In which we remember remember the 5-7-5th of November.

                

            nature's escapade
            cement seed awaits its chance

            springs through to fall, falls

far-off ballots cast
newspaper read, writes no blues
once more with feeling

 

           smell that pakora
           whiff of worlds colliding, paints
           my cultured tummy

morning bright surprise
rays a-wooshing down the tracks
what's this shiny stuff?

 

 

                         chocolate temple steps

                         hurried legs oblivious

                         hidden sweets for feet

 

remember when-- and
we were all glowing, going
footsteps through seasons

           cold November mist
           breathes that old migration song
           beats 'neath bending wings

groovy hue highlights
welcome to Primary Street
(dress code not enforced)

           once more o're the bridge
           Binnenalster slams the eyes
           Hamburg u so fine

leafless jigsaw and
sunless silhouette, searching
for the missing piece

           feeding feathered beasts
           squawk of thanks-- or was it greed?
           watch your fingers, Gran

 

 

marketing at best
strong and sexy takes the cake
another slice, please

           sidewalk shadows stretch
           with whimsy in their darkness
           alight in the night

Important in light of recent events:

"Silence is sometimes the best thing to do — holding a hand, hugging somebody. [...] I say, 'Don't say anything. Just hold their hand. Hold them. Hug them and just stay around for an hour or so in silence and just be there.' That's what we need at times like this, an affirmation of the sacredness of life."

 

In which October gets photodumped.

Before we get too carried away with summer adventuring, let's take in a little refreshment with a quick dip into Oktober, ja? And I don't mean Oktoberfest. This is Germany, not Batouristvaria. Come on, folks. It's Stroll Around the Neighborhood & Beyond Time.

Occupy Hamburg: alive, colorful, and cold outside my place of work.

Autumn falls yellow from my balcony.

People here don't know what to do with their shadows when the sun comes out, so they leave them lying about all stripeylike on the platform until the trains come hissing along and eat them up.

(Weekend hop to Detmold.)

 

 

Another weekend I went looking for someone in the Ohlsdorf Friedhof. Despite knowing the approximate location and general appearence of the gravestone in question, the fallen foliage kept it hidden in its golden orange underworld.



Once upon a time there was a prison and outside the prison was a wall of colored brick and barbed wire and on the other side of the wall was a twisted tree that shed its leaves to warm the cold, steel bars that kept the dogs from peeing on it like all its tree neighbor friends. (The End.)

 

And with that, all the ducks of the pond squack goodnight.

In which we find Le Grand Bleu and decide to stay a while.

 

Belgium was great, Belgium was fun, and as a matter of fact, Belgium was very hard to leave. As in, finding a way out of Belgium posed some problems, thanks to unclear maps and an absence of big signs to FRANKRIJK. Grâce à the plenitude of roundabouts, we managed to accrue some classic queasy feelings that accompany the best of road trips and eventually found ourselves the France.

Map folded to best display the way to The Big Blue, we efficiently dodged most of the sunbeams that occasionally broke through the clouds as we drove past field after field. There were points at which I would have easily believed myself to be driving across the heart of America again, if it weren't for the giant gothic churches and maybe-medieval towers strategically positioned in the little towns along the route. Fields, flat and rolling, green and golden, sun-striped and straw bale-spotted. Smooth, long roads dotted with symmetric trees, quiet under a haze of Queen Anne's Lace. The occasional tractor in front of the car a less than subtle reminder to slow down and take it all in. Dormant graveyards near sleepy Sunday villages that start and stop abruptly, earth-toned bricks and beiges, long windows, long shutters, flower pots. Tiny steeples growing out of wheat fields. All passing fancies to be zoomed by on the adventure to the next big adventure.

Just when we thought the hay bales would never again leave our view, they did.
And then there she was. That big, beautiful, blue Atlantic.

I had only ever heard of the White Cliffs of Dover and it hadn't really occurred to me that they would also exist on the other side of the Channel. Silly me. Of course, I could have easily hopped on a nearby ferry to the England just beyond the horizon and check out the cliffage there, but I was very much contented to plop down amidst the wildflowers and watch the birds surf the wind. Breathe the salty breeze and whatnot. Photograph acrobatic ladybugs. Oh, sweet vacation. Oh.