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.

The Felt Unseen no Longer Unseen

Deeper still

(snakes shedding their skin)

restricted, no longer

existence through spring

expansion demanding from

(inward to outward)

the self,

my-self,

your-self,

breadth it-self.


Childlike, I fear

the unknown

ubiquitous vastness;

all the knowledge not known

all the prior unfelt

all the felt unseen

no longer unseen.


The arms of my fear cradle me

surrendered

to swelling,

(it all starts from the base)

free in the fire that burns in that base

which life begins and existence contains,

raising the world, vision and might

child to child, the cycle passed through

forces prior unfelt

now felt unseen

no longer unseen.

How may reality turn so palpable?

How may it have been not so before?

How may we live through it all

expanding in spirit,

bathing in light,

like nature in spring

existence by fire so bright

permitting it swell past fear’s shell

wound ’round it so tight?

Hearts of Love Forgotten

We walk and

we talk and

we cycle and

we flock


after months where we rested and

we waited and

we laid and

we missed.


Suddenly emerge and

we gather and

we bud;

ready to embrace and

to kiss one another and

to dance in the day and

in the night.


Forth with all the color and

the light and

coming thunder as

our hearts of love forgotten

to the early rays besotten

lustily we offer.

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.”