Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay

The Wrinkles

There are borders that I crossed at night
in heavy shoes and quiet breathing
when everything is darkening on the background of a moonless night

and there are borders that I crossed with hope
and a guitar and no shoes;
cultures I loved and women I admired mingle as the dresses of dancing
Sufis

to both of those
forgetfulness refuses to come

but boundaries that I have crossed in a storm of emotions,
with a hue of haughty heart, these the memory refuses to let go

these are all the wrinkles on my face.





I Wrote Hundreds of Songs for Stones

I wrote hundreds of songs for stones,
for the sun, the moon and for love.
Only for my father I didn’t write.

When I was young I was often told:
You resemble your father so much
and I refused seeing it even when I stood
a long hour before the mirror.

Over the years I have stopped looking
in the mirror. It has nothing new to show me. The thin wrinkles
on the side of the eyes, from laughter and cry, a greying hair
and the sun signs playing on the wall aren’t me
and aren’t my father.

But my fingers, the way of standing and the posture of walking,
all of those I have taken from my father even before the ring
of the alarm clock, during the hours of big darkness.
Like a prayer.





I Remember a Painting
For Wolfgang

In the doctor’s waiting room
life’s little dramas
get different meaning

A man | alone | on a small boat
carried towards the waterfall
silence’s nearing







Like his foremothers and fathers Guy Traiber is often roaming the vastness of the world and his own self, fulfilling the commandment “Get thee loose”. He practices and studies Japanese Medicine and decorates a drawer with a BA in Sociology & Political Science. He finds they relate. Guy likes to see the stories in the people who allow him and even more poems. He likes it if you write him a letter or an email (guytraiber@yahoo.com).

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