Sunday, August 26, 2018

Lyric published at POETS The Original from 15.08.2018 until 25.08.2018





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



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