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