It's been a hard day's night, and when the Beatles got their due
after a straining flight, our mothers were in labour, too.
And when they got off that plane and saw the town go insane,
it made them feel all right.

When we commenced to drool, the band that everyone debates
returned to Liverpool from their big tour around the States.
And when they heard someone say that they were stars from that day,
it made them feel real cool.

When you're born, everything seems to be right,
when you're born, born on the Beatles' great night, night...

The pastel colours that discreetly
predominated flat and mind,
the aunts and uncles who adored me
are things I had to leave behind;

The granny with her bedtime stories
(when long I should have been in bed),
the sign above the ESSO station
(the first word that I ever read);

The walks along the River Elbe
or through the woods, and everywhere
it seemed to me that there was always
some kind of music in the air.

The crystal voices of such singers
as Connie Francis brought us bliss;
though there were other sounds, they wouldn't
be heard in pious homes like this.

And everybody was nostalgic
and put their memories on a shelf;
but are our memories not better
than, tell me true, the thing itself?

Yet nothing's lost; I have my music
as long as I will carry on,
and every decade has its magic
which can't be seen before it's gone.

I could have been a toddler in Vietnam
who's left increasingly distressed and dazed
by what occurs while being burned to death
as my entire hamlet is erased.

I could have been a Palestinian child
without the right to exist; it'd be no crime
at all if I was chased and murdered by
settlers or troops at any given time.

I could have been a black kid in the States,
attending Sunday school in Birmingham,
learning about the white man's deity
and being blown to bits for who I am.

Have I been lucky? No, but I have been
privileged by the colour of my skin.

I observed the world I was growing into
and which seemed to be promising but unfair
with a teenager's budding political conscience
and felt grief and concern but not yet despair.

There were many like me who appreciated
a lot of achievements like decades of peace
in Europe but also demanded justice
for all those whose injustices didn't cease.

Corporations and billionaires, working around it,
were taxed (which nowadays beggars belief),
and most Western countries were still providing
public services like a responsible chief.

We opposed inequality, exploitation
and suppression of freedom for any design,
called for human rights and protested apartheid
in South Africa and in Palestine.

Hysteria spread that the superpowers
may eventually clash with a massive thud;
they did not, but their proxy wars were quite horrific
and covered the planet in ashes and blood.

John Lennon came out of his early retirement
and published an album I learned word for word;
we expected he'd soon again voice his opinions
on the world as a messenger of the unheard.

There were glimpses of hope far on the horizon.
The world could improve, and we thought that it would;
but John Lennon got shot and Reagan elected
and the voices of sanity silenced for good.

As a young man exploring his
new home, I picked a sunny day
to boldly venture out and take
a horseback tour of Galway Bay.

This was the first time that I rode
a horse unaided which explains
a lot; the guide who helped us up
then showed us how to use the reins.

The group went right, and so I pulled
the right-hand rein, but being led
was not her nature, and my horse
slowly kept walking straight ahead.

She had another path in mind
and knew the area, and so
I dropped the reins, for who am I
to tell another where to go?

She took me to her favourite spots
along the cliffs beside the sea,
and every now and then she paused
to let me view the scenery.

Sometimes she stopped to eat some grass
or drink some water from a brook;
meanwhile I thoroughly enjoyed
the tour none of the others took.

Eventually the guide and group
located us and brought us back
from our excursion through the calm
wilderness to the beaten track.

And with a smile I henceforth would
fondly remember down the line
that rare occasion when I met
a spirit as unreined as mine.

At first my parents didn't have the slightest
experience with parenting, and I,
alas, had no experience with childing,
the awkwardness of which one can't deny.

To change my individual behaviours
and make me act the way society
demanded, working with rewards was tested
which had the opposite effect on me.

I deemed the promise of rewards a blatant
attempt to bribe me, and it only served
to strengthen my resolve and, labelled stubborn,
my mind remained determined and unswerved.

My common sense has always been a stronger
guide than a lush reward could ever be,
preventing me from, without thought or question,
doing what those in charge expect of me.

To be Frank, I am unable
to comply with any norm
since my independent nature
wasn't programmed to conform.

To be Frank, my views are steadfast
if not challenged logicwise
since my strong determined spirit
wasn't made to compromise.

To be Frank, some things I utter
meet reactions unforeseen
since my unperceptive frontal
lobe expresses what I mean.

The harbour train is calling,
the lonesome whistle blows,
and from the restless ocean
I'll go where no one goes.

Across the grassy mainland
whose bovines take no heed
and past the vibrant cornfields
it rolls at heavy speed.

Its anxious engine pounding,
it jerks with every clack,
and halfway it abruptly
departs the beaten track.

To make our destination
it steams ahead through green
forests, ravines and valleys
no one has ever seen.

The wheels race down the railway
with iron will and zeal,
and through the open window
I smell the sparkling steel.

And when the ride is over,
beyond the final bend,
I'll reach another ocean
upon my journey's end.

Each step I took on Earth led me away
from other tempting destinations while
random decisions guided, mile for mile,
my journey and determined where to stay.

Each step I took in life led me to go
forth from another opportunity;
random encounters shaped my destiny,
and of the ones I missed I'll never know.

Of all the trillion sites where I could be
today, some certainly are better and
a lot of them much worse, but here I stand,
for where I am is good enough for me.

My mind is like a student's blackboard
for random topics that I chose,
containing all the information
I need for poems I compose.

And when at last my piece is written,
the board's wiped clean of its entire
content, providing space for knowledge
my future project will require.

I have one life which keeps me on my toes.
I have a type of life that is unique,
like that of everybody else, and seek
to satisfy the purpose that I chose.

I have one life. I make the best of it,
enjoy its beauty and its pleasures, face
its dares like everybody else, embrace
its gifts and leave my mark as I see fit.

I have one life, and one life only, just
like everybody else. I was not there
before and won't be going anywhere
once my remains and thoughts have turned to dust.

I have one life. I cherish it a lot,
and for that very reason nothing, I
mean nothing can convince me to deny
that of somebody else, no matter what.

Now that the roundtrip is completed
and I approach the port once more,
I see some of the ancient jetsam
that I've thrown overboard before.

No indication of the satchel
remains, but near the daunting Caves
of Yesterday I spot some pages
of school books floating on the waves.

Some of the old piano's hammers
and untuned strings still drift around,
but now, without the sunken keyboard,
they sometimes meet but make no sound.

Yet there's no sign of the detested
black Sunday suit I wouldn't keep
which must be resting at the bottom
where it rests well beneath the deep.

And while the east wind takes me westwards,
I check as closely as I can
what else there is I could be shedding
to safely reach the port again.

I build a prison in my head
where I, exerting self-defence,
incarcerate the thoughts that bred
the doubts about my competence.

Here I detain ideas I deem
counterproductive to my growth,
who sabotaged my self-esteem
and chanted jibes I dread and loathe.

Here stay the notions that forbade
my ego to believe in me,
and once the last arrest is made,
I'll lock the gate and burn the key.

What kind of curse is that? To be
a swan, rambling from lake to lake,
seems more desirable to me
than being man of human make.

How often did I close my eyes
and wish I could be living on
the water under azure skies
and fly as deftly as a swan.

No places to go to, no people to meet,
no faces that know you and talk in the street,
no woman whose smile cuts your heart like a knife;
there's nothing as calm as a day without life.

No need to say sorry, no need to forgive:
a good day to die and a good day to live!
The flow of your time is too easy for strife;
there's nothing as bright as a day without life.

