Month: December 2020

I am not alone!
In my soul a loon
cruises, Red Balloon...


I am not alone!
The evening blue has gone
calmly, no harm done.


I am not alone!
Solid like a bone,
glowing Holy Moon.


I am not alone!

Moonlight soul's
...............Love-blossoms...
Monsoon slowly blows
...............through hollows, shallow holes.


Yell, November, cry!
...............Life is just a sigh...
Thanks for giving
.............. Thanks for getting
Thanks for letting me fly.


...............Forgiving..... forgetting.....
.........GOoD bye.........

I am the wave and the ocean,
I am the tree and the wood.
I am the lack and completion,
I am the peace in the cod.
I am the ONE in all motion,
The ONLY You within Me: God.

         
          Still in a daze, we dream of a life
          filled with abuse, anger and strife.
          Swans, head up high, plenty of pride,
          the water is pure, the Sun is their bride.


          Souls are alike: 

We are the Black Swans turning pale
We are the Resurrection of the Frail
We are the Universe of fairy dreams
We are the Gold Spirit of honey bees


We are the Innocent Fools and more
We are ALL parts 

"I"
is ALL
we are
before
we die...


...between soil and sky...


"I"
- soul with a sigh...



"I"
& the Lord

have a bond
to be healed
in a fond

embrace
of death

        J aded hope-filled cosmic flood.
        E yes, glued to eternity,
        S ee but rubin sea of blood.
        U ndried tears of light: a mild  
        S ong of Love planted in me...


        J oyfully 

I wanted to be loved
I wished to belong
to your light, Beloved...
--- We have a bond.


Divine and worldly
don't get along.
Holy man, heal me!
--- We have a bond!


Soulbrother, Soullove
sunshine among
people in sorrow:

- The mineral springs are dry. The gold mines are exhausted;
the roof/ribs collapse one after another.
What once was enriching, is now impoverished -


- Our open grave is a wound in the Earth --
to be buries is 

A dream hibernates
in the ice-glow of tv screens.
The night puts on its iron gloves.
The ticket controller's stubborn profile
is tattoed onto the streetcar's window.
The debris of windy fall fields
assemble like beggars at public washrooms,
the