Die Tür fällt zu –
in der Garderobe
noch sein Duft
ein Hauch Bitterkeit
auf dem Schaum des Cappuccinos
the door snaps shut –
at the coat rack
still his scent
touched with bitterness
the foam of the Cappuccino
aus zahlreichen Skizzen
das fertige Bild
das Gelb des Pinsels
forest glade –
from numerous sketches
the completed painting
the yellow of the brush
auf den Altar
die Zeit fließt …
curls of sunshine falling
on the altar
in the rosary
time flows …
deines Rückens – ich falle
in den ersten Traum
den Berggipfel umspielt ein Licht
of your back – I fall
into the first dream
early morning mist –
light plays around the mountaintop
ein Blätterschwarm erhebt sich
über kahlen Zweigen
foggy mountain –
a swarm of leaves soaring
above bare branches
in the earth cellar
smell of potatoes
Zwei alte Hände
two old hands
die überreichten Blumen
Seine Augen so dunkel
the presented flowers
his eyes as dark
as at that time
LINKED ONE-LINE MS HAIKU
Michelle V. Alkerton
burning cold this invisible disease of contradictions
gray matters on the MRI the doctor announces 'there's nothing there'
$10 admission to a colourful art show brain from all angles
double vision in the mirror two of all the wrong things
multi-tasking challenge of synapses gone awry
another email trying to write hopelessness out of each line
long afternoon i apologize to my bad leg for calling it a bad leg
choosing the metallic coral cane that matches my car
obsessing over diagnosis they toss one out i toss it back
unable to grasp how I can still type with useless left hand
dyslexic notes to the doctor re: her dyslexic prescriptions
financial help hinged on strangers with degrees in other bodies
broken thermostat my weather here & there out of control
sitting inside wearing double wool socks and not much else
the erotica i used to write when i usta coulda remember
short term memory problem doesn't let me forget pain
twisting my ankle the male nurse helps me untwist my gown
apartment searching third floor unit just too many stairs
clinging to his optimism our future plans take a new direction
optometrist wouldn't take 50% off for just the one eye
browsing sales ads for discounts on sleeveless shirts
the usual nip & tuck i study my new shrink studies me
folding in nuts for Great Grandma's banana bread recipe
outlived its' usefulness my mother's over the counter remedies
dizzy from bending I leave tomatoes to spoil on the vine
mixing tai chi & chai tea into my tongue-tied exercise for the day
carrying the moon movement names the body in motion intent on life
bedridden another morning with no one to hang the sun
numb fingers try to wipe up sunlight patches cast on the carpet
emergency appointment the specialist checks the wrong side
lumbar puncture bits & pieces of the past collide in bits & pieces
willow twigs blown free tangle among the rosehips
dusk from window to window each dark cloud
wearing a path in the
a squiggly line thru broken goals
deleting the lists no permanent
reminder of the could nots
Aug. 24, 2007 - Oct. 13, 2007
Collaborative Haiga: Vergil shows Dante Hell – 14th century book illustration in the British Library
Vivaldis Herbst –
die Töne legen sich
über das Unerschaffene
um uns herum
tanzt der Regen
ganz ohne Groll
dem Mann begegnen den sie
Vater nennen soll
nach der Therapiestunde -
sie rückt die Fußmatte
„Kabale und Liebe“
ein erster Schrei
Translations by the authors
Vivaldi`s Autumn –
meeting the man she’s to call
after the therapy hour –
the door mat
“Intrigue and Love”
in the birthing center
a first cry
beside the 'Bird Walk' sign … a thrush
at the flax's heart sudden panic
among russet reeds purple convolvulus
looking just like the one he made me - pukeko wading riding an electric
bike on the stop bank, elderly lady incoming tide - 2 men getting
their boat shipshape with a squawk the heron lifts off from the swamp
out there on the wetlands - flapping of wings in the girls' sunglasses
reflection of the river hidden in bleached grasses an insect chirps
curving the same way - river, path, smoke bent flax stems catch the
afternoon sun cracks in the riverbank darker than the clay
YEAR OF THE TIGER
fossil within amber
a favorite stone
I stretch my limbs long
before the sun rises
holding the people I love
with a touch of the finger
a long tail
of many bones twists
the tiger¹s gait
into a flowing dance
from each crouching hillside
a rush to the sea
the weather man predicts
another week of storms
in spite of pitfalls
life has become whole
the twitter of chickadees
effaces shreds of sorrow
the local station fades
of neighbors across the fence
with a gentle breeze of gossip
to sprinkle seeds
into fresh earth
impatient for winter¹s
grip to be released
hoping to win
artwork sent to a contest
yet the piece made for fun
comes home with a prize
in my winter studio
poems and images
the only critic the cat
litter box crumbs
trail from room to room
am I a witch
following Hansel & Gretel
or lover of a purr-son?
