Anyone dabble in poetry? Although I began writing a bit of verse last spring, I have rarely worked up the nerve to show the results to anyone. I guess I am wondering if anyone would be interested in a creative exchange of constructive criticism. Post your pieces if so! I'm too chicken to post the first one, even though I made the topic. Whoops. ;)

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In a court that is a yard,
With the goat and the lamb,
I play croquette with a scale
And a fine taste I've acquired.

It is no longer a matter of left
Or right, or how to swing a racket.
It is no longer a fork in the road;
One down towards healing
And the other down towards help.

The grass is never greener
Unless it really is and you
Are stuck in a lawnmower
With a job to do; a choice
To make for everyone but you.

In a fire that is the cold,
With the serpent and sentinel,
I play my videotape for opposing sides
Who will silence my lips.

But I say no, to everything.
When sleep never comes to waking
There is no up or down.
There is only nothing; the end.

In a time that has no minutes
Hours go by with each glass
Of lemonade or made-with-love
Cookie that passes like we do,
Turned to dust and taken out.

So when good is bad, I will
Be free. When wrong is right,
I will make another path where
Purgatory can be everything
While staying nothing.


Between what lines must I read to find the meaning that you seed?
And what abstractions must I know to accept the words you sew?
How pitiful, that blank white page,
Sitting by an open cage,
And asking all without.
But in your words I do engage,
As far 's I can without dismay;
Must I fear a lingering pout?

Between what oceans have you run that you can tell me all is done?
And where have you bestowed a kiss without the ink and without miss?
For I do not see any words
Around, about, these other lords;
These sentences and rivers.
And I define in other words,
Not obscene, like all of yours;
The lines that shake and quiver.

Between what notions have you to hide an animal unseen from eye?
And who is hiding there among the sweeping cursive you have wrung?
For one should never stoop so low
As to smite the words we know,
Like children and their slang.
I have no marks, no lines to sew
That cannot be seen unless in row,
For I have already sang.


(sorry for the length...)

Most of my poems are German, but I also write English poems, some of which I publish on my weblog:

Here is a poem of mine in English which I still like (I tend to dislike many texts I wrote in the past):

Final Dance

Step aside, and keep your breath;
Devil’s bride and kiss of death.
Bow down to the teeth of time;
Break the law, commit no crime.

The sour land grows wheat of mourning,
One by one we breathe the lies.
Thus finally on us is dawning
What the black hole sun denies.

Stroke me gently without touch;
Truth we seek but never clutch.
All the world trembling with fear;
I feel safe with death round here.

The light of yesterday keeps raining,
As the wind of morrow chants.
While our love and hope are waning,
We prepare the final dance.

I wrote this one while I was in Iraq, still haven't thought about a title for it though.

I sleep, I dream

I  give,  I take

I laugh, don't cry

I bend, can't break.


Nightmares, I wake

I reach, just air

Look around, can't breathe

No noise, not there.


Cold glass, many stars

Bright light, it burns

My eyes, so dry

My heart, it yearns.


The morning, it dawns

The dreams, fade fast

My heart, slows down

This pain, can't last.




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