At the water
Cold light of
three different stars
As it casts
confusing shadows
In the
necropolis of the heart
The brick ruin
shivers like aspen leaves
In the
freezing cold of the night wind
But starry
light enrobes it with a suit
Spraying
breakers of the northern sea
How they give
ambiguous answers
In the
loneliness of the indisputable
Then a warm
breeze from the waste land
As it evokes
beguiling memories
In the barrenness
of the mind
© 2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
Books
Books
are said
To be
good friends
But
would I let
Good
friends
Wait so
long
That
they are covered with dust?
Maybe I
caress them
Every
once in a while
Just to
keep the dust off
Maybe I
wait for the library
Reminding
me to bring back the books
Then I
bring them back
And borrow
them again next day
Fresh
& exciting
Are the
books
I want
to read
And I
know
That
they are willingly
_Just
always be waiting for me_
Hosted by +Jennifer Salinas
© 2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
As
the Years passed
As the years passed
I tried to color code them
What had happened?
How did it feel?
I painted garish years
And grey years
A black year, too
Used all the colors of the rainbow
Used crayons and airbrush colors
Used them up
Then used my pencil
Light and dark grey
If I’d use colors again
I might
Be drowning in the silent hues
Or rather
Swirl up leaves of autumn hues
Hosted by the wonderful +Wendy - Empathic Tigress
©
2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
Normal
I remember her sitting in the waiting room one
summer. She was wearing an intensive green short dress without sleeves but a
plunging neckline. She was tanned, at least where the skin was. She was sitting
normally as if, yes as if everything about her was normal. But it wasn’t normal.
Her whole skin was marked by scars of deep cuts. She was doing this since the
death of her son. She had every sort of therapy, but none could stop her from
cutting into her flesh.
I told her about the Amerindians, who had cut
their skin in days of collective mourning, when a chief for instance had died.
And I told her that after a period of mourning they stopped mutilating
themselves. What I didn’t tell her – they also cut off fingers.
Life can be normal, bloody normal, or bloody.
© 2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
In
the forest hut
The river flows backwards through the night
In the forest wind is calling
Gray howl the wolves
Thoughts are reddening the moon
Snow like sugar flutters from firs
A spider hangs upside down
Wood crackles in cold air
The ax has sworn disobedience
I betrayed it to the day's watch
My heart pounds brazenly
My eye looks without passion
The downfall is perceptible
-: soft / purple / fragrant
©
2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
Deceased
When time dies
And leaves the
scene
Nothing
survives
Everything decays
Squeezed into
shadows
The silence
The mantle of
apologies
And pounding
in the dark
The black even
more velvet
© 2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
Summer
Night
Endow your loneliness
And I give my sleepless nights
Let's count the butterflies in our stomachs
Or weigh the fear
To lose each other
Let's enjoy the scent of the summer night
The blown out candle and the darkness
Let us lie moisty together
Tenderness for tenderness
Until the morning presses itself into the
sheets
© 2018 Lothar M. Kirsch
Shuffling feet
An old man
With a grandfatherly dog
.
No comments:
Post a Comment