Wish
Wish I were a poet
A rebel with a cause
Angry young man
sharp, cynical, sarcastic
searching for faults in everything and everyman
if only to reassure myself
I am not the only imperfect one
King of Wishful Thinking
Some of us
Wish
Impossible things
Convinced
It is very simple
Other ones
Wish
The simplest things
And know in advance
It will be impossible
I, too
Wish simpler things
For some of us easy
To attain
For others
Forever an impossibility
The ultimate tear
You wanted to be born as a tear
In my eye
Alive on my cheek
To find death on my lips
For now
you will not see
the light of life
yet
you will be the first
born in this eye
existing on my cheek
to dry on my lips
the most beautiful tear
ever cried
out laughing
WET
I can’t bear teardrops
Not one or two, let alone three
I know them
They know me
I love raindrops though
Falling from clouds
Impossible to know them all
there are too many
I can wipe those raindrops
But I’d rather wipe my tears
To no avail
They keep coming back
again and again
Conversation in silence
Words are superfluous
Sound not necessary
Silence is sufficient
The wink of an eye
The slightest touch of your hand
The sensation of feeling your fingers combing my hair
Just knowing, feeling you are here
tells me
all is well
ROBERT
Man makes an awful amount of sound
Without saying anything profound
The deepest conversation I ever had
Was with Robert, the sleeping cat
On Myself
I, with you, myself
I, in a crowd of people,
Not loyal to myself
Empty Chairs
I
Once born
One foot put on the
Staircase of the bus
One gets a one-way ticket
To a divine destination
Distance unknown
Varying for each one of us
Travelers through life
Slaves of the inevitable
II
The driver
(doesn’t he have
Holes in his feet?)
Shows you to your seat
All similar at first sight
But their difference is only revealed
As the bus is on its way
With travelers through life
Slaves of the inevitable
III
Not alone,
One is surrounded by
Companions, companions in distress
Some you love, some you don’t
Some you more or less take for granted
Captivated in candid, careless, casual,
Sometimes clamorous conversation
Of travelers through life
Slaves of the inevitable
IV
The manager, the driver
Determines the fate of every passenger's life
A false, misleading, rather
Fascinating, fantastic
However haphazard predicted fate
Of travelers through life
Slaves of the inevitable
V
Not fair,
It all seems so wrong
Shouldn’t it take long
Before one gets there?
But
I am getting more and more
Aware
That the people you feel close to,
Who understand and recognize you
Are the ones that leave their seats early
Way too soon actually
For me to be able
to continue comfortably on my own
Ode to a wise man
Spring has just begun
Touching all the trees and flowers
With rays of the sun
And lots of rain
Showers
I am heading for the graveyard
Where I can still visit you
(whose obstinacy, lust for life,
Manners and the way your hairline receded, resemble mine)
You do not have a doorbell
So I knock a hello
On the marble tombstone,
Black and heavy,
Like the overcoat I am wearing
In remembrance of you
(only yours was green, with those brown round carved-in coat buttons)
Normally you do not answer
So I do not expect it now
As I focus my gaze at your celloloid glasses with those celluloid eyes
Looking at something behind me
(The grave of your first born and gone daughter?)
I am asking for your wise support
As I am confiding all my troubled secrets
To you in silence
Standing there,
Hands on my back,
In a quiet conversation
My eyes fixed on your black and white
smiling face
I, cross-eyed and cripple,
Notice a presence
As if eyes are staring at me
And then, it seems as if you blink an eye
And say: ‘it will be ok, my boy, just wait and see’
Reassured again,
I turn around and make my way back to the cemetry gate.
Not noticing there is no photo of you and never has been
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