An H.H.

Dem jungen Mann das Herze bricht,

Die holde Jungfer liebt ihn nicht.

Ein Ritter stirbt zur gleichen Stund,

Die Liebe schlug ihm rote Wund.

Zwei Brüder streiten tief im Tann,

Weil einer nur sie haben kann.

Der Jüngling sinkt ins kühle Grab

Und zieht Feinsliebchen mit hinab.

Nie enden Herzeleid und Tod,

Dem Dichter sind’s das täglich Brot.

Your hair is like a poem

Your hair is like a poem,

It flows from your crest,

It curls in a cadence.

It falls from your shoulders,

Its tiny feet dangling,

Dancing to the rhythm

Of your head moving,

Beating like gentle waves

Against the beach of your back.

Brushing across your face,

Opening,

Closing,

A curtain before a show,

A recital before a play,

Preparing the passion,

Announcing the drama,

Brush it away

And let me see.

Philemon

Philemon paws at the glass door, 

Answering what call? 

No cat no dog no bird to catch, 

Going against his own self? 

Up against the pane, 

Reared and aroused. 

Bring him a toy of fluffy felt 

And he’ll forget the mirror world, 

No lure no mates no more.

Gecko

Gecko

Gecko is good.
Gecko eats insects.
Keeps the house clean.
Walks on the wall.
Sits on the ceiling,
Smacks and snacks.
Chirps like a bird,
Upside down.
Hides under the sink,
Feeds on junk.
Don't live on junk,
Stay good, stay useful.
Don't junk the bonds
That bind, that save us.
Now you're inside,
You'll end up outside,
Down from the wall,
Splat on the street,
Caught by the movement,
Unpredictable, unforeseen,
When what goes up
Comes crashing down,
Crushing,
Squishing.
Don't live your greed,
Stay good, stay humble,
Catch flies and gnats,
Catch bugs and roaches,
Live with us,
Not off us.
Gecko stay good.

Bad poetry

I do not understand poetry.
I do not understand poetry.
I understand prose.
You say what you want to say. You say it.
I understand song.
You have a melody and you sing it.
The words follow the melody.
But I do not understand poetry.
Why break the flow for the rythm?
Why break the rythm for the flow?
I do not understand poetry.
That's why my poems are bad.

Gedicht / Poem / Стихи

Der, wer dichtet, richtet Worte
Aus um Muster zu erzeugen
Aus Bedeutung und aus Klang.
Mal ein kleines, feines Muster,
So wie Karos oder Streifen,
Das man leicht erkennen kann;
Mal ein schweres, das verwirrt,
Wo man nicht weiß, ist da eins?
Lies die Worte, hör die Worte,
Lass sie auf der Zunge klingen,
Klingt es gut, hast du's verstanden,
Klingt es schlecht, versuch es anders.
Wenn das Muster schief und krumm ist,
Wenn die Worte hohl und dumm sind,
Kann's ein schlechter Leser sein,
Kann's ein schlechter Dichter sein.