Gone are the days of the next-door horizon:
endless is everything, nothing important,
everything alters and nothing will change.

Watching the wheels or attempting to turn them
won't change their speed and won't change their direction:
with you, without you this world stays the same.

Nothing to wait for and nothing to fight for,
nothing to live for and nothing to die for;
still it is nice to be here.

The strangeness of being we fondly endure
by searching for systems, so simple and pure,
that every man jack, every fool and his wife
may manage to fathom the meaning of life.

The quest for this meaning divides us from beast;
we feel we are chosen, to say but the least -
and why? We research. The result of our strife:
we're smarter for seeking a meaning of life.

The gods drink their nectar and water the land,
and what they created they don't understand;
like beauty I never would question but see
the strangeness of being is nectar to me.

They got their maps, they follow signs
or travel in a group,
they close their eyes and twirl around
or join a marching troop.

Some lead, some follow, change their ways
or ask their heart and soul
for guidance, but the lot of them
appear to know their goal.

There's many a voice that's asking me
to flee or to abide:
a crossroads every hundred yards,
it’s taxing to decide.

Sometimes I'd like to cut a path
through woods on marshy ground,
but then again I might get lost
without a soul around.

The others seem to have no doubts:
some run and some go slow,
some care, some don't, but nonetheless
each one knows where they go.

I look at them and at myself
with a despairing smile,
for as there are so many ways,
no goal can be worthwhile.

As a small child I picked all buttercups
and daisies gladly with no qualm
and put them in a tiny vase with lots
of water to preserve their charm.

But on the morning after I would find
the night had brought them past their prime;
their sheen had faded and they hung their heads.
I felt like crying every time.

Today I leave them where they are and take
a photograph or think of some
poetic lines, and thus I can admire
their beauty still in years to come.

'A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.' - ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

The random boxes into which we're thrown
at birth decide who we become, worldwide.
The man who is himself must stand alone.

For some have always scorned the overblown
group egos and successfully defied
the random boxes into which we're thrown.

And we have come to argue as we've grown
that our identities shan't be denied:
the man who is himself must stand alone.

Most humans only care about their own,
people like them, and they defend with pride
the random boxes into which we're thrown.

Yet progress, as world history has shown,
means looking past the box in which we hide:
the man who is himself must stand alone.

This is one fact that should be widely known:
to care or think we have to step outside
the random boxes into which we're thrown.
The man who is himself must stand alone.

(based on my Deindividuation Resister Hypothesis)

The playful gods afflicted me
with many a waggish curse for fun
but spared me from the worst of all
they call the evanescing one.

There is a curse that makes you weird,
and one that never lets you win
at life, but there's a curse that's worse,
and that's the curse of fitting in.

All the accursed ones have become
invisible, removed from view,
for none of them will change the world,
and none will fashion something new.

Thus for the life of me I can't,
despite the trials through which I've been,
imagine anything that's worse
than this: the curse of fitting in.

Walled by culture and convention,
thoughts have narrow alleys through
which they travel, not to mention
that the walls obstruct their view.

Rather than the ones who tinker
with the problem and respond
staidly, the creative thinker
climbs the wall and looks beyond.

The River of Humanity is running
around the Isle of Progress, moving fast
towards its extensive mouth where it's absorbed by
the Ocean of Oblivion at last.

But while the raging mainstream flows downriver
with all who crave the sameness of before,
the countercurrent brings the ones who chose it
onto the fruitful island's golden shore.

People want to be accepted
by their peers and brood about
how the others may perceive them;
fitting in, they can’t stand out.

No one ever makes a difference
who has no original thought;
progress isn’t brought by people
who are thinking as they’re taught.

No one ever makes a difference
who adopts the social norm;
progress isn’t brought by people
who uncritically conform.

No one ever makes a difference
who obeys on bended knee;
progress isn’t brought by people
who revere authority.

No one ever makes a difference
who is going with the flow;
progress isn’t brought by people
who uphold the status quo.

As one of billions Pips concluded
he was dispensable and found
all those around him were deluded
into believing that they count.

‘Our lives,’ he told the rest, ‘are fleeting;
there should be more, and I’ll know soon,
than swaying, eating and excreting
and reproducing at full moon.

‘I shall detach myself this minute
to venture into the great unknown
and find the world with what is in it
where I shall make it on my own.’ -

‘Don’t leave! The world is full of strangers,’
his neighbour urged him. ‘Hear our plea!
The ocean’s rife with threats and dangers:
you’re safe within the family.’ -

‘You spoil the waters we abound in;
you’re part of the Great Barrier Reef,
the largest living structure found in
the solar system, I believe.

‘You should be proud to be a member
of this community, and when
we spawn once more in mid-December
you’ll love to do your part again.’ -

‘Don’t see our vastness as a cumber -
here in the colony is your place.
What makes us great is our sheer number;
we even can be seen from space!’ -

‘I’ve been, as long as I’ve existed,
proudly myself, and pride compels:
I’m Pips the Polyp,’ he insisted,
‘and not a part of something else.

‘Holding me back would be immoral;
there must be more for me to be
than some component of a coral
construct I cannot even see.

‘I shall be off! Here I don’t matter,
and so I’ll leave the reef anon
which won’t be faring worse or better;
it won’t be different once I’m gone.’ -

‘And what would happen,’ one was asking,
‘if all of us, right now, broke free?’ -
‘Billions of polyps would be basking
in sunlight and in liberty!’

Then he let go. Some contemplated
recapture but would have had to stray
themselves to catch him, and with bated
breath they observed his getaway.

So Pips embarked upon his journey
to make it on his own, unswerved;
let’s wish him luck upon his journey,
which certainly he has deserved.

A salmon and a tuna swam together
where'er the currents led
them; both in sunshine and in stormy weather
the two stayed head by head.

The salmon came of age; we needn't mention
he sought a mate at length,
but to attract a salmoness' attention
he had to build up strength.

'I won't be swimming with you any longer,'
he told his friend. 'I know
swimming against the stream will make me stronger
than going with the flow.'

The young grey squirrels scurried off, but while
others were occupied with the ingestion
of nuts and seeds and berries, little Kyle,
a troublemaker, had another question.

'Why do we not allow red squirrels here?' -
'They're not like us. They're dirty, small and lazy;
that's why they starve,' his mother was quite clear.
'Letting them live amongst us would be crazy.

'And so they're banished to the birch patch where
they live in the conditions they created.' -
'Birches provide no food, and it's not fair
they have to starve because of us,' Kyle stated.

'We bear responsibility, you see,
for the red squirrels' current situation:
it's time for some accountability
and empathy beyond affiliation.'

This last victory has left me glum,
though it was financially rewarding.
I convinced the court the troublesome
slave demanding liberty according
to the law, as well as that of her
two young children, failed in satisfying
its requirements, and without demur
this quick case was closed. And as the crying
children were detached from her whose screams,
which the people present found offensive,
will continue haunting all my dreams,
the defendant thanked me. Yet I’m pensive:
this is not a fight I should have fought -
blacks, the white men claim, require the fetter,
since they are subhuman, as we’re taught,
even though my conscience should’ve known better;
while the others gladly celebrate
my success, I brood beneath its weight.

All those most intrusive thoughts remain
and prevent myself from feeling prouder,
like two wolves competing in my brain
for consideration: first the louder
one is gravely urging me to keep
walking with the pack and, without question,
follow the leader for untroubled sleep
and a carefree life; his stern suggestion
is opposed by the lone wolf who now
asks me to ignore the pack’s restrictions,
customs and conventions anyhow
and instead stand up for my convictions,
unconcerned about my social rank,
to speak out instead of humbly howling
with the pack, to be direct and frank
with my views. The other one is growling,
‘Once you leave there’s no return to norm:
see what happens if you don’t conform...’

