Karinaland River

Choosing do we choose who we are – are we? quite ruffled by the winds of time the king’s revengeful laughter the mob’s out and inbreaths we are early bloomers fragrant & delicate   our five petalled faces freckled with hints of rose naked winter firmly boosting in-born curiosity timid slugs traveling stem, leaf and blossom we chose to greet fog  frost  rainstorm  sun tell tales of countering old king’s cruelties defying spread of terror – we are alive   do we choose our windblown tininess, do we? helpless in mudslides and furious flooding disheveled rumpled hesitant and stirred   infused with goodness we still glow huddled in flocks yet declaring all life is sacred – we chose newly confused uncombed tiny and eager cruelly tossed  troubled  shaggy  hollow prepared to be surprised by tears yet with fierce true compass    trembling in turbulent times – do we   choose? life… and somehow bow Karina Epperlein, January 29, 2025 Pr...

  I Shall Bear Witness   History never repeats exactly, but the patterns are often similar. With everyone now wildly speculating about the future and what’s to come, I look for inspiration to a voice from my birth country’s darkest times:  Victor Klemperer . A month ago, I pull out the two hefty volumes of his diaries: I Will Bear Witness, the Nazi years 1933 – 1942, and 1942 – 1945 . The German title is: Ich will Zeugnis ablegen bis zum letzten. The literal translation: I want to bear witness  to the last .  To the last. Published in German in 1995, very good translation into English in 1998. Victor Klemperer (1881 – 1960) was a Jewish-born German literary scholar, a cousin of the famous conductor Otto Klemperer, married to Eva, an “Aryan” German, one of the factors that helped the couple to miraculously survive. After the war they settle back in Dresden, which is East Germany under Russian control in 1945. His diaries also survive. They are truly stunning. Pet...

  Straight Lines For Nia is there something like a straight line? is there something like dead weight?   out there is much fog, dust, screechy sound of saws they clog the brain, nose, ears, they seem so unavoidable the lemons are ripe, acorns keep falling, the ants keep crawling   they could be roasted in the pan and sprinkled on toast not the lemons and acorns, no, the ants as condiment after I tell this story she keeps cleaning up her crumbs a possibility…   in silence we paint, could you help me draw a straight line? I don’t know how to do them, I say, and really there might be no straight lines, try it, perfect lines may not be necessary, you make a line, it becomes your line to follow, to envision your possibilities…   she tries this out, takes a liking to her lines freely meandering painting with her middle finger, burnt sienna, crimson red magnificent purple, she’d never heard that lines could be free not imprisoned, the moment we travel new possibilities...