Poems by Johann Lingl

Poems by Johann Lingl

MOM

I remember my mother Strong, Proud, Full of courage Mother courage A survivor

Last time I saw my mother An old woman White hair, Wrinkled Body in pain Defeated Lost her first born Gave up on life _________

It was the last time I saw my mother The next time I saw her at the cemetery The funeral Saw my Dad crying for the first time Funeral Cemetery _________

There for the grace of God She suffered no more Eternal peace Angel trumpets calling So shall it be written So shall it be done I remember my mother

Sitting on a park bench, Gravel under my feet Grass, bushes, trees around me Flowers enticing with their scent. Watching people, seeing dogs frolicking Birds are darting by with the flutter of their wings, Twitter and chirp with some kind of urgency. Where are they flying to? Where are their homes? In front of me, A statue on its pedestal. How long has it been there? How long has it been in the same spot? How long has it called the pedestal its home? Or is the whole park its home? Cast out of iron, Clad in copper, tarnished—almost to a beautiful turquoise-like color. Pedestal made out of black granite, Polished to shimmering shine, Enhanced with little embedded sparkles in golden hues. What have you endured all these years in your solitude? What have you seen, heard, witnessed? Years, decades, or a century, how long have you been on your lonely, Singularly appointed spot in the park? Keeping vigil, keeping watch, keeping quiet. All this time you stand there, proud. No complaints arise on your side of the perspective. If only you could talk, would you tell the tales you witnessed? Lovers holding and kissing under your presence. Couples bickering. Youth came and smoked their first cigarettes behind your back. Young and old, the sick and the tired, have made use of you. Rested, recharged. Homeless people used you as their sleeping bed. Dogs have pissed on you. Pigeons and doves left their excrement. If only, if only you could tell the tales that people tell under your casting shadow. Nothing bothers you, nothing sets you aflutter, nothing gets you angry. Strong, unshakeable, you stand, proud overlooking the park. Spring rains, Summer breezes, Fall storms, winter’s fury. You endure it all. Again, you stand proud, strong, silent. Silent in your inner self. Silent on your spot on your pedestal. Men built you. Men look up to you. The things you see, the things you hear, But you are true friend, never do you kiss and tell. You stand on your black, shimmering pedestal Cast out of iron, clad in copper. You’re the rider of the horse you’re sitting on, Strongly mounted on your steed. Horse and rider mounted on the pedestal. You’re the landmark of the towns, cities, parks. We see you everywhere, Barely giving you a second glance. Oh, if you could only talk. The stories, the histories, what adventures could you tell us. Or would your mouth stay closed? Only you know the things you have seen, Only you will know things you still will see. We are long gone … you the Rider of the Mighty Steed will still stand proud and strong. Remember, once I saw you as more than just a Statue.

Poems by Johann Lingl

NIGHTINGALE

Is it Triumph of the Will ? Or La Vie en Rose? Does the Nightingale ever sleep; Are the angels above blowing their trumpets all the time? What do the saints do in Heaven? Are the angels playing the strings of their harps all the time? Things are seldom as they seem. Blowing winds crack your cheeks, Open up sky, unleash torrential rains, Wash away the sins of my Fathers, Wash away the sins from myself. You’re misery, my man. Does Saint Peter stand all day long at the Pearly Gate? Does he ever sit down, eat, drink, use the bathroom? Birds build nests. I will not. Isn’t it ironic—all the things we do, achieve? That none of your works will ever endure! God heard me cry, Why do sinners’ ways prosper? Are you, “God,” my enemy or my friend? Bones built me, flesh covered them, Blood flowed through the body you gave me. Desires can’t be quenched with wine. Crying. Weeping. What you did tell me, What I do is me, what you do is hesitation in the face of your choice; You’re figuring out the morality of the thing. Does the nightingale ever sleep, or is it an insomniac? Once again I feel you and find you. Your truth is heard, There I go, but for the grace of God.