Whitestrand, Kerry

Derrynane, Ireland

OPA TSUPA , Mamma mia ,valse

Tommy Guerrero

Megaloschemos II ,Bulgarian Orthodox Hymn

Gleesk, Ireland

Sneem,Ireland

Bach , Hopkinson Smith , Suites n°1, 2, 3

Bob Dylan , Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands

Erotic Intelligence; The paradox of Intimacy and Sexuality , Esther Perel

Ólafur Arnalds , Romance

Ólafur Arnalds , nyepi

Sneem, Drimnamore, Ireland

Habitation, Margaret Atwood

Marriage is not

a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge

of the desert

                the unpainted stairs

at the back where we squat

outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far
we are learning to make fire

(note:

whatever 'marriage'...that is just a matter of terminology and convention,

choice and care and love may mean just a bit more)

TheWaking, Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   

I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.   

I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?   

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.   

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?   

God bless the Ground!   I shall walk softly there,   

And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?   

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;   

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do   

To you and me; so take the lively air,   

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.   

What falls away is always. And is near.   

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   

I learn by going where I have to go.

Weissensee: and this is not a poem

and this is not a poem
but frozen memories,
thawing inside,
blood and pride and joy

here the stones on life
exhaled, Jews of Berlin,
these shaped us, our minds,
talk to us from  graves

mixing with the  calls
from people starving,
mutilated, killed and burnt,
all asking: why

here where my father walked
in the confusion of his time,

here where i see him sad

and shaking his head 

here where i see his wounds

and i still ask why, with all

the others, tears come

and the silence answers

and this is not a poem

swans

it was the swans-

i hate them,

from the bridge

looking down,

my heart falling,

me, out of my chest,

and the sky, me,

falling on me

and to see the swans

swim their  circles,

them all in white,

this indifferent elegance

November poem

now the crows fly lower,
they call each other,
a sudden sound in the wind
and out of autumn silence

now the rain turns dense,
a liquid veil and dark
drops fall into the pond,
and rings of ripples spread around

for their own and given time,
reach stillness, it absorbs now all
and inside autumn meets itself.
all is crows and rain-

visit end of november

Passau