Progress isn’t made by sheep, and change
comes from people who stand by sincerely
held beliefs, regardless of the range
of abuse that’s aimed at them, and clearly
these are needed to improve the world,
those who keep convention at a distance,
suffering the slander that is hurled
in their face with stoical persistence.
From this moment I shall speak my mind
openly, regardless of what stronger
entities expect of me, no blind
follower any more now and no longer
traitor to myself. If I don’t state
my opinions, fearing disapproval,
I may just as well deliberate
my redundant mind’s complete removal.
I must take a stand: as of today
I will be myself, damn, come what may!

A person may be insignificant
and have no intellect, but they can be
a very small part of a larger and
supposedly superior entity.

They’re proud to be [Insert ethnicity],
they’re proud to be [Insert religion here]
or boast about their nationality,
deriding others which they hate and fear.

The freedom from responsibility
comes as a welcome bonus which compels:
they claim, ‘I only followed orders’ or
‘I did the same as everybody else.’

So if you feel that you don’t matter, that
you cannot make a difference and indeed
can’t find an individual purpose, then
a group identity is what you need.

To find themselves, some people travel far
to see new countries, others join a cult
while some resort to certain drugs that are
hallucinogenic, others may consult
an ancestor's philosophising mind,
but all of these still seek and never find.

There is a way to rectify your lack
of self-awareness that you may prefer;
to find yourself, you'll have to travel back
in time and to remember who you were
before your parents and society
instructed you on who you ought to be.

May the sun god hide the moon,
may the summer fail,
may you leave, I know I'll soon
find the Holy Grail.

May you grin and may you smile,
may you weep and wail,
may you laugh: I know that I'll
find the Holy Grail.

May the winter be my guest,
may the wine grow stale,
may we do what you suggest:
I shall find the Grail.

May you hear the church bells chime
when I'm old and pale,
may I die before my time:
I will find the Grail.

Never let another foil
your own thought when it appears,
for the mind is but the soil
for unlimited ideas;
many seeds, though, never found
springtime's lush and fertile ground.

When your thought is on its way
and you know it's well-devised,
you'll ignore what others say
and in autumn be surprised
at the produce you will find
if you grow what's in your mind.

One day our gifts and talents will be gone -
is not the time we live the time to give?
The past has done without us, and anon
we shall be dead for longer than we’ll live.

How many may there be who must neglect
their great potential for necessities
without the time for work that could project
mankind to heights of various degrees?

While we are here, let’s make the best of it
and do what we do best while we still can
with pride and fervour, and do not submit
to voices asking for a change of plan.

Is not the time we live the time to give?
We shall be dead for longer than we’ll live.

In the Viking years of his life he was restless
and explored other worlds than the one into which
he was born, and in wonder and growing amazement
he saw they were just as appealing and rich.

In the Viking years of his life he had questioned
whatever was handed down as a fact
and instead sought the actual facts in the matter,
without any bias, on which he would act.

In the Viking years of his life he created
a large universe for himself where he'd live
amidst his impressive creations in gladness
only one's imagination can give.

Today he does as he's told and what others
are doing, believes without asking the why,
does his day job, has a drink in the evenings
and may spend a weekend at the seaside nearby.

When tanks approached the square, your man, alone,
stood firmly in their way; they swerved, but he
kept moving with them, unsuccessfully
defying one large army on his own.

When at Sand Creek your man gave orders not
to heed the colonel’s order not to spare
one single Indian child, he was aware
he could be shot for treason on the spot.

When noticing the trains were to collide,
your man, rather than jumping out, reversed
the throttle, slammed the brakes, and the accursed
train driver was the only one who died.

We hope there’ll be no need, and yet we can
aspire to be as fearless as your man.

The Irish term your man means ‘a man’, but it can also mean ‘he’ and refer to a previously mentioned male. (It is also used to describe someone whose name is unknown or elusive, as in ‘your man with the glasses and the funny voice’.)

Emotionally in turmoil and in dire
need of direction, Waya went to see
the medicine man about his urgent plea
who told him to sit down beside the fire.

‘While we grow up, two wolves fight over us:
one wolf is angry, vengeful, jealous, cruel,
deceptive, grim and greedy, and he’ll fuel
our hatred, causing misery and fuss.

‘The other is compassionate and kind,
accepting, sensible, supportive, frank,
inspiring, peaceful, glad and never shrank
from what it takes to give us peace of mind.’

When Waya asked him, ‘Which one will succeed?’
the medicine man replied, ‘The one you feed.’

(based on a Cherokee parable)

The Krakowiak was over
and the instruments were dropped,
but a happy child kept dancing
when the music stopped.

Few of us retain our spirits
once ambition's bubble pops
like the child who keeps on dancing
when the music stops.

When your fortune is declining
as the corvids eat its crops,
be the child who keeps on dancing
when the music stops.

Only observed at 42 degrees,
the rainbow is, despite what we perceive,
an optical illusion; what one sees
is but refracted light, and I believe
it's sad if we, amidst the world's confusions,
don't take the time to cherish our illusions.

Experience has taught me how
to read my mirror image; yes,
I figured it all out, and now
I know exactly what it says.

What’s right is left, what’s left is right,
yet top and bottom stay the same,
what’s at my back is out of sight,
and I can’t reach across its frame.

What’s far is far, what’s near is near,
what’s far ahead is far behind,
if I don’t breathe, it will stay clear,
and where I touch it, it goes blind.

And yet one question bothers me:
what does my mirror image see?

Oh how I miss tomorrow
when humans will at last
be human and all sorrow
of men be in the past.

There is no time to borrow;
but then again, as some
have always claimed, tomorrow
may never even come.

The church bells are ringing, solemnly calling
the people to come to Mass for the masses.
The people are going, the people are list'ning,
and then they go home, child and husband and wife,
go home and continue the life they were living
as told by the priest.

One life. One god. One spouse. If I had only
the gods of Homer, the wives of King Solomon,
and with them, Almighty, the spirit I have!!!

Just leave this place and smile and close the gate:
there's more to life than you will ever know,
and there's an unseen spirit where you go
who's guiding you - it never is too late.

Just leave this place and smile and close the gate:
some fairies here will dance with you and show
you all the beauties of the streams that flow
where gardens full of dreams and daisies wait.

There is a world outside for everyone:
mine is a rose bed where fresh waters run
and heaven's azure banner is unfurled.

There is a world outside for everyone,
and I will crown with moon and stars and sun
the goddess and creator of my world!

When early in the morning
the sun is shining in,
my unrequired companion
will wake me with a grin.

Wherever I am going,
wherever I may be,
my unrequired companion
will spend the day with me.

When later in the evening
I look for company,
my unrequired companion
will have a drink with me.

After the pubs are closing
I dread the night when he,
my unrequired companion,
will go to bed with me.

We all who are hiding her corpse in the cella
are temples of secrets too sacred to tell,
and those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

She teaches why man won't be human nor clever,
why pleasures weren't meant for disciples of her,
why only despair will be lasting forever,
while all of us listen without demur.

She gave us a backbone, a solid patella
and a bedridden spirit with whom we must dwell,
for those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

Phlegmatically chairing our minds' torpid senate,
she always is with us – we still feel alone,
endure all the pains that are known to this planet
and make the world's suff'rings our very own.

