Olga’s Violin

As he lolled around the square circus,
on the pavements below the city tower;
through brassy displays of gold and hocus,
a stream of sound rose above the hour.

Melodies of Bach atop undisturbed strings,
dancing and floating with the gentle breeze;
though rowdy winds the passers-by fling,
her music guards this sanctuary of peace.

Her Mozart stirred his dark oblivion,
when worldly frets were the zeals of youth;
those duets with friends — now in obsidian,
for a time long gone are his tears and ruth.

What vivacity of life her Vivaldi inspires!
Though suffer we must for a truthful art;
to the gutters and glories of life he aspires,
The Street — is life before our unseeing eyes.

Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 11:45 PM  Leave a Comment  

A Night at the Café

Sitting by the candlelit table,
with a company of guests;
I feel almost like Mr. Gable,
with charred cigarettes from the west.

Disco lights are flashing,
as the amplifiers protest;
a glass of zombie is brushing
off my unhappiness in jest.

In the dark cold night we sit,
with deep senseless conversations;
the people’s eyes all meet,
with bewitched, bewildered imitations.

The night hosts a good life,
so much for the old Beatles;
spirits with spirits revive,
writing the modern fables.

Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 11:00 PM  Leave a Comment  

O My Adorable Munich

Restless nights have sapped my blood,
but fatigue cannot subdue this bliss;
indeed my nature is a thrilling corpse,
though surely she greets with the sweetest kiss.

My case for love is the people — I thought,
only now I see that you need them not;
as I amble along in your warm embrace,
serenaded by your charm and grace.

Bittersweet at the rumbling station,
as my feet onto your pavement step;
no joy surmounts your lovely presence,
no dole is bluer than my assured absence.

Silly posters have my return peeved,
faces wearing ridiculous kohl;
though all memories may from me leave,
still you shall be my familiar scroll.

The vendor who has for years there stood,
remindful of a sepia childhood;
the grandeur of the scholarly walls,
upon my past and future she calls.

Fountains spring at the clear blue sky,
the bakeries leaven the gentle air;
the old town’s early affairs I pry,
with breakfast at the market square.

Purple tulips enliven the garden,
who sit by her theatre as a lover would;
though seasons shall as her carousel turn,
her beauty both snow and flowers allude.

Farewell, for now, my adorable dear,
the drawing room of ghosts I hear,
at the window the artful Alps had stood,
behind clouds and rain your beauties elude.

Published in: on 30/04/2018 at 12:53 AM  Leave a Comment  

Jazz Waltz

Four is to the artists’ kind,
as a suite of cards in a joker’s hand.
 Like Puccini’s humour in the Parisian street?
No — this is of a different fleet.

The first is the apprentice so very virtuous,
timid yet heedful in the drawing room;
with each bellowing furnace far too studious,
every feathering edge was groomed.

The second is the poet very hopeless,
sustained by spirits in a rampant flow
— impoverished — improvised — helpless —
 untamed are his inky cloak.

The third is the majestic maestro,
whose secret wears an empyrean robe;
‘Genius’ — the name of mystery’s swains,
is but mastery over passions and pains.

Published in: on 28/04/2018 at 12:57 AM  Leave a Comment  

The Miserables

Look — at all the lonely people,
toiling the fields for perhaps tomorrow;
to slaves the fires and arts are foreign,
their tears for flat and lifeless reasons.

Look — at all the lonely people,
fighting for perhaps fabricated glories;
uneasily alien are the distant miserables,
their tears are none but bloody flurries.

Look — at all those discarded corses,
who fought for perhaps noble frills,
or for our lives with remorseless remorse;
their tears gave life to lifeless hills.

Look — at our epicurean lives,
yet we cherish not love nor beauty;
unkind we are — our hearts we rive,
and tears we shed for our own stupidity.

When we forget the grandeur of time,
or forsake the world beyond our hive;
be trapped we shall in empty pleasantries,
trapped we are in our moonless miseries.

Yet listen, you all — slave or master,
a brave heart shall the heavens conquer;
succumb not to boredom’s torture,
still — be driven not by boredom’s irk.

Published in: on 27/04/2018 at 2:03 AM  Leave a Comment  


Like a major second in Mozart’s quartet,
or a tango dancing Parisian Musette;
the unbidden visit of the summer sun,
a world had risen from Escher’s mind.

Home is not where home resides,
for dreams are but short-lived delights;
paralysed by this limbo I face,
awake in a play on this pathetic stage.

Published in: on 24/04/2018 at 10:12 PM  Leave a Comment  

Something Missing

My day has no complaints,
only good things has come of it;
was I not flamboyant,
with treasures from the summit?

