Cycle of Seasons – Circles of Life



conquers everything
when lark and blackbird sing
and we can hear the sound of wings


fresh red strawberries
A midsummer party
Day conquers night – summer solstice
Sweet dreams


naked branches – one
by one – dry blushing leaves
Photons falling – bitter sunshine


Everything’s dead white
Nights filled with crystal tears
Someone shivering in darkness

conquers darkness
and lark and blackbird nest
while we enjoy wild geese flying




…to be continued…





our lawn’s free from
snow again – lying naked
blackbird seeking worms


Praising Bird

When winter days are gone
I’m longing for the song
that speaks so gently to my heart
and makes a promising start
to my working days in spring.


I could give up everything
for its enchanted wings,
its voice over the fields
fulfilling my needs.


The budding song in March
of the returning lark
speaks to my heart
when winter days are gone.

The Art of March

The snow has left the deeply breathing ground
while we’re still doubting if the season’s changed.
Our neighbors speaking louder than before:
the sacred winter silence could be gone.


The pearls of water from the pregnant clouds,
now falling-dying on our neighbors’ roof
of their too small off-white garden shed;
– How these words unveil my own clichéic life!


While waiting for the birch leaves to explode
the willows whisper in the windy wafts.
I’m scanning sky to catch the ploughs of cranes,
just passing by to dance and breed up north.


One day my eyes will meet the coltsfoots,
still growing in the hollows by the roads,
with flowers yellow like the lukewarm sun,
while crows are croaking at the humid clouds.


A Touch of Spring Sunshine

When winter snow has vaporized
to nothingness,
a special timbre in the sunshine
touches my skin with tickling beams
and my underfed iris with new photons,
eight minutes old.


Budding birches whispering:
Spring’s here!
Kids playing with marbles on schoolyards
or more likely, sending messages,
touching delicate screens with sticky fingers,
lollipop polluted.


I pedal faster to get home
with my fresh impressions
before they vaporize to nothingness.
I’m steaming with spring experiences,
longing to realize them,
by upgrading my Facebook status.


New photos for uploading!


Promises, Promises

Birches dressed in mouse ear leaves
still naked in their black and white minstrel show
showing off in their ebony ivory dresses.
Keyboard trunks.

Still soon enough dehydrated
brownish snow piles in shady corners
stubbornly holding on to winter.


Skylarks getting tuned for premier performance
rooks and crows circulating like always
whatever season.


Tune in – you turn me on!


Spring full of endless promises
March marching by followed by
that capricious teenage month
whose character William the Bard revealed
so convincing in a sonnet.
Old Possum Eliot agreeing in his Waste Land.


Now alluding precious poets
to vainly deepen my superficial words.

Spring is what you make it.
Poetry as well.


Fall in Spring – Paradise Lost

My first budding love affair
was born in early springtime.

I’d just got
a second–hand blue metallic dream come true
with thick rubber tyres,
black serpents chewing their tails.

A birthday gift
soon leading me to my second love
and fall – though in spring.


Its former owner, the neighbor’s son,
a candy-guzzling, two-years-older boy,
teeth like brownish wheat grains or rusty nails,
living with his hardworking single mother,
my father’s cleaning lady.

My birthday the same day my father’s
his celebrations always overshadowed mine.
He – the sun; I – the moon in wane and in vain.
Like having your birthday at Christmas,
in the eddy of the Lord’s.


My father the hub of our village,
medicine man and chief,
now and then looking at me
with his deep graveyard eyes
behind his grossly magnifying spectacles,
never smiling – a nature force and walking volcano.
I – the shivering Pompeii,
always trying to escape
his all-encompassing omnipotence.


A promising day in March
I cycled snake winding paths
in our idyllic neighborhood,
riding my blue metallic Rocket Number One.
The commonage, always empty
like my blue jeans pockets,
was now filled by rusty tractors,
worn-out cottages on wheels behind them.
I sneaked around among the bushes
with naked branches,
like the Last Mohican,
spying with wide open eyes,
sucking all up with un-ending curiosity.

In rocket speed back to my father
– with answers for everything.
My hysterically stuttering voice
made him remove his glasses
replying in his solemn Old Testament Prophet voice:
I forbid you ever to go there again!
These people are thieves and villains
and if they see you there they will catch you,
slaughter you and put you like a piglet over open fire!
Stop being curious or this will be your fall!