There's no Before Midnight, still each Cinderella
must dance for the queens in the Ballroom of Hell,
and those who were born with the Grey Arabella
will die with the Grey Arabella as well.

They say life's a beach but don't indicate
that we're on the cursed beach of Sand Creek
where some powerful scions still vindicate
their old privilege over the weak.

A safe haven protects the small coterie
where their boats of destruction are moored
whereas every conditioned votary
is soon up the creek, forced or lured.

Their collectors rob, vis est veritas,
all the commoners, smiling with glee,
and deliver the loot to the heritors
who insist that's the way it must be.

And to justify manufacturing
arms we pay for, they burn and maraud
land by land for a profit while lecturing
the rest on the need to applaud.

If you see through their greed and their vanity,
why not join us until we expire
in our little gazebo of sanity
and sip tea while the beach is on fire.

When they see how others suffer
by the forces in control,
many people draw the curtains
on the windows of their soul.

Satisfied it doesn’t happen
in the house in which they dwell,
they dismiss it, mind their business
and pretend that all is well.

But I wonder as they’re shrugging
to protect their fragile dreams:
even if they draw the curtains,
don’t they hear the distant screams?

Oft I wish that I had curtains
on the windows of my soul;
what I see and cannot alter
takes an overwhelming toll.

A wave of hatred drowns the island
for being solid by design
with the conspicuous intention
to wipe out all that isn’t brine.

But once the ocean calms soon after
the raging storm and it can see
the widespread death and devastation,
each droplet swears, ‘It wasn’t me!’

He enters as a piece of information
or as a witness through the watchful eyes
of those who are unable, anywise,
to offer help, relief or consolation.

They love their kindness, wishing they were tougher:
the thought of being in the others’ shoes
is painful, yet they know it is a cruise
compared to all the pain of those who suffer.

Their helplessness to help engulfs their thinking
in everything they do; they can’t break free
from their emotions’ gyre, and in the sea
of solidarity they feel they’re sinking.

The horror they experienced by knowing
is too intense to show up on their face,
and eagerly they welcome and embrace
the red companion who is large and growing.

Their conscience, in the bushfire of his passion,
feels guilty for not suffering and thus
is suffering while random thoughts discuss
the red companion’s value in their fashion.

The red companion, born by knowledge, bigger
than all their egos, eats and eats, uneased,
until the others’ suffering has ceased
or the existence of his host, with vigour.

He quickly digs an insurmountable canyon
deep in the mindscape where he’ll always breed
despair in those who easily could lead
a carefree life without their red companion.

The fabric of compassion
is limitless and free,
so there’s no need to ration
the cloth of empathy.

Its boundlessness impresses:
if everyone would wear
shirts made of it or dresses,
there’d still be cloth to spare.

But since it is equated
with rabble on the streets,
it’s not appreciated
by tailors of elites.

The fabric of compassion,
made from awareness’ shoots,
has never been in fashion
for fabricating suits.

The mindscreen wipers of our visions
are meant to clearly let us see
the road ahead and make decisions
to safely reach our destiny.

The wipers show precise assessment:
what could distract us on the ride
like inequality, harassment
and racism is swept aside.

The wipers, with a great endeavour,
aware of our aspired roles,
ensure we only see whatever
we need to see to reach our goals.

Why does the sight of ships and boats
awake my dormant wanderlust,
a fervent urge to turn my back
on what’s unworthy and unjust?

This bounteous world provides for all
and yet breeds poverty and greed,
hatred amongst the victims and
disgust at people left in need.

The storms are raging that deprive
man of his birthright, caused by those
who claim what is not theirs and take
without requiting what they chose.

In all these cyclones ravaging
our world to this acute degree,
I marvel at and greatly fear
the bodeful stillness of the sea.

And though I yearn to sail away
and find an unaffected isle:
if I can stir the smallest wave
right here, my stay will be worthwhile.

This world, as science tells us,
was once a paradise;
today we can’t imagine
clear lakes or unsoiled skies.

What nature had to offer
to everyone was free;
oh, how my brain is weeping
for what mankind could be.

There’s space enough to shelter
us all, but millions roam
this world, displaced and outcast,
who cannot find a home.

To feed us all, this planet
provides sufficiently;
oh, how my brain is weeping
for what mankind could be.

Technology could help us
to make our lives a lot
easier, yet most people
find out that it does not.

We civilised our species
with outcomes we can see:
alas, my brain is weeping
for what mankind could be.

The search for intelligent life within the cosmos is compelling
and something I have deeply contemplated every day from
the time I learned about the telescopes, but what's most telling
is not what they are pointing towards but what they point away from.

The novelists met at a billionaire’s
flamboyant party where the busy-lipped
Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller sipped
their cocktails and discussed the world’s affairs.

That evening Kurt thought quite a lot about
success and riches and went on to say,
‘Our host has made more money yesterday
than your great novel since it first came out.’

‘He may be wealthy, sail ten yachts and stuff
his face with caviar aboard his jet,
but I have something he can never get.’
‘And what could that be?’ Kurt enquired. - ‘Enough.’

The ancients dwelled contently in the garden
and lived on fruit they picked from shrubs and trees,
followed their loves and passions in the daytime
and lived a life of happiness and ease.

One day somebody wove himself a basket
to carry home his apples which was spied
by someone who desired to have his own one.
'It'll cost you hundred apples,' he replied.

Erelong all other people wanted baskets,
and, overwhelmed by the demand he faced,
the basketmaker soon became unable
to keep up with the orders that were placed.

The basketmaker then retired from weaving,
employing basket weaving staff instead;
his workers got an apple for each basket
they finished as the recent vogue still spread.

Those who were able to acquire more baskets
than other folk were held in high esteem,
and marrying a twenty-basket husband
became each teenage girl's ambitious dream.

Apples became quite scarce; to feed themselves,
some offered services for apples while
some climbed the farthest branches on the apple
trees and thus risked their lives to dine in style.

But most were working for the basketmaker
and often starved themselves so they could treat
themselves to baskets from their boss who'd hoarded
more apples than one man could ever eat.

'I need more apples,' he'd remind his weavers
each day as they kept working long and hard
with hungry bellies; meanwhile tens of thousands
of apples slowly rotted in his yard.

But then there was a hermit simply known as
Basketless Man who didn't join the race
for baskets and for apples and who therefore
ironically was called a basket case.

He lived on pears and berries and intensely
followed his loves and passions which would bring
fulfilment to his life; the crowd agreed that
he never would amount to anything.

'You've not achieved a thing, and you should start to
make something of your life, why can't you see?'
Basketless Man replied, 'I am contented,
something that none of you will ever be.'

The building is abandoned, and we camp
amidst the ruins of humanity
despite the rats, the insects and the damp
which penetrates our bones incessantly.

The roof is gone long since, the nettles sprout
around us who are wrapped in sheets and chafe
our hands, and now we’re ordered to move out
as the remaining structure isn’t safe.

And renovation is, we’re told outright,
out of the question, in a voice unswayed,
since, as the absent owners of the site
insist, there is no profit to be made.

And yet we cannot leave because, you see,
there is no other place for us to be.

When the fire of passion for justice
burns in every heart like a blaze
that can’t be extinguished, we’ll truly
have conquered our prejudiced ways.

When the air of freedom embraces
all parts of the human race,
we can finally claim of our species
that mankind has a human face.

When the water of knowledge is springing
where everybody can drink
from its fountain, we all shall be able
to call ourselves cultured, I think.

