Poetry Berlin

I found my love, the deep throbbing kind who twirls me into early dawn.

Who plays 45 vinyls in ruby red rooms.

The one who takes my hand on a Saturday and won't let go.

Even when the rains come.

Who teaches me new ways to explore my body, myself.

The one who exudes rebel in every angle.

She is, she is.

My love, Berlin.

* * *

I cried when I found the little street again. The one I love.

Where I met a hundred dreams of me in lives past.

The one where the ivy draped itself along the burnt rose walls.

These walls with their stories.

The shopkeeper tells me how this was Hitler's favorite street too.

As she hands me my change.

I hold the things I collected today from East Berlin.

The small painting and soft leather coin purse, wine and bread for my friend.

The little things that make me feel like I belong.

And as I walk this little street again pointed toward home, I see her sweeping her room. I see him holding his child.

These Berliners living their stories without fault.



The corners cure the mind.

Stepping around the locked-up bikes and faded stones.

Seeking coffee in the wet, July night. Grey and soft.

You catch her gaze, and you can't help stare.

Her beauty. Stark and silent.

An unsung tale you desperately want to chew.

In the bitter hours where the moon will hang.

The cars wind by, loud from the slick of the street.

You turn toward home but the ghost of her remains.


* * *

Remember when a field was just a field, and the summer sun no longer felt tight against our skin?

Remember how I laughed against the midnight sky always searching for true North?

How we raced across the bridge as the rain hit the road?

I prayed I would not tumble.

Remember how innocent I was?

How you promised to find me in this messy, brilliant world.




I skip ahead to keep up with your hurried stride.

Long and able.

Leaning over my balcony, you solicit me with that golden smile.

Strong jaw. Kind eyes.

I trace the line of you gently like a score of music.

You are my song in A Minor.

Words still rich under the sterling moon.

These lines uneven and fleeting come morning time.

The gravity of you pulls me forward.

Into the next cafe, traced in strings of cigarette smoke.

We sit here as he sings forlornly.

Strings ragged then muted.

My time here with you. In this broken city.

So full of life.


* * *

Some mornings I feel every mile between us like an aching arch.

Our narrative.

The one of long ago in faraway lands.

Some mornings the light distances me from the others.

It reaches between the seams of the duvet and asks me about you.

The you I dreamt of last night.

Some mornings the foreignness wears me thin and the small corners are where I remain.

To think.

These mornings, I listen to the tales.

The ones we wove together.

Both sweet and sad.

These mornings I see how far I've come.

Still, I feel every mile.