This encouraged me to disobey him:
forbidden fruit tastes heavenly to every son of Adam.
My blue bike, which so far had taken me
from point A to B,
now brought me to strange and sinful corners of the alphabet.


One day I saw her
when lying lamb silent
on grayish ground behind budding bushes:
the Black Magic Princess.
But there was nothing royal to her activities,
when relieving herself like a careless kitten
in the bosom of nature,
just a few meters away.

A revelation,
an eclipse of mind and heart,
my eyes looking into an until then unknown world.


Larks started singing like mad
and the sun was intensely shining,
dandelions began blossoming
and the Spring breezes sang Halleluiah!
Or they didn’t.

Our eyes met, our lips smiled, and I simply said: Hello.


From that day this little magic princess from spangled space
was sitting on the carrier,
holding her arms around my pumping belly.


Time and space had lost their meaning.
It was paradise
and would go on forever and ever.

One day outside normal chronology
I collected my split and foggy braveness
and kissed her shining raspberry lips,
completely convinced  no one would ever know.
It was aimed to stay in the drowning depths
and redeeming realms of prepubertal paradise
until the end of universe – and even longer!


But the prime old gossipmonger,
my father’s cleaning lady,
with never shut eyes,
had seen it,
and she told the vivid volcano
and fierce nature force
about my original sinning.
Malicious pleasure is true pleasure.
She’d sold the son’s cycle too cheap.


What happened this day, March 26,
is forever burnt into my mind
like a mental tattoo.
Though initially, into my skin.


This hurts me more than you,
my father tried to convince me,
when he had freed his black leather belt
from his trousers
in a surprisingly elegant gesture
like a lion tamer at circus.
But there were no clowns.


His thick glasses on the table,
his perpetually pumping adrenalin
was medium to his vision instead of photons,
eyes like the eagle’s,
looking through all my lousy lies
and extremely incredible excuses.


The pleased glimpse
in the corner of his eye
revealed it as his capital joy.
My crying, sobbing and tears
were his spicy spiritual food
convincing him of his perfect parenthood.


The eruption from the violent volcano
petrified Pompeii for oh so long,
silently waiting for future archeology of the mind,
effected on that unveiling divan.


In March so many years ago.
My father and I.


Sense and Sensuality – Paradise Reconstructed

End of March,
middle of the nineties.
A car exhibition
my eldest son and I.
He knowing every car model,
I – the ignorant dog tail.


Ah, next year’s car models!
Cool colors! Dazzling design!
Feeding the senses,
touching tempting leather seats,
feeling the superior macho strength of gear shifts,
wide open eyes reflecting the shining paint.


Neither of us with a driver’s license
but both so hypnotized,
even me, the born bicyclist.


Free samples of pens and caps, fruits and candy,
caressing vision, touch and tongue
– for little brother and sister at home as well.


While walking to the station,
inhaling the magic scents of spring,
after automobile heaven
we materialized in reality
on a wooden park bench,
so aware of growing hunger.

Diving into our food packages:
cheese and ham sandwiches,
hot coffee and chocolate:
time to tickle our tongues with tempting taste
and feed our forgotten stomachs…


While eating and senses functioning normally again:
sparrows chirping, pale spring sun, budding branches,
A starter for our eardrums.


And then, the main sonar course,
the indescribable, unexpected peak of audible pleasure:
the tempting tones of Vivaldi’s Spring;
intro streaming from nearby window.


End of March middle of the nineties.
My eldest son and I.




roses in sunshine
a spider neatly building its
silvery network


July to me, or not


The summer path reveals its cloudless skies,
diminishing in shades of clear blue light,
caressing gold to soothe my winter eyes,
just like the gem of Northern summer night.


I listen to the voice of the cuckoo,
which cries until the light will reach its peak.
Its magic nest will never become true.
Its parenthood is known to be qiute weak.


The cherries glitter dark red in the sun
and murder slugs are seldom to be seen.
In early hours all the rabbits run
as I am passing by on whirling wheels.


What can I do but letting seasons pass?
My golden memories – will they forever last?

Summer – and?

Hysterical summer holidays,
with too much sunshine, too much rain,
too much or too little of everything
for whining people
in my part of the world,
the peak of I-land people suffering.