And then, on an Earth full of equals
which eventually will present
opportunities all can avail of,
I’ll be in my element.

Don’t trust a man without a dream.
The dreamless ones have always been
indifferent, even if they seem
to care for some of their own kin.

Who leaves this planet as it is
leaves generations to redeem
the future from its own abyss:
don’t trust a man without a dream.

For humans witnessing this time
there is no sanity to be spared
when saving lives becomes a crime.

There is no mountain left to climb,
not an emotion to be shared
for humans witnessing this time.

Mankind now has outlived its prime,
and we are dutifully scared
when saving lives becomes a crime.

When, as so oft, the death knells chime,
we demonstrate that no one cared
for humans witnessing this time.

We need to have a most sublime
emergency of mind declared
when saving lives becomes a crime.

A pointless epic without rhyme
or reason is the script prepared
for humans witnessing this time
when saving lives becomes a crime.

The silent majority, thinking
fitting in is what life is about,
is unconcerned about others
or simply afraid to speak out.

The silent majority wants us
to go with the flow as we float
towards the towering waterfall, claiming
we all sit in the same leaking boat.

The silent majority shushes
us while still we are carried downstream;
why is the majority silent
when everybody should scream?

A roof above me, I await the morrow,
have clothes and food - I have a happy lot,
but pensively I hang my head in sorrow,
aware that there are billions who have not;

A malady affecting fools and sages,
and through my angst my pleasures must decline:
I've perished with the world for many ages,
I've tried to bear a weight that is not mine.

I should embrace my fate, be glad and merry,
just like the others turn my heart to stone
in Lethe, but like Atlas I must carry
the burden of my weltschmerz all alone.

The suff’rings of this planet and its malice
are far too heavy for one man to bear:
I wish like those around me, blind and callous,
I could refuse to carry and to care.

Though men have changed, mankind has never altered
and swells my burden while I'm on the road.
The shoulders of my heart are weak; I faltered,
and once again I lift my heavy load.

No one asked where I wanted to go, but I knew
I must go where the others are going,
I am just like they are, and I thought it was true
there’d be sunshine for me, too.
This is the long wide highway
to the Blue River where none will strive,
we walk the long wide highway,
but of those walking none will arrive.

There’s a star in the heavens whose light still shines on,
and its comforting rays keep my hopes up,
but then darkness appears where the star had just shone;
with the star my hopes are gone.
This is the long wide highway
to the Blue River where none will strive,
we walk the long wide highway,
but of those walking none will arrive.

There are roses that bloom by the roadside today
as I crave independence and freedom,
so I leave them to wither, for I must away,
and I seek a place to stay.
This is the long wide highway
to the Blue River where none will strive,
we walk the long wide highway,
but of those walking none will arrive.

(Translation of the song Die große Straße, lyrics by Franz Rüger)

I'm sitting by the roadside.
The driver is changing a tyre.
I don't want to be where I came from.
I don't want to be where I'm going to.
Why am I watching the tyre change
impatiently?

(Translation of Bertolt Brecht's Der Radwechsel)

We all have wasted time, but was it wasted?
There needn’t be a thing like squandered time
because our conscious and subconscious intake
may prove productive at a later time.

The time we think we waste for our enjoyment,
a quest for purpose or for happiness,
provides experiences and reflections
that we’d miss out on otherwise, I guess.

Like sleep is squandered time but necessary
for us to function when we are awake,
the time we squandered can be ultimately
put to good use, depending on our take.

Young Charles Darwin felt divided
and ignored, to say the least,
since his father had decided
that he would become a priest
and dismissed his eagerly
followed natural history.

'So I will become a bloody
parson while I'm in my prime;
once I'm finished, I can study
nature in my leisure time.'
Giving in had left his head
spinning as he went to bed.

Old Charles Darwin came to visit
his young self that very night,
and he gently asked, 'What is it
that aggrieves you?' In the light
of the candle he relived
that one point that caused his shift.

'You're not chattel of your father!
Own your future and don't shrink!
Don't surrender; you should rather
fight, for sooner than we think
we will be,' old Darwin frowned,
'where the shadows meet the ground.

'In all kinds of situations,
be yourself and do your thing,
heedless of the expectations
others have since they won't bring
thanks or tributes to your mound
where the shadows meet the ground.

'With our shadows growing longer
by the hour, don't be afraid
since delay won't leave us stronger
for our mission, just delayed,
and no future will be found
where the shadows meet the ground.'

Some ones are extremely busy,
other ones are eerily
quiet like deserted buildings,
ruins of humanity.
Cluelessly you wander, seeking
those to which you can relate,
never knowing what awaits you
in the corridors of fate.

In a maze of tasks, surprises,
traps and opportunities,
you must choose your way, deciding
whether the result should please
others or yourself. You know not
whom, in one amazing twist,
you may meet around the corner,
neither whom you just have missed.

Of the doors in all these hallways
some are open, some ajar;
most are closed, and so you wonder
while approaching from afar,
'Should I knock or boldly enter?'
'Am I early or too late?'
till you find a destination
in the corridors of fate.

We, on the sun’s auspicious sign,
tended the vineyard, set our bats
on grapevine moths, suckered each vine
and cheerfully prepared the vats.

But soon we will, as things now stand,
have cake instead of wine, I guess:
the grapes of hope have shrivelled and
become the raisins of success.

Am I not blessed that I can see
the wealth and beauty of this world?

Am I not blessed that I can walk
through nature to be one with her?

Am I not blessed that I can write
to share my feelings and my thoughts?

With all these blessings I still muse:
why is it that I feel so cursed?

The drizzle stopped, and soon I noticed that
the sun broke through the clouds; I had to take
my jacket off since I began to sweat,
joyfully sighing, ‘Summer is awake!’

But heaven's floodgates soon burst open and
drenched me; an arctic wind, sharp as a whip,
arose out of the blue and numbed my hand;
I rued that I had not postponed my trip.

The sun returned when I was frozen stiff
and dried my clothes in minutes to display
his radioactive powers, just as if
to say, ‘What happened while I was away?’

This day seems, as the skies again turn duller,
a time-lapse film of life in Technicolor.

The Sun’s our ultimate authority:
the fusion of his gasses still creates
the rays sustaining life, and when he states
what we have seen we mustn’t disagree.

He sends the sunshine - therefore what we see
is at his sole discretion, and debates
about the truth are futile; he berates
subjects who try with scornful mockery.

Those then may doubt their sanity and ways,
so we observe whate’er our star decides.
The Sun who governs all our lives provides
the gaslight that illuminates our days;
but then, when we switch on the lamp at night,
we’ll see the world in quite a different light.

I wonder if the iceberg knows
how far its frozen bottom goes
beneath the surface of the brine
that makes it what it is; we see
its summit but not the degree
of depth which can be quite malign.

I wonder if the redwood knows
how far its spreading root still grows
beneath the surface of the grove
that makes it what it is; we see
the tree trunk but not the degree
of depth from all the years it strove.

I wonder if the human knows
how far his stream of trials flows
beneath the surface of his mind
that makes him what he is; we see
the person but not the degree
of depth by which he is defined.

Away I must be from the mainland,
away to the turbulent sea,
for Fame rewards average people,
and Love's too expensive for me.

Away I shall sail from conversion,
get rid of the gag and the gyve:
away from the docks of existence,
away from the harbour of Life!

Away, away from this country,
away from the planet of speed,
away with the speediest vessel
from the place which has naught that I need!

