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.

My heart is not with me

My heart is not with me.

It is out there, somewhere, with you.


It wants to break out, be free but

it stays out there, somewhere, with you.


Ensnared by your eyes,

the smile and glimmer they shine when upon me.


Release me, free me,

return my heart to me.


I cannot continue to live with

a heart that’s not with me.


I need my heart here beside me.

I need it restored, from doubtful thoughts drawn.


My heart is not with me.

It is out there, somewhere, with you.


Release me, free me,

return my heart to me.

The ponds of one’s sameness / energies of no outlet

Stagnant and drifting

in the ponds of one’s sameness

where frames never shift

but shrink all the same;


tight round one’s neck and

one’s heart and


one’s thinking

lost in irrelevance & languidly foolish;


a layer tight blanket

tucking the chest and

disturbing what’s left of ubiquitous rest.

Sweet, what not,

mostly not

– not much remains;


no sparks but far days

as a week brings in time

a whole month’s heavy strife.

All these discordant energies

– up, then down –

then up and sideways and

then down again,


fluttering thoughts and actions

of restlessness brought.

I don’t know what I want or need anymore

(how many months have passed again?);

only left here with feelings of being

severed, singular, static and torn

apart by these

building energies of no outlet.

The first song of Spring

The first song of Spring 

through drips icy arrives,

a lone bird for one that’s alone in it bringing 

the seed of expansion which stillness so hides. 


Hard is the bud where leaves lie in slumber 

as all of us dwellers still inwardly bide, 

listening, there, the bud in its slumber 

to the first song of spring, expecting its flight. 


“Sing to me, Spring, the seed of expansion, 

for winter in silence must too one day end

and all must emerge from its still sharp embrace

which life doth protect from harshness and death.”