Karinaland River

  Flows, Sings In the early hour peeing later morning   surprises on tongue tasting tea teeth chewing lips   listening with feet on curious soles   another day steps into my humming orb with honest clarity   midday overflows into afternoon filled with silken chords multiple voices ring echoing through ears, flesh, bones   misty waves of sound weaving droplets into dusky desire for rest, drifting, winter five o’clock sun’s gone already, structures, roofs, walls, fences, blurred, melted, faint – how could the day glide so effortlessly Open is the garden: Licht   fading to shades of grey evening sprouts questions   darkness delicately explores night star-studded with dreams Here a fugue entices centuries converge music by J.S. Bach reaches consoles, flows, sings, strings shimmer Tröstet das Herz, wir sehnen uns nach dieser Berührung der Seele   Es regnet… Auch heute noch In der kleinen Kathedrale klingt der Gesang  Violoncello Stimme Orgel ...

Trustworthy             A secret safety resides in the pomegranate’s pregnant belly           is hiding inside bloodred seeds of truth filled with imminent           life – we might no longer believe in such luscious possibilities           instead, we the people panic, deny, force, coerce, control, are           thinking too wishfully, grasping tightly – can’t trust the stream           skin and brain cells’ quiet steady renewal, pulsing beingness           – tenacious           change so intensely uncomfortable, inconvenient, uncontrollable           like my laughter when the radio announcer reports that the driver           was put into driver-less status, yes, his misconduct got pass...

  Our Common Smallness   The hawk circles high, nothing escapes his eyes. Big white and grey clouds are billowing in blue sky. Out of old habit, I enjoy paying attention to the “ordinary” beings around me, there is little pomposity to be found in their extra-ordinary splendor. Observing, asking questions, listening curiously, intuitively sensing how to best connect. This Thursday, I am happy to see the open round face of a young man coming up the stairs. Right away, I know we are going to have a good time. Despite my big problem that turns out to be very expensive, sigh – quickly we are at ease with each other. He expresses his admiration for the Memorial Mural on the garage doors, wants to take a picture of it, share. It moves him. Later I tell him more about honoring the people affected, whether dead or freed. The research it took to give each their tiny bit of personal story. A wall for mourning. Obviously, his heart is spacious and has a natural tendency toward justice. He...

  Love Poems of Life The summer of 1991, I am hired to take care of Lowell. Barbara, his wife of only one year, asks me to also cook. There is a steady stream of visitors which Lowell delights in. His best friend is Bob, a writer and sociologist, visiting often. After dinner, everyone enjoys listening to Bob as he reads out loud from his writing-in-progress about his Jewish family and upbringing in Chicago. Balmy evenings. Lowell’s progressing bladder cancer. He and I have a secret code when things need to calm down: doucement – gently. Three weeks later, the hospital bed arrives, making things a little easier. Lowell needs stronger painkillers. Together we discern who is “comfortable” visiting their bedridden friend, now by looking gaunt. I am laser focused on Lowell’s well-being, all else is just part of the colorful, at times thorny, setting. To me new, unknown. Doucement. The home is light filled, birds chirping outside the window, a warm breeze. On this quiet Sunday afternoon,...

  Defiant is the Word   keeps sneaking into my dreams like a girl with long thin sandy braids on her screw-on metal roller skates Twirling   slithers into my daily labor in the garden bare hands weed, dig, prune, tenderly treat those thorny things, noble thistles Laughing spending time memorizing new locations street names, turns, maps, when GPS seems bent on making us helpless, unable to survive Without   definitely using cash, rarely that plastic card robbing us in split seconds, keeping our fingers from sensing paper, deciding, counting, valuing Quietly all that is offered to us as convenient, as necessary easier, cheaper – tyranny of more – the price is high yet we follow, follow news, fashion, others, ads, fads Blind   costing us an arm and a leg, not taking time to muse speak and act for ourselves, it accumulates, the gladly mindless habits of copying – rusted, repeated same old Sentences defiant – needed quality to escape the slippery road down ...

  Thin Skinned Darkness Has emerged for us on earth. How are we going to ride it?   Paradoxically, as a child, I experience thin-skinned darkness in the majestic pathless unpeopled forests. The canopy of tall trees, whispering high above to each other in secret languages. Leaving us humans on the moss-covered bottom in the dark. Soft bare feet. Mama in her wide long light-blue skirt, smiling Papa, little brother, little sister, further off, invisible and yet present. Family is spread far apart. I know their presence. Der Wald ist dunkel, und schön. Durchsichtig. Transparent. Dünnhäutig , thin skinned. We each ­– sammeln Beeren – collect buckets of berries, blue and red, in pregnant silence. Blaubeeren, Walderdbeeren, Waldhimbeeren. Blau und Rot. Food to be transformed into a simple dish, berries with milk – heavenly. And jam or jelly for the winter, our vitamin supply.   The fifties in Bavaria, Germany. Post war. Our displaced small family. For me as a young girl, time...

  Quince and Courage The strong visual language of quince intrigues all who encounter them, whether on my tree or dining table. This ancient fruit – who was most likely the true “apple” of ancient times – holds forth with earthiness and energetic originality. Hers is a lovely mantra: “Unabashedly I dare being myself.”  Perfectly imperfect. Each fruit grows into a splendid golden yellow globe, and inhabits its uniquely sculpted shape with quiet vibrancy. Quince is a queen. Unapologetic. Self-assured. Gnarly. Bold. In all of her aspects, she emanates a true beauty. Her perfumed fragrance is delicate, her unusual taste multi-layered, tart, sweet, unexpected. Being a wise old woman healer, she makes herself useful as medicine. This year my quince tree carries an abundant early harvest. Very happily, I allow the treasures to fill the living room with Quince-ness. And I start cooking batches of quince compote – no sugar added, just a bit of rum, cognac, or Damiana liqueur – deliciou...

  The Cicadas are Calling   This summer the cicadas are singing again in my patio! Oh, how I yearned for them to be back. Last May’s "mind-boggling" flea infestation of the whole hill forced me to have it sprayed with chemicals. Meanwhile, bitten all over my body and discovering that I am extremely allergic to the hundreds of fleabites from working in the garden, I get my first anaphylactic shock. My whole body is densely covered in red welts, ferociously itching every minute of the day and night. Unrelenting. Not just the garden, by now house and bedroom cottage are also infested. Non-stop, I am vacuuming, and washing clothes and sheets. Everywhere I am spraying oils of cedar wood, rosemary, and lemon grass diluted in water, and wipe floors and furniture with it. After two sleepless weeks from the intense pain – worse than itching – I catch a high-dose covid infection, first time and brutal. This takes me out for another three weeks, ribs dislocated from excessive violent co...