There springs, fresh water to deliver,
upon a mount a fountain,
and as the mountain shapes the river,
the river shapes the mountain.

The river is me as he springs from the hill
and leaps through the valley in bends wild and still,
caressing the meadows with life-giving touch,
embracing the woods with his nourishing clutch.

The river is me as he rolls through the plains
in quest of the ocean, and nothing restrains
his powerful current, his light-hearted soul:
he knows of no aim but to roll, but to roll.

The river is me as he kisses the sea;
there, where he is strongest, he ceases to be.
He flows through this world, yet his waters run free:
as I am the river, the river is me.

One thing leads to another, and
we cannot change the plot;
some of the things that we have planned
work out while some do not.

We may lie back, awaiting fate,
or follow an idea;
it's not too early nor too late
for all things that appear.

Whatever comes, it's good to know
I have to seize the day,
to know, wherever I may go:
there's been no other way!

I cannot leave the places
I love, and I can't stay,
I live with untied laces,
remain and walk away.

To know a place a life is not sufficient,
to see them all an aeon not enough,
and if I had the lantern of Aladdin
I'd be in every place at every time.

Unless the skies unravel
the secrets of the day:
forever I will travel,
forever I will stay.

Wrung hearts are passed from hand to hand
which drain their energy,
and every time they are convinced
they found their destiny.

Wrung hearts pray for the morning dew,
and full of hope they greet
their temptress; then, too dry for tears,
they muse on their defeat.

Wrung hearts will not believe in man
nor in a god above,
but still they trust in every vow
of everlasting love.

Wrung hearts seem sapless like a rose
that withers on the stem,
but there will always be some life
you can squeeze out of them!

Shut the day! I'll have no more;
lest the dragons should return
and their sacrifices burn -
shut the day, I'll have no more!

Call the night! My only friend
waited for the sun to drown
in the ocean of my frown -
call the night, my only friend!

Leave the dreams! For they are mine;
I will close my eyes and live
what the day refused to give -
leave the dreams, for they are mine!

I haven't always been a virgin,
no matter what the others say:
I've been a goat as well, and searching
for liberty I lost my way.

And though the others spread those rumours:
I haven't always been this young,
for I have suffered global tumours,
and in my mouth I felt Death's tongue.

I haven't always been a minor
with naught to say and naught to touch:
I've always been my fate's designer
and delegated far too much!

Golden coaches of the High King,
chasing fast through snow and frost,
pulled by hundred wingèd horses,
cannot bring what I have lost.

Western winds with breaths of iron,
of their gentleness bereft,
wildly blowing through the country,
cannot bring what I have left.

Spirits of the past and future
who can visit every spot
that there ever was or will be
cannot bring what I forgot.

Ah, those days when the deceiving
Himeros and Eros used
me for target practice, leaving
me bewildered and confused;
sometimes hopeful, mostly grieving.
Oh, the struggle and the strife
when my hormones ruled my life!

With their fiery arrows flying
all around me as their games
turned more vicious, I kept trying
to pass on the burning flames
to my targets, self-supplying
all the struggle and the strife
when my hormones ruled my life.

Now I watch the random ember
of the summer’s wildfire glow
and enjoy the calm September;
sitting back and letting go,
I amusedly remember
all the struggle and the strife
when my hormones ruled my life.

He was a swordfish who lived in the wood -
he couldn't sing or hunt mice
or do anything that the others could,
but with his long bill he could slice
the others' portions; each evening they stood
around him and shared which was nice.

And oft he would talk of this magical place
where he just like all others could be,
and where he'd be moving with ease and with grace
in his element, cheerful and free;
the others would sneer, or they'd tell him to face
the stern reality.

And oft he would stand on the cliffs at the shore,
and he'd watch the wide ocean and pause,
but his sylvan friends would know the score
and hold him back with their claws,
'Don't jump! There's so much worth living for,'
but they'd never reveal what it was.

Clenched hearts cannot be seen but in the eye
of those who wouldn't hurt a living creature,
those who are dwelling under the illusion
no human soul could be completely evil,
that there is something true in every claim
and every accusation that is made
and that the other ones are always right.
Bullied by classmates, teachers, priests and parents
they grow to be calm pleasers with clenched hearts -
clenched hearts, anxious to strike a fatal blow
but too afraid that they might miss their aim.
They walk the streets like everybody else;
but watch them closely and you'll realise
they're shyly making way for all the others,
and they apologise to anyone who
bumps into them. They patiently await
the prize life has to offer for the righteous,
but when the cows come home they will discover
they didn't even make it to the shortlist.
That day they will decide to change their life...

Wedges of wild geese in motion
noisily approach their known
destination near the ocean,
but the heron flies alone.

Wedges of mute swans have clustered,
still but for the monotone
beating of their wings, unflustered,
but the heron flies alone.

Birds and humans of a feather,
as biology has shown
many times, will flock together,
but the heron flies alone.

We all walk tightropes spanned across the Sea
of Social Expectations, and each day
we balance on to find our destiny
by choosing to which side we make our way.

The Isle of Individuality
lies to our left, and here you can aspire
to anything because here you can be
yourself and do whatever you desire.

You'll have the sand beach to yourself and all
the time you need to wander and explore
or to reflect on life or to install
yourself as a creator on the shore.

The Isle of Group Identities, its twin,
lies to our right, and here you are embraced
for doing as you're told and fitting in
(that's if you do) wherever you are placed.

Here you'll enjoy the group activities,
share your emotions eagerly, delight
in merriments and, in the gentle breeze,
attend beach parties every single night.

There are seeds in the winds of the planet
of a plant that could alter its face,
but on reaching their marked destination
very few find a suitable place.

Some are crushed on the spot where they landed
till the life disappears from the germs,
and instead of providing a harvest
they provide a dessert for the worms.

Some are starting to grow in a garden
or a field with the soil that they need,
just to find themselves extirpated
by the ones who consider them weed.

Some are trimmed on a regular basis,
and they're questioned, ‘Why can’t you just grow
like the other sweet flowers around you,
with some beautiful petals to show?’

While they may be abhorred or accepted,
they are never expected to thrive:
they're regarded as plants with no purpose
which rely on largesse to survive.

One or two in a thousand may manage
to grow free into autism trees,
standing tall in the middle of nowhere
as convention's revered escapees.

Each of these bears a fruit that is different
from all fruits that have yet been defined,
and their boughs dangle heavy and laden
as they benefit all of mankind.

Since I was small I’ve been befuddled
by people’s gullibility;
their lack of individual insight
seems quite irrational to me.

How could a simple ad or poster
cause them to buy what they don’t need
or vote for candidates and parties
based on a slogan that they read?

What reason could there be for doing
what others do or wanting things
that others have, just like a puppet
moved by society’s apron strings?

Who with an ounce of education
would automatically condemn
all that is different and routinely
distinguish between us and them?

Why would one do what those in power
suggest without a single thought
of ethics and of consequences,
their basic morals set to nought?

But now I know why all around us
most people, as their deeds imply,
are easily manipulated:
they’re not autistic, that is why.

The curious young man was standing
at Nature's workbench, made of pine,
as she described her many duties
and showed him an assembly line.

‘This is where I, without cessation,
produce the standard human brain
which I deliver with the body
and a short manual to explain.

‘But one in ten must be created
by hand, and that's when I explore
new ways and try out new connections
that I have never tried before.

‘These function on a different level,
the brains with individual sights,
producing scientists and artists
and those who fight for human rights.’

