Nocturnal  Journeys

 -

 

tell yourself a story

while you´re walking

down the street,

say to yourself: this is

not a slum in Madras

nor a favela in Sao Paulo

 -

this is not a street at all

but a non-existent road

which you´re turning into

an existing one

till the snow covers

your footprints again

and you struggle to return,

all the way down

from the top,

because these are the mountains

so maybe this is Chile,

or Kenya or Tibet,

it doesn´t matter

all that much

 -

tell yourself:

this is not a busy street

filled with too many people

each indifferent, at best,

to the crippled leg

or the military boot

next to them

 -

this is solitude, not loneliness

and when you reach

the half frozen man,

wounded yet numb,

you might as well

kill him, take his things

and run

but you couldn´t

 -

and you wouldn´t,

after fighting the bloodlust

of the beast for so long

 

finally the images blend:

the old friend in the snow

melts into the unknown beggar

in the blazing city dirt

and vice versa -

their very sick or dying

eyes shooting sparks

of recognition.

 

 

 ----

 

 

 

Excavation Dream

 

 

 

At Dad´s funeral

I couldn´t see the coffin

for the wreaths and bunches of flowers –

pink, lilac, orange, whitish.

I couldn´t find my mother,

let alone console her,

amidst the throngs of strangers –

desperate, lonely, crying wildly, freely!

And I was still praying

         for concentration

when it was all over.

 -

Now in my dream burial

I´m level with a huge excavator

at the bottom of the grave –

digging, digging methodically, unhurriedly

both sides of the dead-wood sarcophagus

till I stop it in its tracks

                       asking it

how much burial ground

that yellowish or whitish thing from hell

is still going to clear

and for what else

    and for whom.

 

---

The House of Frozen Dreams

 

 

 

in the house of frozen dreams

the little boy sits waiting

for the girl to take her place

there beside him on the bench

 -

and the nurse who needs a break

smiles on them as they´re musing

in their kindergarten slang

on the games they cannot play

  -                                                      

‘I´ll draw pictures of my days,                           

tell stories before night nurse,

bring you sand pies to your bed,

smuggle shells and starfish, too’

 -

on arrival of his dad

the boy´s dreams become liquid

flowing out towards the sea

from the house of frozen dreams

 -

where the little girl just sits

on the bench every Sunday

waiting for one gentle breeze

from the mouth of her old friend.

 

 

 copyright Frank Joussen 2016