Der Mond ist Aufgegangen

Text from Musen Almanach (1779)[1] English translation by Margarete Münsterberg[5]

Der Mond ist aufgegangen
Die goldnen Sternlein prangen
Am Himmel hell und klar:
Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,
Und aus den Wiesen steiget
Der weiße Nebel wunderbar.

Wie ist die Welt so stille,
Und in der Dämmrung Hülle
So traulich und so hold!
Als eine stille Kammer,
Wo ihr des Tages Jammer
Verschlafen und vergessen sollt.

Seht ihr den Mond dort stehen?
Er ist nur halb zu sehen,
Und ist doch rund und schön.
So sind wohl manche Sachen,
Die wir getrost belachen,
Weil unsre Augen sie nicht sehn.

Wir stolze Menschenkinder
Sind eitel arme Sünder,
Und wissen gar nicht viel;
Wir spinnen Luftgespinste,
Und suchen viele Künste,
Und kommen weiter von dem Ziel.

Gott, laß uns dein Heil schauen,
Auf nichts vergänglichs trauen,
Nicht Eitelkeit uns freun!
Laß uns einfältig werden,
Und vor dir hier auf Erden
Wie Kinder fromm und fröhlich sein!

Wollst endlich sonder Grämen
Aus dieser Welt uns nehmen
Durch einen sanften Tod,
Und wenn du uns genommen,
Laß uns in Himmel kommen,
Du lieber treuer frommer Gott!

So legt euch denn, ihr Brüder,
In Gottes Namen nieder!
Kalt ist der Abendhauch.
Verschon’ uns Gott mit Strafen,
Und laß uns ruhig schlafen,
Und unsern kranken Nachbar auch!

The moon is risen, beaming,
The golden stars are gleaming
So brightly in the skies;
The hushed, black woods are dreaming,
The mists, like phantoms seeming,
From meadows magically rise.

How still the world reposes,
While twilight round it closes,
So peaceful and so fair!
A quiet room for sleeping,
Into oblivion steeping
The day’s distress and sober care.

Look at the moon so lonely!
One half is shining only,
Yet she is round and bright;
Thus oft we laugh unknowing
At things that are not showing,
That still are hidden from our sight.

We, with our proud endeavour,
Are poor vain sinners ever,
There’s little that we know.
Frail cobwebs we are spinning,
Our goal we are not winning,
But straying farther as we go.

God, make us see Thy glory,
Distrust things transitory,
Delight in nothing vain!
Lord, here on earth stand by us,
To make us glad and pious,
And artless children once again!

Grant that, without much grieving,
This world we may be leaving
In gentle death at last.
And then do not forsake us,
But into heaven take us,
Lord God, oh, hold us fast!

Lie down, my friends, reposing,
Your eyes in God’s name closing.
How cold the night-wind blew!
Oh God, Thine anger keeping,
Now grant us peaceful sleeping,
And our sick neighbour too.

Source: Lyrics from Wikipedia.

It is very difficult to translate poetry, requiring absolute command of BOTH languages and all their nuances. I have tried it before and my attempts have always been mediocre at best. Here is another poem expertly translated, Der Panther, which I posted in 2014. I very much admire Margarete Münsterberg’s translation shown here. It’s not just a translation, it’s definitely a poem in its own right.

Poem: The Oval Den of Corruption

Here is a poem inspired by Barry McGuire’s visionary 1965 song Eve of Destruction. Here is my 2011 post with a link to the song.  And here is a quick YouTube so you can familiarize yourself with the melody before you read the poem below.

If I were a song-writer, I’d sing this for you, but alas, I am not. I am only a poet.

You have to do your own singing.

The Oval Den of Corruption

They slowly took the country and made a dumpster fire,
The hospitals are full and the health outlook is dire,
The virus, it is raging, we cover our face,
Police are on the streets killing people for their race.
In every inner city it’s the same old place,
The president, he likes it, ‘cause it panders to this base,
Sprays innocent protestors with mace in their face.
And I’ll show you over and over and over again, my friend,
This is what goes on in the oval den of corruption!

