Life is a gift, cherish it with a smile – Marktplatz 1, 34560 Fritzlar, Germany – Phone: 0049 15731571439


just a few poems. Life isa sensory journey. Every piece of art attracts attention. Attention touches intention… now is not for growth or being smarter or living more intense. It is a unspoken journey, 

They have a sense of being for beyond
Society calls
Attached is my heart to solitude
Walking along the seaside
Sand water left right beneath and up in the sky
Clouds format as it seems
Make faces
A hermit i am my soul dances
As long as i can keep the distance
Attached to the fragility of life
With high sensory acuity
Always a part in or of me or my senses
Touch the departure
Sotto voce
The cutting might hurt
Being cut off is the deep sinking into essenses of being
Draw back
Meanwhilst being just energy

In every whisper of the past, each detail remains,
A tapestry woven with invisible chains.
Around us, within us, the stories abide,
No wall without history, no stone without pride.

Alive in the mystery, framed by perception’s gaze,
Energy dances, in a fast-moving haze.
With content that whispers, beneath the surface it flows,
Sun glasses at dusk, where anonymity grows.

Guiding a small group through the twilight’s embrace,
Sharing becomes sacred, a communal grace.
Divinity stands, without need for a creed,
Beyond explanations, a pure spiritual seed.

Religion may hinder the heart’s true belief,
Binding the spirit, with doctrines that brief.
But let softness cover, where opinions divide,
In the silence of waters, where secrets reside.

What’s not seen, not said, slips quietly away,
Drawn into silence, where shadows hold sway.
Yet in meaningful silence, connections are made,
Touching growth’s essence, in the quiet cascade.

Death and life, intertwined, both present and near,
In the silent exchanges, where true hearts adhere.
We touch the eternal, in moments unspoken,
In the presence of silence, where bonds remain unbroken.

Every breath is a bridge, between life and death’s song,
In the stillness, we find where our spirits belong.
Let us cherish the silence, where true growth is found,
In the echoes of quiet, where the soul is unbound.

somewhat different

In the whispers of history, every detail lies,
Unveiling the world beneath our unseeing eyes.
No wall stands silent, no stone mute in its place,
Each one a storyteller, a keeper of space.

Life’s a mystery, framed by perception’s grip,
Fast-moving energy, in an eternal script.
Content within the chaos, a silent symphony,
Sunglasses in twilight, half-hid anonymity.

Guiding hands through shadows, a sharing heart,
Divinity unbound, from dogma set apart.
No philosophy defines, no words can explain,
A truth beyond religion’s constraining chain.

Let softness envelope, opinions held tight,
What’s unseen, unsaid, fades into the night.
Silent waters hold the weight of unspoken dreams,
Only shared silence reveals what truly redeems.

In the hush of the moment, where words lose their power,
Growth finds its roots, a delicate flower.
Through meaningful silence, hearts intertwine,
Touching the sacred, the divine, the sublime.


In the tangled weave of nested loops, the smallest of metaphors,
We find ourselves drawn in shapes, infinite, offered like aphorisms.
Painted the sky blue with thoughts, butterflies with mirrored wings,
Silently prepared for flight, the soft sotto voce of Vasalis whispers.

So many kinds of sorrow, I don’t mention them,
But one, renouncing and divorcing, not the cutting hurts so much,
But being cut off, the soft sotto voce murmurs,
Eager to waken, to rise over any silence that distracts.

Life, life, what rhythm binds our being?
Describe each detail aloud, second by second,
Jamming the pushing hallucinations, those playing games with our minds.
In bodies we dwell, discovered or left as rotting wood.

It is still beautiful, the skeleton of a leaf,
Butterfly light resting on the earth, only worth his being.
Yet, we hold the power to bring anything to life,
While we forget, let us push over the counter to present.

Unveil the hidden worlds within, a dance of dreams unfurled,
But between the veins of suffering, nothing more to rejoice with.
See the butterflies, wings like stained glass, beating soft symphonies,
They whisper of secret gardens, where silence blooms in hues of gold.