‘Is there a manual for these then?’
the man enquired about her craft.
‘A manual?’ Nature snorted roughly
and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

We try to find our way beneath dim skies
in the dark Forest of Anxiety
and struggle forth, though we can barely see
as much as our own hands before our eyes.

Behind each trunk a terrible surprise
may lurk from which we cannot hide or flee;
is this a path or just a gap where we
may be caught up in something we despise?

Yet we whose minds have never been at ease,
because we feel we're being followed, fear
we've a split second to decide our way.

And even though, as hopelessness draws near,
we cannot see the forest for the trees,
we hope that we'll get out of it one day.

I wish each of my thoughts could grow a brain
just to itself where it can thrive, advance
and bring results while the undistracted main
brain offers other thoughts an equal chance.

Although the days are gone when I'd stand frozen
before the audience and clench my sheet,
afraid my hands and voice might start to tremble,
performing still remains a taxing feat.

First I remind myself to take it easy,
because the listeners appreciate
a poem that's not rushed while I am tempted
to get it over with at any rate.

So I start reading from my compositions,
afraid I'll get my tongue in quite a twist,
which I will anyway. And when that happens,
I read the line more clearly and persist.

A truck drives past; due to its booming engine
I cannot hear myself and speculate
whether the others do. ‘Would it be better
to read the verse again?’ I self-debate.

I pause and think, ‘Should this not be a plural?’
My eyes scan back to see if it was wrong
to use the singular and find it wasn't;
relief! - I hope I didn't pause too long.

Somebody whispers. Would it be related
to my performance? Did he take offence
at something, did I mispronounce a certain
word, or did what I've read fail to make sense?

Again I hesitate, this time reflecting
on whether I have missed a beat when I
composed the poem, so I count the stresses
and see I got them right; this cup passed by.

‘He built a little hut where he was hiding;’
have I explained the reason why he hid?
I check the poem's first and second stanzas,
and soon I'm satisfied to find I did.

The air conditioning comes on. Its buzzing
makes it a challenge not to lose the plot;
not knowing how the others feel, I wonder
whether to subtly raise my voice or not.

‘The heir was shot point-blank;’ I read and ponder
what ‘point-blank’ means, for clearly the tycoon
had not been shot with blanks, so I decide to
look up the source of this expression soon.

After my turn I do my best to listen
to those performing after me that night,
but think, ‘Have I made one complete and utter
fool of myself or did it go all right?’

When you attempt to make us learn our place
by surrendering to what you deem the norm,
you keep insisting with a solemn face,
'We all have to comply and to conform.'
But do we? Do we really? We all live
in a society that is beyond
divided and divisive, and you give
advice that everybody should despond.

People are judged according to their group
identities, and strongly you condemn
those different from your own and try to dupe
us to employ the concepts us and them.
You ridicule or downplay our mistrust
of your society's restrictive mould
and keep insisting everybody must
go with the flow and do as they are told.

But looking at the world, you must agree
we need more individuals who dare
to call out bullshit and hypocrisy
and to oppose, while others do not care,
injustice, inequality and acts
of violence that often are rerun,
think for themselves and base their thought on facts:
join us and let us show you how it's done.

In the dead of the year with its dim sombre skies
that clothe us with blankets of wind laced with rain,
we cling to the cold barren earth that denies
us the bounties it rendered before on the plain.

And the sun veils itself in a tenebrous robe;
he allows his disciples no glimpse nor a glance
and refuses to generate life on this globe,
and everything happens tomorrow, perchance.

And I'm like the chipmunk who hides underground
where he fears not the frost nor the eagle's dark wing,
where he lies for the winter and cannot be found,
and nobody knows if he'll rise in the spring.

Forget not the moments of passion,
the hunger that once has been stilled,
fulfilling your lover's obsession
to have your obsession fulfilled.

Forget not the moments of pleasure,
the moon and the boardwalk above,
the moments when Time had no measure,
forget not the moments of love.

Forget not the moments of thunder,
the sound of the bellowing seas,
forget not the moments of wonder,
forget not the moments of peace.

Forget not the days of excitement,
the beauty and danger of Troy,
preceding Elation's indictment -
forget not the moments of joy!

And now, in my spirit's December,
I think of those moments of yore,
for all I can do is remember
and hope that there might be some more.

In dreams of my awakening
I hear the mission bell
of Love and Freedom; with its ring
it breaks the torpid spell.

I taste the sun, I smell the rain
after the clouds have passed:
I feel the joy, I feel the pain,
I feel myself at last!

The Bird of Promise starts to sing,
rewarding thus my strife:
in dreams of my awakening
I even get a life!

I watch the Rose of Heaven grow
and bloom for me, but when
I come to life a voice says No,
and I wake up again.

‘I'm sorry for your loss’ assures the grieving
party of your sincere compassion, yet
‘I feel your pain,’ well-meant, is but an insult:
there's just one person who can feel their pain.

We all can only feel our own emotions
because we are the centres of our worlds;
we may or may not care about the others,
but in the end we only know ourselves.

When as a child he went to bed his quest
for sleep was vain, he found no peace nor rest;
his attic bedroom turned out slumberproof
because the crows kept trampling on the roof.

Years later, living on his own, he found
there was no chance of rest or sleeping sound;
his neighbours, out of ignorance or spite,
kept trampling on the floor above all night.

‘A season of repose will soon begin,’
he calmed his deathbed. He was buried in
the churchyard where he'd rest in peace now save
for all the teardrops trampling on his grave.

He crumpled up his statement. For years on end
he'd lived on just the bare necessities
and put each penny he could spare
into his bank account, providing for
the future; now he has to realise
his waste of time and money - the charges are
considerably higher than
the meagre interest, and the piggy bank
would certainly have left him a richer man.

And his account with Life? He rises from his chair,
restlessly walking up and down.
There were some bonfires and some apple blossoms,
some roses (were there roses?) and the sea,
some smiles and some shy rays of sunshine
that lit dark nights and longer winters...
But are those sweets Existence has to offer
worth all the input and the trouble?

He lingers at the open window and decides
to close his account.

The rain knocks firmly on the cobblestones,
drowns out the echo of the horses' hooves
and floods a badger's doorway who postpones
his evening hunt until the sky improves.

At dawn the sun again will show his face
and set his creatures' worried minds at ease
for just a little while, but there's a place
in which the torrent rain will never cease.

The sudden flood subsided
as quickly as it came,
and now my undivided
attention she can claim,
the flow’r forgotten while it
had been submerged and dead,
my little turlough violet
upon the lake’s dry bed.

The work of Delbáeth’s daughter
was done, and soon the last
drop of the turlough’s water
receded in the karst,
and once the lambent sky lit
the transient flowerbed,
my little turlough violet
has raised her little head.

It’s prone to random surges,
and it might not be long
until the lake emerges
once more and brings its strong
currents along that rile it,
its startled birds take flight,
and she, my sinking violet,
again is out of sight.

Waiting for the lightning,
without a blossom or a leaf,
the blackboy stands: a tree amongst the trees.
He seems to bear no life,
nor any beauty may he call his own;
no food for possums and no home for birds,
not seen by men - he just stands there,
waiting for the lightning.

And thunder comes and storm and lightning,
and soon the world around him is on fire -
the colours of the flowers fade away,
the flames destroy the beauties of the forest,
the trunks of mighty trees are burnt to ashes:
the wood is gone, deserted lies the land.

But now the blackboy stands amidst the desert
like God once stood amidst his chaos,
in fullest bloom, in most outstanding beauty,
in gracefulness and glory never known,
and spreads his seeds among the others' ashes.