Some call it recharging the batteries
with lazy days, downloading tanning light waves,
getting gas for mental motors.
Fried on the beach,
lukewarm bathing in dead water,
comfortably emptying bladders secretly.
Going to inexpensive countries
encountering smiling service-minded locals,
never ever complaining about anything.
Going to vanishing villages in the mystic mountains
never before visited by eye drooling tourists,
these  endless shifting shoals of digicam people,
eyes wide shut
and hilarious blue hair hags,
their voices echoing between mountain tops,
tumbling down to green velvet valleys,
killing eternal  pastoral peace,
never before abused by tourists.


Longing for being as happy as the natives,
if only for a party night,
with free icy drinks and brutal barbecue,
the golden herd could really recharge their batteries
and load their digicams with fake memories!


Hysterical summer holidays,
with too much sunshine, too much rain,
too much or too little of everything!


Give me wormwood to survive!


When Grandma Died

Grandma’s ticker stopped at Christmas, age 59.
Mum and Dad and my elder brothers felt deep crying grief.


The summer before
the baker boy had delivered Grandma’s daily bread
in a brown paper bag very morning.


Oranges during summer those days
were a precious golden gem
we all drooled for.


Grandma crying my name from the kitchen, continuing:
“Do you want an orange?”


What joy! Happiness! For me only! Not my brothers!


“Yes!” I cried, eagerly running to thre kitchen.


Her giant body in black in front of me,
smiling ironically:
“No, not that boy!”


Sharing the same name, baker boy and I.


If a four-year-old boy’s black glance
and thoughts could kill!


But they did,
half a year later.


Knowing I should grieve and cry like the others,
I felt guilt and relief,
splitting my childish mind.

When we’d moved to another place,
during spring, summer and early fall I often sat
in my Thinker Tree,
feeling alienated from my family,
wondering if it was me
or the rest of the world that was a fake,
but never revealing a word about it
among others but continuing being the sunshine boy
with that winning smile,
year after year.


That was the summer that was.


Flute Playing

I play my nose flute when cycling nature paths,
quite independent of the present season
but mostly in the summertime
impressing sounds from cuckoos, blackbirds,
but  haven’t fooled them yet
from the podium of my saddle.


It’s made of wood and almost sounding
like the recorder that I played at school
when nagging teachers tried to teach me
how to use it in the proper way.
I always tried to blow it with my nostrils.


Old memories turn up from hidden wells.
An old hag of a teacher had meant
I didn’t have an ear for music.
I left the classroom in an angry hurry
after calling her a witless witch,
and then I smashed the sucking thing
against an innocent brick wall.


When playing my fairy tale flute today
it’s like a meditation with my breath and jaw.
I forget all traumas from my childhood,
when I  was misunderstood by female teachers
with stiff silent lips like bloodless white worms,
now endlessly enjoying comforting tones,
echoing from beech to beech
in former wood anemone hills in July.


I play it in the proper way,
perfectly blended with the blackbird’s song
and the cuckoo’s magic hiccups from f to c.


Magic Tragic Season

The manipulating sun
The cracking moon
The forgotten stars
The skies of my mind stranger than marmalade
wilder than honey


The crises of my laidback life
The memory of unseen deaths
in the doldrums of distant oceans
The meaningless meaning of slowly dying
The tide of my dreams are closer than my breath
underneath my heart


Zooming seasons of endless alienation


Lost forever but yet not
The perversities of broken stars
The stiffness of an insane moon
My longing is vibrating
in its far harbor of unheard sirens


The flowers in my bed
when waking up in the morning of my anonymous ancestors
told the unwritten truths of a non-existent universe
where my soul is still decomposing
like a whale on the shore
in the cruel sunshine


Zooming summer chill summer kill


The manipulating sun
The cracking moon
The forgotten stars
The skies of my mind stranger than marmalade
or traffic jam
wilder than honey
will lead me to that precious place
where nightingales nest and secretly sing


And then again
losing summer
that wasn’t there
focusing future that will never be


Nocturnal Walk


We started just before sunrise
in the silence of the lamp-post lit night.
Every time a lonely black cat
was sitting on a bench outside a house
looking like a feline Buddha
while we passed his home.


When the first beams
were about to climb the horizon,
the lead singer of the Blackbyrds
opened his neat little beak
in an initial attempt.


One by one his feathered friends
joined the gently growing choir
of the budding dawn
until it was firmly fulfilled.