a grey stranger has dared
enter the cat door
I feed him just the same
he is thin as a winter mouse
from her delicate fingers
the disc in a machine
brings so much pleasure
have the icicles gone
has the moon
drop by drop
my dearest friend
her blank face searching
for a word
in the cemetery
drifts of daffodils
on red pomegranates
gone to seed
Demeter will be
delighted to hear it
the rumble sways walls
ripe fruit falls to the ground
food for the wild things
what is it like
life in the underworld
a few seeds tasted
half a year in darkness
does Persephone complain
with billowing clouds
from drying puddles
the month ends
this is too good to stop
so add more verses please
the month of almond blossoms
tightly closed this year
the frozen earth melts at noon
then weaves an icy patched quilt
in seeing a childhood friend
at the end
of the muddy rutted lane
a wild cherry tree in bloom
snow tiger and poet
can we return
with fabulous word-links
one more evening watching
“Camelot” the movie
into the musical darkness
the ring of the phone
tending her cubs
does she live
and forward in time
reciting their own verses
at a poetry slam
a child and an adult
in each performer
the film moves me
through spring mist
mountains of my last years
I have danced a lot
no lightning can touch me
with four charms
trying to return to water
streaked with hieroglyphs
wishing to find
a fitting pen name
I have googled
and found we are alike
are for dream time
I find myself sewing
red, green and blue bodies
the fox shrine under snow
my friend and I
cleansed by winter air
unravels from the ball
we are today and yesterday
in the beginning of spring
Werner Reichhold as COOL
Jane Reichhold as HEAT
HEAT: Since this interview is in summer, I am wondering where your comfort zone is? Where do you feel good?
COOL: In the disjointed areas of spiritual life where the well known subjects don't need to be discussed again.
HEAT: What do you see as your purpose in life?
COOL: During the intervals between work, for example watching a raccoon leaving its burrow, calling me Sahax, the flesh of water; then washing his feet and sharing food with me.
HEAT: If you could spend a vacation anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?
COOL: I would look for a place corresponding with the temperatures Jane and I develop in order to reload our batteries. We don't have to travel, the ocean is on our doorstep, and the nude beach on the Gualala river is only minutes away. But Sonjefiord, Norway, would be the third and unparalleled choice.
HEAT: What is the best thing you have done today?
COOL: Probably first cooling off from too hot feelings and thoughts; then falling apart into single pieces that differently organized finally make everything fit together. Followed by the hope others may recognize my work as their inspiration.
HEAT: And what turns you off?
COOL: Children’s toys.
HEAT: Okay, what turns you on?
COOL: Being turned off from everything that doesn't help composing text and pictures ever more seriously. Reactivating the masses of destructive powers inside, set them on fire and let my neurons absorb the light and reflect it.
HEAT: Where do you think we could meet?
COOL: Where the light curves away from other light curves, where the pain goes to rest, and has no other choice as to find a pivot line in order to reconstruct happiness – in the dark.
Scene: A room that has just been emptied by movers. An abandoned curtain rod dangles at the window, a stack of old newspapers has tumbled over, the walls show faded places around where pictures once were. In the middle of the room is an ironing board, set up as if to be used but there is no iron. On the ironing board is a can of pop with a straw in it.
COOL: What is it you call a vital spark?
HEAT: The necessity of our being together in this one day. Can you think of billions of people – all different, all someone else, all inhabiting other skins, other worlds of dreams and worries? Yet, for some unknown reason you and I as close a magnets just before they move to click into one bar of iron with a heat of friction that warms them.
God has set his sea on them, the cicatrix
naked among them like a savage source
COOL: Why does it ignite so much of what you never thought before as important to your growth?
HEAT: Growth comes in zigzags; never in a straight line. In the pulse of the tides that fill the cove, so I grow and shrink with each breath. However when heat is applied to many things, (you find the names for them), they will grow and expand. Perhaps this is a reason for having Heat around the house?
even awe-inspiring ripped and smarting hanging and full
the best I can give belonged to someone who gave it to me
COOL: Why does asymmetric thinking puts my temperature slightly up?
HEAT: Because a truly memorable woman is always crooked.
COOL: Where is the heat when you try to get a grip on it?
HEAT: At the end of your fingertips.
whatever they could remember in the taking of pleasure
falling between thumb and fists with their earnest visions
COOL: There is barely a quarter moon’s light at this dark night – and yet why is its warmth moving me?
