Photo by Domenico Farone on
17. Januar 1991  

Schuhe noch nicht zu-
gebunden schlugen Bomben 
meinen Schlafkopf Morgen 
peitschte Radiowellen
Sündengeißen treiben  

Seit Uhr wird ge-
heilige Schlacht 
Moscheen scheinen
Wunderlampen Öl ver- 
siegt Himmel dämmert 

Noch …
January 17, 1991  

Shoelaces still not 
tied bombshells beat
my dream head morning
whipped radio waves
scape nannies stay afloat  

Since a.m. we are
blasting back holy war 
mosques queer
magic lamps oil runs 
dry sky dawning 

Still … 

I have rediscovered this poem, which I wrote in German on January 17, 1991. I woke up that morning and found a note on top of two library books: Could you return the book on top and renew the other one? Thank you. PS: You might not want to turn on the radio. 

This is a text for my year-long online writing course Uncovering the Authentic Self on The prompt was rediscovery. Previous texts are on Home and Giving.
Rediscovering this poem, editing it a bit, and translating it into English today reminded me that I only wrote poetry again twenty years after in 2011.


Photo by Chunry on
do I wish I could draw
the mountain
that is burning 
into my mind
a beautiful bulwark
over time
shaped shaved crushed
I am still 

The writing prompt was a photograph by Ansel Adams from the book “The Georgia O’Keefe Museum.” Georgia O’Keefe sketching …

Only words

Photo by Andy Vu on
Only words

may bridge the stream and swamp —

Forsaken, forbearing, and fortuitous —
Eventually on transit seven or six
Near the land strewn with rocks.
Yearning for silver not sand, I’m
Alluding to all four letters

spelling them with my digits:
twelve fifteen twenty-two five
make it count

This poem, I wrote a few years ago and have polished it a little recently, in my writing group.

If you have the time and energy to read more of these texts you find them in blog order on this website. Let me know what you associate with them, what you like, what you dislike, …

Ashen grey

By Eva García-mayers

Photo by Pixabay on
Ashen grey, love
that was

white	snow
left to melt
upon the
	frozen meadow
faded photographs —
old diaries
	carved wood
	that once
	had meaning

lines as fine as Madame’s
greying hair
shed upon
	a pillowcase

rouge smeared
onto the cold	   pool
the looking glass
shafts of light
soak through

decaying	          skin —
falling in mottled sheets
silver–encrusted lips
kissing      	soft bark
a child’s boots tread
	beds of rotten leaves
hours vanish
mind.        	empty

	       sturdy beams
pale sky
open doubt
ivy garden

	eaves dripping
white oak and
	rain singing
across the wood’s
fine grain

This is the second poem by Eva García-mayers in this blog. Twice a month, her writing group has given me the energy to continue walking. And writing.


Photo by Ena Marinkovic on

RomanTisch RomanFisch
Roh Mann Tisch und
Roh man mische
Roman frisch vom Tisch
Buch zu.


This, I wrote some years ago. Yes, I know it’s in German; it doesn’t make any sense. Well as GoogleTranslate shows, it does not make any sense in German either. Or does it?

Romance || Romantic || NovelTable NovelFish || Shish || Raw man table and || bed || Raw one mix || mesh || novel fresh from the table || Book shut. || NovelTic

The flower of thought

By Eva García-mayers

Boat on a river before a bridge. Birds in the air and on water.
Photo by Yogendra Singh on
The Flower of Thought:
A dark petal of memory, 
wet roots—
A body rests 
against time. 
A loosening grace—
withered and soft bruises
blooming like clay
soothed into water. 
Half-made phrases 
dot the soil.
Winter slips away
into nothingness—
smiles and teardrops drift,
the sweet words of song ring.
Shining crows 
paint mean black rivers
into the soil.
A window 
against falling snow. 
Long-lost faces drip 
into the flat fields 
where I collect 
some of your warmer colors
into bouquets of quiet
drunken brightness,
loneliness trailing
my cautious steps
into the ebbing shadows.

This poem is by Eva García-mayers. I am grateful to her for many inspiring writing sessions in Zoom and in parks and public spaces of San Diego. She graciously gave permission to post some of her texts on this site.

I am hoping to be able to post more texts by other writers and poets on this blog. Texts by friends from writing groups. Texts that speak to me. And I am hoping: will to you …

Across seven bridges

Bruce bridge in San Diego
Sometimes I would walk the street without remorse
Sometimes wishing back my littl’ rocking horse
Sometimes I don’t find a resting spot
Sometimes I bolt the doors behind me shut
Sometimes I spew fire and sometimes ice
Sometimes I don’t know that I am wise
Sometimes I am tired right at morn
And then I seek solace in a song:

Across seven bridges you shall go
Seven years will come and leave
Seven times you are the ash of grieve 
Then once again your light will glow

Sometimes ’t seems the clock of life stands still
Sometimes ’t seems you’re loping in a hamster wheel
Sometimes you are lame on itchy feet
Sometimes you squat quiet on a seat
Sometimes you grab for the golden orb
Sometimes you see your lucky stars send blur
Sometimes you take, when you can endow
Sometimes you hate, who you truly love: 

Across seven bridges you shall go
Seven years will come and leave
Seven times you are the ash of grieve
Then once again your light will glow

1978. This song was produced for the radio in East Germany by the rockband Karat, who also toured in West Germany. Most East German bands never had the chance to tour in other countries. The West German singer Peter Maffay heard the song at one of their concerts, asked whether he could do a cover version, and made the song even more popular. After the German unification, they performed together. It has been covered by many to this day. The lyrics were written by Helmut Richter. The song has its own Wikipedia entry.

My English translation has gone through a number of versions. I am very grateful to the musician Tillmann Spiegl for his help with making some lines more singable.

Karat - Über sieben Brücken musst du gehn (1978) 

Manchmal geh' ich meine Straße ohne Blick, 
manchmal wünsch' ich mir mein Schaukelpferd zurück, 
manchmal bin ich ohne Rast und Ruh, 
manchmal schliess ich alle Türen nach mir zu. 
Manchmal ist mir kalt und manchmal heiss, 
manchmal weiss ich nicht mehr, was ich weiss, 
manchmal bin ich schon am Morgen müd, 
und dann such ich Trost in einem Lied: 

Über sieben Brücken musst du geh'n, 
Sieben dunkle Jahre überstehn, 
Sieben Mal wirst du die Asche sein, 
Aber einmal auch der helle Schein. 

Manchmal scheint die Uhr des Lebens still zu steh'n, 
manchmal scheint man immer nur im Kreis zu geh'n, 
manchmal ist man wie vom Fernweh krank, 
manchmal sitzt man still auf einer Bank. 
Manchmal greift man nach der ganzen Welt, 
manchmal meint man, dass der Glücksstern fällt, 
manchmal nimmt man, wo man lieber gibt, 
manchmal hasst man das, was man doch liebt. 

Über sieben Brücken musst Du geh'n, 
Sieben dunkle Jahre überstehn, 
Sieben Mal wirst du die Asche sein, 
Aber einmal auch der helle Schein. 

If you have the interest, time, and energy to read more of the Just texts you find them in blog order on this website. Please comment on what you associate with them, what you like, what you dislike, what you read in them, how they make you feel …

If you do not follow blogs, which I understand, I also let all know on Twitter and Instagram. See you soon.