Poetry from Vienna

flight to Vienna: 20 mai 2003

she wished the airplane
windows rolled down
so she could stick her
hand out, feel the breeze,
leave pieces of herself
behind and fill in the
gaps with clouds...


Art in Deutsch

I could read at age four
but I don't know what "Einbahn"
means as I scan the street
signs of Vienna, white words on blue
arrows. They point to a man
sitting, painting, and I read his brush 
strokes, blue on white, detailing glass that
won't shatter. I follow his gaze down
the street to the crowds contained
in St. Stephan's square and am drawn
by the background of Gothic gargoyle
arches keeping out evil, calling me in.
I pass rows of icons and blackboard
and still can't read
"Wie ist Christus fer sie?"
but even in this country I understand
because I can hear people singing
"Alleluia" in the streets.


Café Central

my skin blends in
with the color and curves of the chair
cushions as my arms rest,
cold, on marble, pink nails tap
the matching table top, tap the tea
cup I sip from as I drink
in the city, the café, the calm calling
of a thousand poets before me who
curled each word around
another where pen meets page
between the silence of spoons
stirring and steam scaling columns
toward vaulted ceilings, who tasted
subtlety of dim light from iron
chandeliers, who sat for hours
then kept the sound of ivory
singing in their ears out the door,
just as I carry with me a piece
of the café we all become a part of.


Central European Time

though I lived a day
ahead, I could not see it
coming. I gave up the chase,
left the country—he gave
up his heart, left hand—
I wonder where he left
me, and if I had held
on a little tighter, would I
be wearing rings of gold, of Christmas
traditions and summer vacations,
of sandy African days and clear
European nights, of tyedyed
laughter and melodic love,
or if I would still fly
home to find him anything
but lonely since I left. 


Love, Mom

in June, you watch lavender
gowns sway down rose
petal aisles and dream
of your five who will wear them
some day you will follow
wearing white, carrying my love
in diamond studs, his
love in rings.

in your June, he will know every
inch of you, but never
know me beyond your diamond
ears he kisses, your lace
he unbuttons revealing
a garter strung to match
lavender dresses I chose
for your maids when 

you were fifteen in my hospital
room, bouquets of flowers, glass
vases on the windowsill, your
hand in mine, fingers tracing
lavender veins up and down my
arms as they write out last
words, wedding plans, love,
breath.



Nightbreak into Dayfall
	how far you are I just don't know
	the distance I'm willing to go
        -Norah Jones

you snow on me as I climb
this mountain and wonder how
one can be so close and still
so far away I go again
only this time, you are exactly
what I wasn't looking for while
I was looking for a clearing, 
for signs of clarity, but I 
clearly can't forget you as 
the clouds make way for the
stars I'd wish upon if I could
pick one through the fog,
even then I wouldn't know
what to wish for because
it's getting late and Norah is still
stuck in my head with her jazz,
her blues, her reminders
of you and my wishes to sing as
we sail away on our underground
river to the top of the mountain—
it's just a dream—so I stand,
want to leap from the ledge
but darkness freezes my feet
to the edges of maybe,
when the sun rises at midnight,
the darkness won’t swallow daylight.


Mauthausen

what if the cross around my neck
were as heavy as a star? like the one
sewn on your sleeve, I roll mine up
to combat the heat and wonder if these
stones I step on were carried up the stair
case of death, wonder if I'd walk it
to save my soul. I wonder if you knew
what you were walking for, still waiting for
a Savior two-thousand years too late,
if I would forget Him beneath the cement
bricks, if I would give in, let my bare foot 
slip, slide off the narrow cobblestone stair, 
cascade the prisoners down into the quarry, let
naked bodies bury me like those killed 
and collected in the sterile stone cellar, if
it would make me sick that someone thought
to sterilize, take pictures of men waiting in line
behind iron bars, they rested on tile
floors and leaned on yellow painted
walls stained blood red they would soon
lean gravestone upon gravestone
carried up from the quarry I'm afraid
if I carried my stones I’d quit caring
about living with or without my Jesus.


Offen die Turen fer Christus!

the mob is praising Jesus
in the streets, but I am 
singing rock 'n' rolling
the Triangle looking for a local
bar scene, counting out my Euros
for happy hour, heavy coins a high
price to pay for citrus slices and
paper umbrellas, but a small price 
compared to what 
He paid for my freedom—
to drink, to dance, to dare to
forget that my life isn't mine
to waste.


Ophelia

when it rains I watch vanilla raindrops
collide and collect on otherwise invisible strands
still tying me to you they twist and turn my
world around to where I sat inside
the sea beside your salty skin I still remember
every stroke that kept me floating and every
slide that made me fall into you
never knowing even red seas
run dry when sand sinks and leave
me behind, unseverable strings
even now keeping me
under the weight of your water.


rain on Charles Bridge, Prague
	night nestles into every nook the street lamps cannot
        -Matthew Nickel

yellow-orange glow cannot
be captured
on film. in my mind I
take pictures. sketch
out the light lined bridge,
brick and iron.
carve in my footprints,
erase clutter, breathe in fog.

by day, I imagine the saints
watching through sculptures.
five stars on his head, saint nepomuk
takes inventory of tourists,
whispers inspiration in street
artist ears, watches the sunset, guards
the Danube by night.

I close his eyes,
nestle up to you.
let my red dress bleed
into the raindrops, teach you
to waltz, close your umbrella—
it keeps out the streetlight.


Rax Alps

if you were mine I'd bring
you a piece of the Alps. pick
one out perfect from gray-red
rubble, flat and misshapen,
write Psalm 121 on it because I
remember the way you pray
slowly, take my hand and close
your eyes, whisper each word
carefully, carrying me into
the arms of my Maker.

if you were mine I'd admit mountains
make me think of you, imagine
us on top of the world where
wind and rain can't reach what
we'd find there. you'd promise
to take me back to the cliffs,
we'd throw our hearts off
the ledge, bid the past 
goodbye, send our prayers
into the future and hang
glide down to meet them.