When we returned home
the newborn day was steaming
with soothing songs
in the morning air
while the old man in the moon
was looking down
from his pale crescent
of reflected sunlight.


I keep these nocturnal gems
deep down in the treasury of my mind.





pinching morning winds
restless rooks and crows hover
over naked soil


Fruits of Fall

October’s here with slowly aging leaves
and fall is feeding me with fruits of red.
The heat was killed, October grieves,
when darling rose and butterfly are dead.


Reflection time has reached me once again
and I must penetrate my memories,
before they turn to what? and when?
and I’ll forget the soothing summer breeze,

when we went cycling on a day in June.
Some blackbirds sang but cuckoos stayed at ease.
A nightingale was thrilling in the groove
of apple trees with flowers full of bees.


When apples shrivel on my garden tree
– a secret promise of the springs to be.


Seasoning the Seasons

The remaining leaves are blushing on the birch
and it will stand there naked in the rain
while all my long gone summer dreams decline.
Now fall has come and I look back at summer
when blackbirds sang in green leaved chestnut trees.
I ask if it was just a dream in vain.

We went to foreign, trivial tourist places
to brag about to our yawning friends.
Now fall is reddish ripe and I regard
this season to be credible and real
– a time for further studies and reflection.


The darkness deepens in the squeezing night.
The days become a slowly twinkling eye.
What’s left of seasons that have passed
but paling shells from dehydrated snails?


I trust the crispy chill of wintertime
but less the summer and its luring light.
Why looking forward to this ruthless season,
unfaithful like the teenage month of April?


It’s soothing when the snowflakes softly fall
while dressing up my birch in crystal fur.


Fall is the Case

What really matters is the transient fall,
the seasoning season to complete them all,
because – between you and me –
they’d otherwise be only three.


The nightingale has left its ambush.
No further songs for it to push
from warbling throat to tiny beak.
The sun is turning pale and weak.


We’re falling slowly down the well
of darkness and its magic spell.
Our globe will turn its southern parts
against the glowing fusion heart.

The smell of soil and naked clay
now fills my nose with pure decay.


Now is Time

Now is time for fall
for leaves to fall
for death to call
echoing against walls
of ignorance and eyes wide shut


Now is time for fall
for shadows to fall
for unseen wolves to call
howls echoing against walls
all doors closed and shut


Once reached the sun
so long ago
with life then undone
What’s to know
about stolen feathers
or wings of leather?


A long and winding road ever since.
Touched the Morning Star
twinkling teasingly far
eight miles high and dry
in synthetic wings and blue jeans


Took some time to fall
– spring and summer
Unseen wolves call
Echoing against the walls
Now is time for fall to f




Beach Walk – Beat walk

The average pace of the ocean waves
is said to be the same
as the average pace
of our human heartbeat.
That’s why I love taking lonely walks
by the shore during fall
alone or with my partner in life
while listening to the voice of the sea,
the original womb
of biological life on earth.


The even pulse of the beating heart
we firstly followed in our mother’s womb
has taught us enjoying the rhythmic parts
of life from its start to the tomb.


It’s me

and the sea,

It’s me

and the waves,



and pulsing,


and weaving


the weave of life and music,
of words and poetry.


They say that time is invented by man,
but isn’t just time
the pulses of nature,
days passing by
and the beat of the heart?
We’re counting these pulses
and calling it “measuring time”
forgetting the fact
that time itself can’t be measured.

The source of music as well as of time
we find in the tactics of tic-tacking hearts
impressing subliminal fatal chimes
following us from the start.


It’s me
and my heart

It’s me
and the sea

It’s me
and my life
and growing
and feeling

the beat of music and time
of waves passing by
of words and poetry




It’s you and it’s me
It’s us


Celebrating Myself

It’s time for all the leaves to fall;
that’s why we call this season fall

and I have reached the grey-haired stage
of life – thus experiencing fall.


Well, fine, there goes the peak of life.
Goodbye to youth – it’s time to fall.


Why lie, Goran? Nothing will ever change.
I’ll try to seize the joy of fall.


Why cry – you’re still alive today!
We’ll die and then the night will fall.




the icy bike path
fragments in the snow, bird claws
feathers of silence


Global Emotional Cooling

It seems like we have bled and cried an ocean
from Stone Age fights to modern martial ways.
The gods are watching us with mixed emotions.