They talk of so much winning, until we all are tired,
Because the best professionals will all be getting hired,
To do the country’s bidding, and make the nation great,
And all the people voting, they all took the bait.
But people with integrity, they quickly looked about,
Saw the moral wasteland and promptly opted out,
Only to be fired on Twitter with a shout.
And I’ll show you over and over and over again, my friend,
This is what goes on in the oval den of corruption!

The GDP is down by thirty-two percent,
There are riots in the streets, and people can’t pay rent,
After hundreds of years of delivering the mail,
We finally succeed to make the postal service fail.
No restaurants to go to, and schools don’t open up,
People on the streets are holding out their cup,
And nobody you talk to anymore knows what is up.
And I’ll show you over and over and over again, my friend,
This is what goes on in the oval den of corruption!

The president plays golf and spends three million per trip,
When a thousand people die every day it’s just a blip.
The government is lying every time it’s on TV,
And pundits cannot help themselves and hustle to agree.
And toting guns and wear no masks is what makes us all free,
America is great again, they want us all to see,
The president ‘s important, not you, not I, but he!
And I’ll show you over and over and over again, my friend,
This is what goes on in the oval den of corruption!

Poem: Better Than That

Digging through some of my older writings, I found a little poem I wrote on September 26, 2004. I had just come home from dinner out with my son who was 16 at the time. I am not sure I ever shared it with him or anyone else.

Now in 2020, another 16 years later, it rings as true as ever, and it gives me inspiration about what really matters in this year of the pandemic.

Better Than That

We were alone last night, my son,
You suggested the place to eat.
Italian food, a quiet booth,
Cool outside, after a long day’s heat.

We talked of school, of growing up.
Of travels to England or France.
Thought of taking Kung Fu or Taekwondo,
I dreamt you’d go to a dance.

And then it hit me right deep in the heart,
I was there with you and so glad,
Because I knew in all of my life,
It won’t ever get — any better than that.

That he not Busy Being Born is Busy Dying – Bob Dylan

There are two sections in Dylan’s It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) that ring true over 50 years after they have been penned:

From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying


But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked


Enjoy a listen and read along with the lyrics below.


Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying

As pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying

Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover that you’d just be one more
Person crying

So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing

As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don’t hate nothing at all
Except hatred

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred

While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked

An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you’ve got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it

Advertising signs they con
You into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you

You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks they really found you

A question in your eyes is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit
To satisfy, insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to

Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

For them that must bow down to authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something they invest in

While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he’s in

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone living in a vault
But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him

Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To tell fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn’t talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony

While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer’s pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death’s honesty
Won’t fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes must get lonely

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed
Graveyards, false goals (gods), I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough, what else can you show me?

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only”

The Circle of Life

Lately I have been reminiscing about decades gone, and loved-ones passed, and poems written and hidden.

When June passed away more than ten years ago, she didn’t know she’d be my mother-in-law one day, and neither did I. But I cared for her, and I missed her. I wrote a poem for her and recited it at her funeral ceremony. And then I stored it away.

It deserves to be out in the open.

In Honor of June Livziey, December 22, 2007


The Circle of Life

She passed away on Thursday night,
Much sooner than we thought.
But she knew she was going soon.
I could tell by the length
And the strength
Of her last hug
The night before.
She just did not want to let go.

She went
Comforted by the words
And hugs
Of her daughters.
“It’s ok to let go, mom.”
“It’s ok.”
She knew they were there,
The last day,
The last hour,
The last minute.
They were there.

Just like they were
When they were little girls
In Hawaii
And she took care of them
When their father was at sea
Or at war.
The three of them.
Mother always in charge.

I could relate to her
From the first minute we met.
She was so much
Like my own mother,
Who also still mends clothes and darns socks,
Makes home cooked meals,
Cans fruit,
And thinks of family as the highest value
Of all.

She was a giver,
Who talked by giving
And loved by giving.
By writing a check
For a graduation gift.
By crocheting a baby blanket
For someone’s great granddaughter
That she would never meet.
By cooking chicken noodle soup
For me,
And freezing it
In Tupperware,
So there’d always be some
In my refrigerator
For when I have a cold,
Like right now.
I don’t think
I want to thaw
That last batch.

She was a giver,
And a lover.
I am sure
She is loving right now,
The pain finally all gone,
In peace,
And comfort.