And nested loops, those smallest metaphors, spiral into infinity,
Offering shapes of endless thought, truths and riddles intertwined.
Meshes of your absence, held together by some pain,
Growing with time, poor and ashamed to be so poor.

What rhythm limits our being, what song does time compose?
Each beat a moment, each moment a world, detailed and loud,
The soft sotto voce grows into a chorus, a hymn to existence.
In the endless game, hallucinations play, but we, we are the players.

In this dance, in this life, we uncover truths, we animate the inanimate,
From forgotten wood, we carve new stories, we breathe life into stillness.
We are the poets, the painters of the sky, the dreamers of dreams,
And in every second, we find the power to transform, to transcend.

So, let us not be silenced by the weight of our thoughts,
Let us sing aloud the details, the moments that define our being.
In the mirrored wings of butterflies, in the blue of the sky,
We find our reflection, our voice, our infinite metaphor.


In front of me, a man, sometimes a woman,
“I seek my true self,” they say,
Oh, you could have fooled me,
Sitting straight, proclaiming,
“My real self.”

Weigh every word, tread softly,
Tiptoe through fire-laden phrases,
No sense of rapport,
The ship drifts from shore,
Into the void.

Remaining before my noise,
Mere in a metaphorical way,
Let’s ascend higher,
Empathy steps in,
Rolling through the sky for connections,
Kissing butterflies,
The contact lost.

I’ve turned my back,
“The morphogenetic energy.”
Humanity composed, a complex riddle.

Search for the feeling of being,
While sitting there, restless,
Move, move, I urged,
Destiny grasped, slipping out of reach.

Shapeshifting through altered states,
She turns to her camera,
Capturing fragments,
Waiting to be shared.

A quest for truth, entwined with love and power,
In the dance of existence,
Seeking, ever seeking,
The self, the essence,
Lost and found, again and again.


The tale of Kierkegaard and the geese is a parable told by the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard to illustrate the difference between intellectual assent and actual practice in one’s life. Here’s the story:

In a certain village, there was a community of geese. Every Sunday, the geese would waddle to the village square where their preacher goose would preach. The preacher goose spoke eloquently about the high destiny of geese. He described the wonderful abilities of geese, such as their capacity to fly high in the sky and explore the vast world beyond the village. He exhorted them to remember their noble heritage and to aspire to fulfill their potential.

The geese were inspired by these sermons and often nodded in agreement. They admired the preacher’s words and felt uplifted by the vision of their true capabilities. However, after the sermon, they would all waddle back home, resuming their daily routines without ever attempting to fly. They lived their lives in the same mundane way, never taking to the skies as they were meant to.

Kierkegaard used this parable to highlight how people often respond to religious or philosophical teachings. They might intellectually agree with profound ideas and feel inspired during moments of contemplation, but they fail to translate these insights into real action in their lives. The story serves as a critique of complacency and a call to live authentically in accordance with one’s beliefs and potential.

Yes, you are right. In the extended version of the parable, the preacher goose indeed exhorts the wild geese to fly and not let themselves be captured. Here’s how that part of the story goes:

The preacher goose, in his sermons, would passionately tell the geese about their natural ability to fly. He would urge them to use their wings and soar high into the sky, to embrace their true nature as birds capable of great freedom and exploration. He warned them not to let themselves be captured or confined by the comforts and routines of their current life in the village. The preacher goose encouraged the geese to live boldly and authentically, to embrace their potential and avoid the traps of complacency and captivity.

Despite this fervent preaching, the geese would listen, feel inspired, and then waddle back to their comfortable homes, never attempting to fly. They remained earthbound, content with their familiar routines and ignoring the preacher’s call to a higher, freer existence.

This aspect of the parable emphasizes the contrast between hearing and agreeing with lofty ideals and actually acting upon them. Kierkegaard’s story is a powerful reminder to not just intellectually assent to inspiring ideas but to embody them in one’s actions and choices.


