A letter to my daughter.

Count backwards from three when you are angry.

Count backwards from twenty before you provoke a consequence you can’t take.

Sleep on decisions,

only take them in the mornings no matter if in the rain or under the sun.

Compose your letters when the sun goes down
and send them off in broad daylight if you still mean what you felt the night before. 

Write. Write your own aphorisms.

Don’t plaster your way with the distilled paroles of strangers.

Read. Read a lot. 

Expose yourself to as many versions of the facts as you can.

Think. Chew. Chew on these facts.

Boil them down to become your opinion.

Exercise your opinion 

until it becomes your second nature.

Don’t hesitate to change your nature

to question yourself and everyone else around you.

Don't judge. 
Back up the weak and the ill-treated.

Cultivate your own values, 
they are going to brace your spine. 

Don’t accept people violating your values.

At least turn around and go.

Build your voice and feed it.

Use it with conviction, instinct and tact.

Be kind. 

To yourself. And another.

Be humble and modest

but be ready to step up for yourself.

Don’t follow rules blindly.

The world won’t go under if you break them wisely.

Laugh about yourself

and love yourself - before another.

When you love,

love truly and openly.

Express yourself.

Express what you feel and what you think.

Take care of yourself

and surround yourself with people who do the same.

Be good, be smart, 

be silly. 

Be courageous.

Be gentle and strong.

Find out who should have the final say

your heart or your brain.

Expect to be surprised.

Dance with your own temper.

Collect people and memories

and take them with you if you can.

And don’t you forget:

You can push the sun over the edge of the horizon 

just by snipping your fingers.

Love. Mum.

“What is a home without a child?” ~ Mark Twain

Painting a Song

Words, lines, pages.

A book.

And a cover.

Rooms, corridors, walls.

A roof.

And a house.

I’m lying comfortably with my eyes closed

My heart out in the open

My thoughts unclothed

When suddenly a storm sets the clouds in motion

The wind comes and turns the pages

It kicks in the windows and doors

Raindrops, heavy and courageous

gather in puddles on the floors

They smell like the ocean and taste like the sea

With tiny waves breaking on shore

And the monsters lurking undersea

don’t know why they are angry anymore

The hamstrung widow in the corner

starts to talk about love

With the wild gestures of a performer

and slender white hands wearing watertight gloves

The dark cynic muse sleeping on the dormer

Wakes up to recite poems about the sky above

He feels torture no longer

And sings about spring fields so lush

The guitar laid to rest in an open case

is dusted off by the wind‘s breath

Its strings resonate apace

humming a melody for the deaf

My fingers reach out in search

Between the floor boards they make a find

Black and white keys are right there in the dirt

And tones bald and clear emerge

It might all be in my mind

It might all be in my dreams

I might be wide-eyed and blind

My imagination rushing to extremes

But why would I bother, why would I care

Afterall, a songwriter comes through that door

Strides through the parlour

And turns my words into a song so pure

Words, tones, beats

A melody.

And a song.

That touches a chord.


"Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country." ~ Anaïs Nin