Swiss Poems – September 2007, May 2008

Mai 2008 (and ‘07 poems) – Switzerland (Zurich, Solothurn, Gruyere, Ticino)

*These poems, prose, were written with same voice of Absinthe Trinker (Absinthe Minded Journal), some writings were excluded from the book, and other poems that came in 2008 after finishing the never-ending story…

8/30/07

It is my life to live
as is my own
given to me by forces
unknown.
Taken away by forces unknown.
so unknown I live my

life, my own center

revolving around other universes.
This golden creation called
gold love is within,
away from everyone
to capture this golden
heart may take a lifetime.
For some, only one day
a Life that is my own.

~ ~ ~

There is quietude to Zurich
between the trams, kinder
laughter echo away.
We are really quiet
animals, we make noise
we make machine noise.
Our hearts stammer a
quiet murmur as
boat rocking in its moor
tethered to water, air
love, a floating smile.

~ ~ ~

Amidst the promenade of mankind marches a parade one hundred miles long
alone in life marches a soul, infinite both weak and strong like a rustled leaf,
a tiger, singular one thinks thoughts as rain patter, forlorn love sticking
to a tree like sap oozing, bark crest keeping a storm away. So soul, mind and body
run together down the street, keeping stride with what we want, what we have.

~ ~ ~

L’etage Trosieme
9/4/07

As if it takes a lifetime
to know one’s life
Thomas Aquinas laughed,
cried through super natural
growth, a spiral shell encased
time, as in youth
we bubble, toil and sprout.
in middle age, we remark
on how we bubbled
when young, but knew
nothing,
and that is better
to know nothing, breathe.

~ ~ ~

When beauty knows not itself
it knows itself not beautiful
then, therefore no longer a beautiful thing,
but just a thing alive, natural.

~ ~ ~

In the fury of our lives we forget ourselves. Is within this forgetting, we are able
to live, forgive and find a suitable fashion to continue. Therein, lies the beauty of entrapment,
the fly catches the fly paper – this fury keeps us within the tip of a candle ever burning the
wax away until the bottom, we are spread flat, encrusted, dried up for someone’s
putty knife to scrape away insolvent. Though bodily impure, we make ourselves
judges of good and bad, right and wrong, so there will always be someone to judge us.
Better to judge ourselves – in lieu that no one should no you better than yourself.
If you don’t, then
know thy self.

~ ~ ~

Feeling alive again, the senses awaken, people become alive, there is trust in the land.
Laugh inside the belly-roll of the planet shake, gyrate rising circles of joy
when man is used up, nothing left to hurt, there may be a little left, a small kindled
fire almost snuffed out, lack of oxygen, as once comes around a planetary orbit where the sun of
Soleure can warm my face, then there is hope that a man, human can find a center
again, one just needs to be oneself to find oneself. Lost within a crowd, this human race
exacts a price seldom not paid by a few.
In the end, we never get what we really want, to these chosen few who are
lucky enough to keep within their lives and still reign supreme. For this small solace in
Soleure, I am able to see myself as I truly am. I can be a blade of grass, unstepped on, wavering
for all to feel what trees, flowers know – I only for their moment, a sentinel-light seen only within.

~ ~ ~

There lies a soft murmer
hearts feint, talk of love,
such things it knows will
never be, never was, this heartbeat
throbs for a touch, a hello, then
goodbye that really never means hello
in reverse because “goodbye’s
are really never sadness when someone
you may never see says hello
for the last time.

~ ~ ~

Solothurn turns to sleep Sunday.
The Cimarron roofs peel to
a fountains trickle. What happens
to life when Sunday is needed to slow the parade down. In
Solothurn, this sun dwelling
life’s pivot needs no showing,
only faults of life is some places
go fast and slow the tempo all
together, life’s perfect symmetry.
~ ~ ~

Room #337 is an artistic
epiphany, just sit and stew, the
light will show the way.
The fountains trickle will wet
your dreams, the maidens in your head will do the rest, put
paint brush or pen, life’s image
is stages encased, spate of time,
unknown person, time light,
life’s floating rise fighting gravity.

~ ~ ~

Inside the jazz mind of free
spirit lies an artist tasted
like life’s tongue on a breeze
chesa house, dinner cooking.
Who is gong to taste this
morceau of life, time after time?

~ ~ ~

Life is a maelstrom
within this turmoil
escapes to places, a ville
where you are known,
unknown, there best to
sip your drink with a straw.

~ ~ ~

Unknown textures, life offers
better to feel the difference
with your fingers, not a glove.
Sometimes a photograph of far away
looks close, pictures up close
are far away
this is why texture is felt only.

~ ~ ~

This tentative frail human side
looking, feeling, being bewildered
as if nature keeps us off-balance,
pushing us over for the next wave,
spring, a season, to life, us
living, our day
takes a step forward.
Life is for the living.

~ ~ ~

Morning mastery, cusp

before Alps – all come alive
another day to exalt. There a
sound is grand bowl every
crank, swallow, wisp of wind
So the tree learns to talk
after all, these leaves are dead,
alive rustling in my dreams
every night

~ ~ ~

There is a stillness in the night.
Ancient quite before man had
ears to listen, a void before
the universe creation, where
only a tap on a lonely heart
is found. All the Earth,
things, a fish brain small enough,
big enough to know silence.

~ ~ ~

So the Saints Urso & Remus
were executed by the Romans
On the River Aarhe. It was always
harsh in Solothurn for
those who fight to the end.

~ ~ ~

Street noise Solothurn sneak
up, a voice singing a city sound
scrape, hammer hiss, sweep, roll.
Cobblestones reverberates reflections, cymbals
all day long until you add the pitch.

~ ~ ~

In the fields of evermore
mist-laden grass
where nymphs lay, life is really
what we make it, whether
heaven or hell, inbetween
always chases us.
Here, I lie asleep in poppy fields
beyond a dream where soul
awakens, cusp of joy, a ladle
not tasted much by man
anymore.
~ ~ ~