Yet a lack is somewhere hiding,
twisting my spine from within;
even this old jazz tune on the piano,
feels not quite like what I used to know.

To my music have I returned,
again my dear rosewood has sang;
with melodic minors she turned,
into a rather broken-hearted song.

Is it my longing for clarity?
Light I have yearned to trace,
yet I dare not my pencils raise,
for fear of losing my lucidity.

Published in: on 24/04/2018 at 9:40 PM  Leave a Comment  

Grue and Bleen

The sky is as blue as his woe;
the swarming rivers are green;
as his tears into the river flow,
his sorrows dissolve into the spring.

Yet still my heart is wrenching,
upon my bones the fog is flooding;
not a feather or petal she has stirred,
not a breath of air has quivered.

I’m sorry, my dear beloved friend;
‘I cannot work’, I cannot rest —
I can hardly even breathe…
As though time herself would cease.

Yet to whom am I to sigh,
save a ghostly being in my mind’s eye?
The ravens are feeding upon me,
they summon my despair eagerly.

I watch the streaming waters
struggling and racing in earth’s vein;
some have fallen onto those quarters
where the mighty grasslands would soon reign.

From the dead we all must rise,
though I am for it no testament;
yet I know too well of my blue reprise,
for the roses know my recurring lament.

‘It seems madam?’ Yes it indeed seems,
as though life has found no boredom in jest;
or perhaps she has this wisdom learned,
of the frailty of a velvet crest.

Not you, nor this maidenly land,
ailed my wretched fluttering hand;
rain has sweetened this peaceful air,
yet infinite sadness enclaves my flair.

Credulous was he of the humankind —
to forests or mountains they may gracefully bind;
too proud we are of our nomadic past,
and now away from all warmth he is cast.

Forgive me, my friend — my blood is blue,
my harmony is diminished in a minor hue;
in threes my sonata can scarcely elude,
’tis merely the season when my trials are due.

Though valiant may be a heart of love,
chasing wisdom until the cosmic end;
yet still, the resurrection of the Stygian dove,
can be fathomed by none but the devil above.

So let it be, let this hour go,
be as it may like the creek who woes;
the creek whom I no longer hear,
like books I have closed in those passing years.

Yet must I deny my truest sentiment?
Must I my own heart in trills mask?
How shall I paint this landscape so fervent,
to sketch a pale face at dusk?

Fryderyk! Let your etudes sing —
trampling through my lifeless grooves!
The rivers have at last become bleen;
forgive me, my life! — For I am grue.

O my dear, don’t get me wrong,
I know by heart the notes of this song;
in the bleak heavens I with my self rejoin — for whom
— in the blazing summer days I sorely longed

Published in: on 23/04/2018 at 8:31 PM  Leave a Comment  

I gatti di Tubinga

O is not life full of awe
for the child who simply looks?
When pleas one has no more,
gratitude completes the books.

Sweeter than honey is this wine
in the presence of your grace;
by the whispering Neckar we dine,
as the beauty of life unlace. 

O forgive me for my wrongs,
if trespassed have my songs;
for oft my words are undue,
though my heart is none but true.

Perhaps our diaries it is,
or our hopeless Bohemian dreams;
as your tears onto my string drips,
my heart too quietly weeps. 

Innocent we are in this
world of glamorous charades;
yet beyond the lawless abyss —
music of undefeated parades.

Nothing of you I ask,
no — not even that of trust;
nothing than time is more just,
all shall return to dust.

I wish only for the troubles
to rise from your gentle face;
I wish for you only tenderness,
though sorrows I too embrace.

Published in: on 20/04/2018 at 1:07 AM  Leave a Comment  

At the Centre of the World

O, ‘what a piece of work is man!’
Reverberating throughout the empty hall
of the crumbling cathedral, stand
the inky shadows of a godforsaken ball.

Humans are fascinating, truly,
though he modestly walks among them all;
at times than nature still more unruly,
at times like the servants of her masterful call.

To whom and where do their rivers owe,
when the moonlight is colder than the drifting stone?
Why do they deny what they knowingly know?
Upon their innocence the bloody fields have grown.

O, what mysteries this world hides!
May one day he caress her undraped form?
Of valleys and mountains he politely scribes,
yet still the heart is a perplexing storm.

Do they the tears of cassis desire?
Why do we from our loves resign?
When all things must one day expire,
by fate must parting with embrace entwine.

Are you my friends the ghosts of my mind?
How should I know, I’m at the centre of the world.
Never shall we our own silhouettes find,
we’re all at the centre of this uncaring world.

Published in: on 15/04/2018 at 1:38 AM  Leave a Comment