Is hate or love what keeps our world in motion
when children soldiers learn to rape and slay?
It seems like we have bled and cried an ocean
when soldiers fight, because of the illusion
that violence is a price we have to pay.
The gods are watching us with mixed emotions.


We need ideas, not just simple notions
to bring an end to humans acting prey.
It seems like we have bled and cried an ocean.


Instead of using guns without proportion
let’s teach the children soldiers how to play.
The gods are watching us with mixed emotions.


Let’s praise the peace in deep devotion
and colors in a world that’s grim and grey.
It seems like we have bled and cried an ocean.

The gods are watching us with mixed emotions.


Elegy for a Snowflake

A snowflake gliding on the frosty glass
once born in magic dark blue distant clouds
Unique like all young egocentrics
A cool proud soldier fighting what’s warm
Both flower, crystal, ice
and a part of the aimless variety of nature

now dissolving, losing its individual hexagonality
becoming a part of a snowy surface
turning to unit of simply ice,

existence without character,
plain unanimous whiteness
Mature and depersonalized
like all other old egocentrics


Winter Ghazal

Who knows if I can write this well?
It’ll show if this ghazal goes well.

It flows and flies like snowflakes in the wind
and oozes from my sometimes frozen well.

My ice cold nose vibrates in chilly thrill.
Whose woes? – Who doubts I’m doing well?

Like ice dancing I hope my words will swirl.
Oh, no, it’s time to bid fare-well!

Is Poe the poet? No, it’s Goran.
He hopes his words have warmed you well.


It’s Christmas Time again

It’s Christmas time again!
X-macht – jawohl!


Red-dressed stout man Santa Claus
in the chimney colon of every house,
totally against the sanity clause
of our local community,
ignoring rules and sensibility.


It’s Christmas time again!
X-macht – jawohl!


Christmas with loads of fluffy snow,
starving reindeer in a row.
It’s not rain, dear, pure snow!
The power of a red-dressed “child lover”
in white beard and hair like my mother!


It’s Christmas time again!
X-macht – jawohl!


But where did JC go?


Lying Awake

Lying mummified awake
in my cold and lonely bed
–  only our cat and I at home –
in sheets of white hopelessness,
unable to effortlessly sink
into the healing lukewarm well
of enchanting and relaxing dreaming,
looking at the spotless ceiling
without a twinkle in my unseeing eyes,
soon dried out in dark and hollow December night,
when werewolf winds from freezing north
are howling and blood sniffing
outside my frosty windows,
I silently wonder,
paradoxically pleased with all his,
if I possibly could transubstantiate
my situation into a poem worth that label.


Cyclic Water – States of Aggregation

I turn the tap, filling my transparent pot
to make my slowly wakening family
the first steaming hot encouraging cups of the day.


Black clouds building up distant water drop walls,
looking credibly substantial,
from my kitchen window:
cloud masses pregnant with snow,
but simultaneously a threatening fluffy nothing.
A single drop is nil, practically powerless,
but together when frozen
they’re able to create traffic killing snowstorms
and all-encompassing inland ice.


Water is the blood of the earth,
whatever its state of aggregation,
ice, fluid, steam, plasma…


The black beverage is streaming well-organized
through the coffee machine
while bigger and bigger snowflakes are thrown by the wind
chaotically in white continuously shifting shapeless sheets
right outside my soon blinded window.



Fifth Season

When even the future
has turned to memories never realized,
the fifth season has materialized
– season of witchcraft and magic
when contradicting matters
that’ll never fit or meet yet do
– without fitting.
It’s white chalk or aluminum combs
against blackboard or window.


This is it – my life – perpetually verified
as a middle age wasteland of timeless limbo
between the past and future “then” of experienced time
I imagine patrolling each side of “now”.


When walking the well-known nature path,
never ending because it’s bent
into itself like all curved air,
snowflakes are dancing by my left side
and caressing sunbeams are kissing my cheeks
by the other.


Seasons meeting in the fifth season.


The left celestial hemisphere is covered
by distant stars – yes, there’s the Big Dipper –
in the mystic realm of northern light
and from the top of the right one
a bleeding sun keeps transforming
innocent summer birds
to falsetto-singing Michael Jacksons.


The fifth season is secretly developing
in mind and emotions
– season of credible witchcraft and pure magic.




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