces left between spaces and time


picking each one to rest in her palm

blowing the dust off before letting it fall


The Great Preparation

for God-knows-What

where each little piece must be looked at

and held.

the Flower

There truth lies in its kernel

breaking

to reach out

and ’round

holding a centre which lives in the chest.

That centre there raises a Flower

filled to the brim for those who surrender

as in from the back

something stirs in the stream

at last!

the waters flood in

to the widest tide

rich to the Flower which knows

of the Love held in surrender.

S.

The Surgeon

How is it then

to choose to live anew

and so severed must your world of now become?

I am no surgeon

but I stitch

pieces I know to be true

into the whole-new

(dripped in my own blood)

where harm is removed.

The whole-new

out through existence being

becomes the surgeon –

the felt bestowed a tool to carve

the harmonies of the heart.

How is it thus that worlds are severed

so that new ones may emerge.

Believe(in)

This here rain drip

cleans the wounds of hearts so tender

damage-shattered

by words of illusion


– the one tender hearts are prone to believe.

Come back, then

pieces bleeding at the seams

to be replaced

and / or forgotten.

Sweet,

surrender then

to the wounds tender hearts yearn to believe in

the rain drip-dripping in vessels which carry

truthful devotion

the one tender hearts ought to believe in.

The Leash

Fanned

at a thousands miles

cinders coated

in what

I smother them in –


beds
mornings
dancing
drinking
evenings
goals
dreams
people
dicks
glitz
and whispers


– all the things I do to forget

that ring you bore

(you hid)

in not choosing (really?), though

you leashed me

and leash me still.


As much I tug and gnaw

rip, rip, ripping

part

or free

the feral

stupid longing

for you alive in dreams

and not more.

For living inside

of a heart in life boiling

beyond where you left me

I hope to unbind

one day.

Heart

Pass through, as ease to some it seems

and loss-release of lives lived hardly

in search instead of softness.


Forth from softness only love may spring

grounding tender darling dreams

where scars guard wounds from rupturing themselves


gushing inward, streams of being

stitching marks unhurt

and born of boundlessness and trust.

Paul-Linke-Ufer, Spring ’21

Traffic of humans and ducks

by the water

filling, bulging the buds

hanging in strings,

pearls

off branches of willows

weeping for friends long unseen

and lovers unlived.

Smiles from strangers

and laughs at the dogs;

life in the air of a city

losing, lost

longing

to leap in the arms of those strangers

and return to admissions of lust.

The surface in shine,

sun and friends there no longer unseen

emerging desire and welling up spring

in traffic down by the water.