среда, 07. јул 2010.

James Brandenburg

Just wanted to dangle a bit over the edge,
then come back to reality.
What the hell ever that means.
Well, I have come back,
somewhere—looking for—something
that reality still elusive, out of reach.
Dangled a bit too long over the edge,
Fell off into space.
All spaced out for a while,
gradually climbed back up.
It’s not easy out there;
it’s not easy up here.
Dangled a bit too long over the edge.
Keep falling off; no fear anymore.
Still not easy coming back,
Still don’t know what I want here.
Looking for that certain reality,
what the hell ever that means.
I live now on the edge,
dual personalities—my heart out there.
Part of me wants that certain reality,
all those shoulds.
Part of me wants to follow my heart
over the edge.
It’s those inbetweens bothering me.
Can’t stop searching for that certain reality,
uncertain as it might be.
Still can’t stop going over the edge
By James Brandenburg

I am
a fortress of fire
passion in my bones
bleeds into my being
and transcends
moment by moment
so hot sometimes
it melts iron.
I am
a fortress of fire
my smoke ascends
above a solitary mountain
in Prussia
for 800 years.
It is
my heritage
that flames
my poetry
By James Brandenburg
Brand = fire
Burg = fortress

Every morning
the old woman’s dog
romps in the park,
while from her bag
she feeds the pigeons
a daily ritual
from one with barely enough
to buy the seeds,
but a deed in which coos
wash her spirit clean.
Morning dew
awakens in the shadows
of ash and pines,
a place for reflection
curbed only by broken bottles
along the path,
by newspaper pages
dispersed on benches
in different angles
at the wind’s discretion,
remnants of misery
that survived the night
and too much drink
of one gone searching
for a better day
as I return full circle
to where cooing pigeons
mirror the charity
of the old woman
who bequeaths me
tranquility for courage
under the rising sun.
By James Brandenburg

Somewhere Between
Somewhere between
midnight and morning
she emerges
outside my open window
whispers between leaves
as they fall
then mists
into night’s silky silence
Somewhere between
dewfall and daybreak
she slides
into the shadows;
I awaken
I look for her
behind the wind
Somewhere between
the hollows
and my ribs
I feel her echo
spiraling upward
it pulsates
a breath away
from light
The essence
of Wordsworth’s
Phantom of Delight
a flight of fantasy
in the night
and when I pour forth
my inner mysteries
she circles in my light’s
somewhere between
the songs
from my heart
and silence.
By james brandenburg