We are all here,
Thinking about the things we should have said
Once more,
But didn’t.
Friends, family, celebrating her life,
Her legacy,
And remembering how she lived,
And how she loved,
And how she touched us all.

She taught me
To value the moments more.
To call my own parents more often
Than I used to.
While they are still here,
And I can still call.
She taught me that.

At our Thanksgiving table
She toasted to us,
Pledging to fight
To be with us at Christmas.

It was not to be so.

Her house is a scrapbook
Of her life.
Every plate, every photograph, every gift,
Is a memento
A record of her moments.
She had to leave her scrapbook behind,
As she had to leave everything.

When I walked in her house,
The first thing I saw
Was her purse.
Not one of her nice ones,
But her work purse,
Her shopping purse,
Her everyday purse.

There it sat, on the couch, as it often had,
Her key chain attached to the handle with a ring,
Her wallet in there,
Her camera,
Her Costco card,
And undoubtedly all the other stuff
That she was always rummaging for,
In her purse,
Left there,
On the couch,
Never to be picked up again,
Completing the Circle of Life.

Euclid and 9th

I spend much time in Ohio these days due to a project our company is deploying. So naturally I think about Ohio and the times I have visited there throughout my life.

Many years ago, on a business trip to Cleveland, I remembered that the maternal grandparents of my children first met there, and started their lives together. They had told us the story many times: They met because they both worked in the same building on Euclid and 9th. So I went for a walk that night to explore, and when I got back to my hotel room, I wrote a poem, saved it off and then never published it anywhere.

I have always been fascinated about fate, and particularly how specific moments in time can have massive consequences. Two people meet by chance, and an entire family tree is created, giving life to sometimes dozens of others, who would never have existed, if it hadn’t been for that one simple twist of fate.

I wrote the following poem that night many years ago. Today it gets to see the light of day:

Euclid and 9th

I step out of the front door of the Hampton Inn
Downtown Cleveland
Right across the street from the cathedral.
Whose yellow and light orange stones,
Its majestic facades,
Reflect in the glass towers,
That dwarf the house of God on all sides.

I turn right, heading south.
It’s early October,
A stiff breeze whips up East 9th Street
And chills the back of my neck and ears.
I look at myself in the reflections of the shop windows.
A middle-aged bald man wearing bifocals,
In need of a hat to keep warm.
Faded blue jeans, white sneakers, red T-shirt,
Huddling in a brown corduroy jacket
That is a bit too thin for this cold wind.

Just a block up ahead is Euclid and 9th,
The heart of downtown Cleveland.
She told me Euclid and 9th,
That’s the best I remember.
I look for a building that could have been there
A long fifty-five years ago.
It can only be the north-east corner,
The Huntington Bank Building.
All others are newer,
But then perhaps,
The building might no longer be there,
Replaced by a glass tower long ago,
Without any trace.

I step between massive stone columns,
Push through a heavy glass circular door
Into the lobby of the Huntington Bank.
Hushed quietness swallows me
And I am small and out of place in my blue jeans.
I should be wearing a suit and a briefcase full of cash.
Glorious giant columns hold up an arched ceiling
At least five stories high
That belongs into a church, not a bank.
Marble all around.
The lobby is off to the right.
I breathe in the silence of the building,
I sense the passing of years.

This must have been the building where they first met,
More than half a century earlier,
On Euclid and 9th.
And even if it was not the very building,
I see the streets out front,
The people,
The traffic.
The cars look different today
Than they looked in the forties.
But it was in this space,
Generations ago
Where a meeting of two strangers
Turned into courtship, then love
And then marriage.

They had three children
Now all around fifty in age.
I married the youngest,
We had two children,
Who are now alive,
Because two people met so long ago,
Near Euclid and 9th.

The lovers can never come back to this spot.
Their children never visited here,
Only heard the stories,
Many times over.
The two grandchildren will never come here.
They have not heard the stories,
And do not know their origins.

Only I stand here
A bystander, really,
A happenstance contributor to their offspring,
And I wonder how many other lives were created
In this building
By the coincidental meeting of two lovers.
The building is still here, royal, important.
Lifetimes in its memory,
Because I am here,
And I remember
That important things happened here,
On Euclid and 9th.

