Winter

It begins like this:

The air outside grows bitter;
The days turn bleak - long nights
Descend. The autumn leaves fade and die;
And with them, colour is banished.

I strike a match.

In a forgotten corner, laden with ash,
Life is restored. Flames dance;
Heat and light bring relief:
They welcome the weary.

The darkest hour approaches.

The streets glisten: silver; gold; red -
Colours harmonized by their festive association.
Then, in the spirit of the season,
Each heart melts.

We anticipate the twenty-fifth.

Snow falls; soft - like feathers from the wings
Of angels. Children sing to carols
On the radio; their parents fight
With turkeys and Brussels sprouts.

We give and receive:
Good tidings;
Presents;
Love.

A Robot Made Out Of Nothing

Toys. They are all broken here.
This little man is just one in a pile.

This place is full of things that are unwanted;
That no one will use again - items that have passed
Their "best". They have been sent into a world
Where no one will miss them.

A question echoes through my mind:
"What are you going to do?"

I gather together pieces of junk; fragments
And items that became too old
To make something new. I ponder
Over the possibilities; lay down the items
In a straight line, hoping they will spark
An idea.

It seems farfetched - impossible-
The result of madness.
But if no one believed in possibility...

I construct this "experiment",
Placing all of my faith in chance;
Dedicating time to a vision
That only I could be stupid enough to trust.

I see potential in everything:
Chopsticks become tools, useful
For delicate operations; matches alight
Give heat to fuse; one guitar pick
Becomes an ear; bracelets
Double up as gears. I use shards of glass
To cover the eyes; a metal bucket
Forms the shell.

Now - months later - it seems complete. Almost.
There is one final item I require-
One I search for:- that can capture memories.
A USB. But I haven't found one yet.
And so my friend - a robot, made
Out of nothing, yet everything
I could find - has no memory
Of me, nor the days that have passed
Since we started to create
Experiment number two.

Lies

Last night when it rained
I turned to my sister and told her
That the sky was crying.
She asked me why.

“The stars have left him,” I said.
“They’re lost up there.
They want us to know them;
To become more than a trace
Of light on the cloak of black.”
She looked to the sky.

Later she asked me
Why the sun liked to leave us.
I told her that the answer was simple.
She waited; tried to guess an answer.

“Am I right?”
But I didn’t know.

The Silver Dragon

As she walks through town she dreams
Of the Silver Dragon’s eyes. They gleam,
Observing moonlight, the cars ahead;
The changing lights: green, gold, red.

He tries to fly on broken wings.
He falls.

“What happened to me?”

She lies and tells him some tall tale
Of a man named George. It fails
To convince him. She’s just a child:
Careless, creative; wild.

Carelessly, she dropped him.

This Is Just One Example Of How Words Fail To Fulfil Their Purpose

I'm not sure where to begin.
I've been sitting here all day;
Spent hours agonising
Over how to express this feeling called "love".

The trouble is, those words "I love you" seem plain:
They're overused; misused; apathetic.
They suggest a sort of clichéd attraction,
And imply that "love" is no more
Than an example of one's conformity
To the traditions of our world.

I do not want to come across as artificial.
I want meaning: to show you exactly how I feel.

Maybe that's the key.

Because "love" is neither a word nor a phrase.
It's a feeling.

You have to show it.

A Year of Haiku's

A new year begins.
We list some resolutions.
At the top: keep these.

Oppose tradition.
We should show love every day.
Scrap the fourteenth.

To be different
Follow Japanese custom.
Hand her a white gift.

Fool friends; eat chocolate.
"St. George looked at the dragon"...
(He didn't really.)

Peace and unity
Are celebrated yearly.
Always in this month.


On Midsummer's Eve
Watch out! Fairies stop hiding
And dance all night. Watch.

Vega and Altair,
Parted by the Milky Way,
Meet the seventh day.

A shower. "The tears
Of St. Lawrence" appear. They
Fall like meteors.

This cold month ends with
The day of terror; disguise;
Black cats. Pumpkins smile.

This month: gunpowder.
Fireworks remind us: Forks failed;
Terrorism lost.

As Christmas draws close
Search for gifts; learn to cook. Please.
Lights glisten. Snow falls.

One Short Day

The snow falls
The children cry;
They dance and watch
With sparkling eyes.

“Santa’s coming!”
They’re the best behaved
To earn from Nick
The gifts they crave.

We leave mince pies
And carrots, milk;
Their belief in magic
We must not kill.

Houses, filled
With glittering lights-
They’re warm. Outside
The land is white.

The young rush out
So be aware
Of soft balls flying
Through the air.

Carols fill
Our ears; bring joy
To those who listen;
Each girl and boy.

A world united
By one, short day;
By love, tradition
And Santa’s sleigh.

A Field of Yellow Tulips

My passion is deeper than scarlet red;
My love, purer than snow.
Bluebells sway in the gentle breeze.
And then: in shades of green, the world is lost.

I will value this golden moment forever.

I wake.

The forest is bathed in silver moonlight.
Black shadows creep; hide beneath the bushes.

You have gone.

The day we spent like innocent children.
We lived "dangerously", swinging
From earth-stained ropes, which hung from branches.
We lost the world, and made our own.

But slept in a field of yellow tulips. (1)

(1 - yellow tulips symbolised hopless love)

Impressum

Texte: All photos have been taken by me.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 15.01.2010

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Widmung:
For everyone who has changed me life, no matter how slight the change.