And has this planet room for two?
We watch the darkness as it glows;
in everything we say or do
we see the velvet curtain close.

And yet, and yet we must abide
within our world, just you and me:
we must be moving with the tide
of a perennial galaxy.

Only one of the prophecies
can ever be fulfilled, and so
the birds are singing in the trees,
and one of us will have to go.

I'd love to live in a civilised country
which doesn't enslave its male citizens in an army,
which doesn't 'defend' itself outside its borders,
which doesn't discriminate, not even against men,
which doesn't place their government's interests over the lives of civilians,
which doesn't allow its mothers to kill their children,
which doesn't dispose of its residents, however beastly their crimes:
a country in which man comes first.

But this is not the time for civilisation.

Nor the place.

Nor the planet.

Seven times out of ten when I am hiking
I miss a turn and keep on walking, long
before I ever notice I am wrong,
but find the random outcome just as striking.

And at my unintended new location
I'd marvel at the scenery I found
by getting lost but muse as thoughts abound
on what it’d be like at my destination.

I have matured (at least I have grown older),
appreciating where I am today;
sometimes I turn around to view the way
I've come so far with eyes of the beholder.

But oftentimes I pause, reflect and yearn
to know how often I have missed a turn
in life.

Where the Elbe’s waters pour
through your sandstone on the way
to my other home before
disappearing in the bay,

Where your mountain range appeals
to the eye that’s sharp and keen,
where each height and depth reveals
what was formerly unseen,

Where your ruggedly unique
scenery inspires the mind,
where inquiring spirits seek
stimulation which they’ll find,

And where each dramatic view
stirs the senses from afar
lies the cradle of my true
self, beloved Bohemia!

There is nothing I could choose
that’d be more fulfilling than
- heedless of the others’ views -
being a Bohemian.

Late at night when I wake from reality
and the gods of the future return
to discuss their quest for mortality
with the long-haired Zeus at the stern,
I reluctantly suffer their vanity
as we meet in the tenable place
with our shared discontent of humanity
and a world being hurled into space.

They discuss what the obstinate Titan meant
when he claimed Astrapios was through
while I beg for the masses’ enlightenment
just to find that the gods lack it, too.
As they bicker I use my discretional
mental leave to retire my mind;
if the deities cannot be rational,
what example remains for mankind?

We walk inside our chosen lane while we still can
and use the power of our brain while we still can.

Though most consider intellect a malady,
we will ignore the crowd's disdain while we still can.

And while we're tied by man's irrationality,
we'll try to break the chain while we still can.

As others party in the house of madness, we
stand outside in the rain while we still can.

And since the world turns into an asylum now,
let us be thoughtful and stay sane while we still can.

If heaven's the place of ultimate bliss
which no unpleasantness fogs,
my heaven would be like the world as it is,
but a world without suff'ring and dogs.

The present's the conclusion
of things that we have done,
the past is an illusion
eight minutes from the sun.

The future is a crater
whose depths we cannot shun,
while history's a traitor
eight minutes from the sun.

We take or miss our chances
as truth is on the run,
and still we trust our senses
eight minutes from the sun.

The skin of frost that covered fields and meadows
this morning now has melted, and the sun
took back control of everything around us
and spreads his warmth as he has always done.

Ah, could the old dead skin of frost that covers
the world, brought on by forces of the night
who will not ease their icy grip on people,
be melted by a sun’s exposing light!

‘And are you happy now?’ they asked me after
I had embraced my self, and I replied,
taking a silent moment of reflection,
‘Not really happy, but I'm satisfied.’

For even if I had all things I fancy
and all the knowledge of the world belonged
to me, how could I possibly be happy
as long as anywhere a child is wronged?

Unless she starts to reason and anoint less
obvious clowns to stage her comedy,
I fear I'll have to terminate my pointless
collaboration with reality.

My love is gone and slanders me,
the sky is dim and grey,
but since a child has smiled at me,
nothing can spoil my day.

When the fog descends we waver,
fearing we might go astray,
watch our every step and struggle
to move on and find our way.

As the fog is getting denser,
we can’t see beyond our nose;
in the fog we only notice
what is dark and what is close.

To be or not to be yourself, that is the question:
whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
or to take arms against a sea of troubles
and by opposing end them. To think - to speak,
no more; and thus, by speaking out, address
the heartache and the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to: 'tis a bold proposal,
bravely to be pursued. To think, to speak;
to speak, perchance to act - ay, there's the rub:
the malice we attract by speaking out
and taking action to repair our world
must give us pause - there's the respect
that makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
the pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
the insolence of office and the spurns
that patient merit of the unworthy takes,
if he himself could change the status quo
without a challenge? Who would fardels bear
to grunt and sweat under a weary life?
But that the dread of disapproving peers
and bitter vengeful leaders from whose wrath
no follower recovers, cows the will
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
than recognise, confront and terminate them.
Thus social ties make cowards of us all,
and thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied o'er with the dark cast of fear,
and enterprises of great pith and moment
with this regard their currents turn awry
and lose the name of action.

Based on William Shakespeare's Hamlet's Monologue.

Fly a mile on my wings and enjoy the perspective
that lets you observe, as your vision matures,
more than walking below, and from this higher angle
you will see there are other worlds beside yours.

Fly a mile on my wings, and you'll suddenly notice
the context of things that appeared to be
unrelated, you'll glance at the mountains' deep secrets
and admire the scenery others can't see.

Fly a mile on my wings and watch the people,
and while looking down you will realise
each crowd is made up of discrete human beings
with their separate stories, opinions and ties.

Fly a mile on my wings and revise your old worldview,
see the world as it is and overtly defy
the mob that has gathered beneath you, shoots arrows,
and angrily shouts at you, 'Humans don’t fly!'

While awaiting recognition,
Vincent shaved his ear and found
that he might have to petition
others than the ones around.

Be yourself, and peers will rate you
by their norms and pour their scorn;
people who appreciate you
and your work are future-born.

There were poets who died in obscurity, friendless,
their manuscripts gathering dust in the basement
and enduring unjust and seemingly endless
oblivion, just like the bard with no name,
but decades later beneath the casement
the box was discovered for posthumous fame.

So I keep on writing amidst my frustration
in this age of the poet's toolbox' displacement,
still hoping some future generation,
when respect for true poetry is restored,
will discover my works in the Internet basement
and take heed of the voice that so long was ignored.

Aboard, aboard without ado!
The ticket’s paid for, as you see;
this is the only train for you,
its wheels roll on to Destiny.

And since this is a maiden ride
on tracks where no one else will drive,
timetables have not been supplied;
we know not when we shall arrive.

No one has seen the place before,
and none of us will ever see
it more than once; from shore to shore
the wheels roll on to Destiny.

Don’t beg impatiently to reach
Destiny at the other coast;
listen to travellers who teach
that it’s the ride that matters most.

Enjoy the engine’s soothing hum
and the dramatic scenery
as the confined and venturesome
rail wheels roll on to Destiny.

On this brand new day arrives
the remainder of our lives.

When that day comes and my mortality
is put to the final test, I’ll be prepared
since overall I think that I have fared
all right thanks to unique neurology.

Sometimes I ponder on my destiny
and wonder just how oft I may’ve been spared
when I rejected common turns or dared
to take the ones where no one else would be.

So when at last the reaper calls on me,
my ultimate opinion is declared,
when I’m farewelled by those I haven’t scared
and when my urn is offered to the sea,
I hope it may be said by those around it,
‘He didn't leave the planet as he found it.’