Poems by Ruth Krüger

reflection

 

in reflection
all is
as it is
but different
as glass turns to mirror
mirror to glass

reflection glimmers
thoughts weave
and warp its surface
bundling into, out of cracks
the edge of the glass-mirror,
the mirror-glass

but reflection
as memories change colour
in expanding bubbles, shine reflect
floating in wind-currents
that dance in the sun
glass-mirror, mirror-glass

 

Titled: Untitled

White froth
glides over the black rock,
but the rock
does not turn grey.

 

stories

wounds heal but scars remain
they remain to
give you a good story
to tell

a good story
(isn’t it funny?)
about how that shark attacked you once
or the time you were in that factory accident
and nearly cut off your hand

a good story
(listen to this)
about how your parachute didn’t open that one time
or how the lion
said hello to you

don’t believe me?
that’s fine
good, in fact
cause then by the time I get to my story
the real one
you won’t believe that
either

a story
(i guess)
about the time the truck driver
zoned out at the wheel
when there was a bit of blood
a little pain too
and a couple of days of unconsciousness
a moment that changed a few lives forever possibly
not that that’s of any importance

wounds heal but scars remain
they remain to
give you a good story
to tell
and let you tell your story

 

needles

a needle spins about my brain
in and out, lines
spaces twirl
the needle spins, punctures, leaves
markings on my brain
in twine that is
a glove around
connections weaving, strong but brittle
spider-silk that leaves the needle
meshes into clothy shimmer
is but has left, hides, forgets
the needle-markings on my brain

 

words on the wind

it is said
that some trees bend without breaking
that winds of time and space gather up their branches
and fling them around
but that they stand nonetheless
toes curled deep into the folds of the motherly earth’s belly
arms spread into the sky
reaching out to the sun, the moon
catching dew, playing dappled in the sunlight
alive in the elements

it is said
that some trees bend without breaking
but these words come from a distant land
they waft across on a warm soft wind
that swirls as it plays, sings as it scolds
they waft on a wind that bends without breaking
it’s distant land is not mine

my land, my
wind breaks
without bending
breaks without
bending all that i am that
i was is nothing

it is said
that some trees bend without breaking
but those words come from a distant land
blown from a land that is not my land, wafted on a wind that is not mine
my wind does not waft in my wind
trees do not bend they
break

it is said
that some trees bend without breaking
the words waft
but all do break

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