Musings about Latin Poetry

In my childhood I studied Latin for six years. Toward the end, I was able to read and enjoy Latin poetry. I was particularly entranced by its rhythm and beat. That skill has faded. I know some words, but I could no longer translate a single sentence.

To this day, however, I have friends how are deeply involved with Latin. One of my best friends (PG) is a professor of Latin and French in Germany. When we get together, we don’t spend time with Latin or French, but we do compare our paintings.

I have recently picked up a stimulating correspondence with my first Latin professor in school, who taught me the first few years of fundamentals (WI). Today we communicate about literature. This is a man who recently worked through reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace – in Russian! That’s what happens when you dedicate your life to language, linguistics and literature.

And finally, there is a friend of an entirely different background (JCV), who was, 40 years ago in college, for a semester, my professor of Introduction to Philosophy, who now, apparently, translates Latin poetry to English to pass the time. Here is a poem he send me this morning.

To the few readers of mine that like the classics – and the study of Latin – enjoy!


Exegi monumentum aere perennius
regalique situ pyramidum altius,
quod non imber edax, non aquilo impotens
possit diruere, aut innumerabilis
annorum series et fuga temporum.
non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei
vitabit Libitinam, usque ego postera
crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium
scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.
dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus
et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium
regnavit populorum, ex humili potens,
princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos
deduxisse modos. sume superbiam
quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica
lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.

Horace: Odes, Book III, XXX (c. 23 BC)


I have erected a monument more lasting than bronze,
loftier than the royal landmark of the pyramids,
which neither ravenous Rain, nor wild Wind can destroy;
nor the endless passage of years, nor the flight of time.
I shall not perish entirely: a large part of me will evade Death,
as long as I thrive refreshed from ensuing praise,
while the High Priest climbs the Capitoline with a silent vestal.
It will be said of me that where the raging Aufidus roars,
where Daunus ruled over his rustic people in an arid land,
I, from humble roots empowered,
first committed Aeolian song to Italian verse.
Accept the proud achievement of those who merit praise,
Melpomene, and with the Delphic laurel freely grace my hair.

Translation by Jean-Claude Volgo

Poem: Desiderata – by Max Ehrman

Ok, here is a poem trending on Reddit this morning. One user recommended to read it while listening to the piece below. Enjoy life!


Desiderata – by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.


Ocean Majesty

In Hawaii, the ocean is never far away. Life is dominated by the ocean. Its power, its grace, its eternity is overwhelming.

Recently a friend (WI) sent me this poem about the ocean by Lord Byron (1788 – 1824), from “Childe Harold,” Canto IV.

Here in Hawaii, this rings true, every minute, every day, all the time:

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean,—roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin,—his control
Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth:—there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war,—
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada’s pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou;
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play,
Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow;
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convulsed,—in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime,
The image of Eternity,—the throne
Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers,—they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror, ’t was a pleasing fear;
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane,—as I do here.

New Year Twenty Seventeen

Twenty sixteen is nearly gone
Good riddance, I can’t wait for new
It’s really time that we move on
Of happy thoughts there were just few.

We’re stuck in endless war and strife
With no way out anytime soon
The world needs help and cherish life
But we elected a buffoon.

Let there be hope, we now need light
And thoughts that we look forward to
Let our days ahead be bright
Start twenty seventeen anew!

I Come Upon a Golden Tower


On a cold and wintry night,
I come upon a golden tower,
Stand there and marvel at the sight,
The trappings and the show of power.
Police and barriers everywhere,
I am in shock, I want to weep,
And turn away from all the glare,
With miles to go before I sleep.
With miles to go before I sleep.

The Road Not Taken – by Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Poem: Your Seventeenth Birthday

Here is a poem I wrote more than ten years ago for my son’s 17th birthday:

Now that you are almost grown,
With arms more strong than mine,
You’re not quite eighteen yet and gone,
Let’s celebrate one more time.

I don’t know what to give you, son.
But gas and clothes and food.
You take your time, be with your friends.
When you are in the mood.

Let’s have some fun, let’s eat some cake,
Together while we can.
And celebrate your seventeenth,
Soon you will be a man.

Here is some money, use it well.
Just one thing I’ll make clear:
I’m proud of you, and you’re still mine,
For one more real short year.