All is,
All connected,
Sometimes brief, sometimes endless,
What remains unchanged,
What part morphs through time.

The mechanical life approaches,
Outlined by Plato, the Stoa,
Echoed in sacred texts,
Nineteenth-century thinkers,
Philosophers, politicians,
Sociologists, psychologists, psychiatrists,
Weaving our perceptions,
Into finite frames.

We now know the most vital things in life are not things.

And what you truly do,
Is guided by a force,
Greater than yourself,
Inside and out.

The so-called tangible reality is an elusive illusion,
Yet we dance upon the same wave,
Creating shapes,
Life unfurls for us and all.

I cherish touching souls and bodies,
When they unlock the doors of perception,
As if the past has dissolved,
And all the light we witness,
Is but a memory of ancient stars.


The time of self-realization is over,
That quest for self in a sixties frame,
Where music, art, and literature
Burst free from myths and societal chains.

In that liberation, fragility stepped in,
Death, a silent companion to the revelry,
Egos blossomed, believing themselves
To be wise guides in this hospice journey.

Once hippies, now stewards of the final path,
Grateful for their gifts, their talents to lead
The departing souls with grace and art,
Keeping the dead alive through tales of past deeds.

They speak of freedom, of love’s grand embrace,
Of nights filled with music, of passion’s delight,
But now they walk with a different grace,
Shepherds of souls into the quiet night.

Their stories, brilliant as guiding stars,
Illuminate the way, merging life and death,
These guides, in humility, embrace their roles,
Honoring the journey with each gentle breath.

They find solace in this final duty,
A sacred trust to ease the mortal pain,
To remind us all of the fleeting beauty,
That in each ending, a new life’s refrain.

In whispers soft, they tell the tales,
Of lives once lived in vibrant hues,
Of laughter that echoed through the vales,
Of moments too precious to lose.

Their presence, a balm, a gentle touch,
A reminder of love that never fades,
In their care, the dying find so much,
A peaceful path where fear abates.

The time of self-realization is over,
But the wisdom gained remains,
In the hands of these humble guides,
Who lead us through our final strains.

For in their stories and their songs,
In the memories they help preserve,
They keep the dead alive within,
A legacy of love they serve.


In quiet hours, I recall Charlie’s eyes,
No bond as deep, no truer friend,
Though fourteen months have flown away,
Still, we converse as waves and trees
And animals speak their silent truths.

Beyond society’s call, I find my place,
My heart attached to solitude,
Walking along the whispered shore,
Sand and water, left and right,
Beneath, the earth, above, the sky,
Clouds form and shift, their faces fleeting.

A hermit’s soul, it dances free,
As long as distance is preserved,
Clinging to life’s fragile grace,
With senses tuned to every pulse,
A part of me in touch with all.

Softly I feel the cuts of loss,
Their quiet touch, a whispered pain,
Yet in this hurt, a deeper dive,
Into the essence of pure being,
Energy untouchable, flowing free,
As I draw back to touch the infinite.

Embraced uncertainty fills my heart,
Life’s journey long, its path unclear,
Yet as the waves gather and retreat,
I sense the pull of endless tides,
A journey not of flesh, but soul,
In every crest and every fall.

The physical world, it fades away,
As I walk the line ‘twixt sea and sky,
Clouds forming faces, shifting dreams,
I find my place in solitude,
Attached to all, yet standing apart,
A witness to the fleeting dance.

My senses heightened, every breath,
A brush with nature’s fleeting grace,
The waves, they speak in gentle tones,
Of journeys far beyond our sight,
A dance of being, pure and true,
Untouchable, yet deeply felt.

And so I wander, soul unbound,
Among the waves, the trees, the stars,
In every step, in every sigh,
I touch the infinite, the vast,
A hermit’s heart, yet never lone,
For in this dance, I find my home.