HEAT: Is the COOL white of the moon warming? Or COOL? What does this have to do with eating frozen brownies?
of "I want" or imagine the speaker transformed into
anxiety, like outrageous injustice, sudden death
COOL: Why does it radiate heat – the blue in one eye at daylight?
HEAT: Because I am looking at you. I can melt your heart without even touching you!
then the noise of several men mounting the stairs
they were not in love – merely the only two humans available
through the slits in both of your eyes at sleep?
HEAT: So you have found the door to my dreams! That is you standing at that crack watching my movie show of not-yet experienced memories.
on the bedrock no light reaches this place weekly but strong
COOL white blossoms church bells ringing in the distance
COOL: What made them both reacting if not a dream – in both cases?
HEAT: You know, dream-watchers burn in two hells – their own and the hell (or light as the Germans say) of the watched.
a pinto pony on the prairie as a river brimming cobbles
the railings painted white for reading a wonderful book
COOL: Do you allow your breasts to ask questions when your face starts blushing?
HEAT: No, they already know the answers.
dense and boring as a mouthfuls becoming a matter of bone
emptied of that breath slides into, slips its fingers inside
COOL: Does the left nipple ask for a boy?
HEAT: The left nipple is for my boy lovers.
but so does everyone at the end of time we know nothing
of how youth in pagan harmony can speak to costumed
characters of language
COOL: The right nipple for a girl or visa versa?
HEAT: Mostly the right nipple is for my women lovers.
she said to a face “so you are my twin!” and spoke into cell holes
flowering to become my most ingenious relentless critic
COOL: Does the transparent blouse, hanging over a chair, still keeps traces about it?
HEAT: Yes, that is why blouses have arms in them. So they can wrap the heat up, hold it against its shoulder, or clutch it about the buttons. T-shirts have no buttons and therefore they cannot hold the heat, smells, and love of the wearer.
there are drawing of purple horses under the bed
as if they homed in from all over the world where people
who come in a little later, when we can exercise
in the terrible red flower of her melting box of a room
COOL: Where do the traces later go - or do they stay active even if someone else is going to wear this blouse?
HEAT: They stay. They are simply recharged with love. Or. . .
the way the smell keeps coming out of your nose
into a fleecy river meandering between steep banks
COOL: Who believes it wasn’t the heat?
HEAT: We learned in science that “for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction” but this rule was concocted by a man who had never loved.
COOL: It was cold when you domesticated your first friend. What was the hottest thing he asked for?
HEAT: He didn’t have to ask! I gave it to him with opened arms before he knew what he wanted.
COOL: The violin sounded tuned. Why, then when the temperature changed the sound seemed warmer?
HEAT: The desire of the warmed ear is greater than the changes to the wood or the air in the body of the instrument. Warm ears hear better than cold ears. You know this. Think of the quietness of a snowy day.
COOL: “Attempted suicide, but survived,” the letter says. What kind of warmth could be helpful?
with that fire
it’ll feel good
to become ashes
HEAT: I agree and can only add:
the angels spoke the ticketed words secular
that I might fly where ships carve air
skipping the moon the night filled up with crows
today shining where the light was dragged away
COOL: In the garden, I stood side by side with a dahlia. It was hot. We both let our heads sink. Did we feel coupled by a foreign rule?
HEAT: Ah, the power to give up control – to let others do the work for you, to let them take control, to be dead without dying. Lying on a beach and letting the incoming surf do your breathing for you. Even dreams come without will.
COOL: The house deeply snowed in. Why only a few minutes of sunshine changed our mood?
HEAT: We met. In Hamburg. It was March.
COOL: Migration of all senses. Do we get a feel for the rubbing, the striking surfaces, the frictions’ radiating heat?
HEAT: Yes, it all came with me in the plane. The other occupants had no idea of what was flying with them in the very same cabin. If they had, they would have panicked.
thus she began to fly as if being like
ten Chinese scroll paintings or thin nightgowns
which appeared to reach almost to the horizon
and kept on being themselves giving honor
lover or fear sits in the field where angels play
sometimes after they are gone I am happy
COOL: The role of the fire in the mind of an artist – and presented that cool in glass, in clay, in steel, in marble?
HEAT: Fingerprints of the fires of mind and heart. Everything we make, even cookies, are witnesses to our lives.
and far in the sky a rooster announced beginnings
there is no life in her maze of passages of snow
I'd better leave a suicide note
COOL: All Saints Day - in a mountain village church the air frozen – what does the candlelight do to our prayers?
HEAT: An upward spiral draws our DNA and draws out our lives shaped by prayer.