Perhaps the ghost did it, so many have said, in the past, or perhaps it’s been bad luck or poor leadership, for Plassenburg Castle, but everyone knows it started with Agnes.
I have myself heard many a ghost stories in Germany, even heard one evening mysterious footsteps in an old Babenhausen construction, back in ‘73; a World War II story, legend says: someone was thrown from that very window, four stories above me: supposedly, those old footsteps still retracting the past.
Not so unlike, the ‘White Lady,’ of legend, of Plassenburg, whom still haunts its dark corridors; I saw her one morning.
Notes: This writer has lived and traveled in West Germany for five-years, in the 1970s, and traveled it extensively, and seen many of its castles, rivers, Abbey’s or Monasteries and the spirit of its land still haunts me, its legends and lore still have moisten my spirit to were I seem to crave more of its spectator design. Written: 7-22-2007 (No: 1914)
(Babenhausen, Germany—spring of 1975)
The Tower in Babenhausen, the author lived with his twin boys
a siren goes off—the boy doesn’t know why—
It sounds again, soldiers smiling with their marching arrangements
and life goes on, and on, and on…
Little Cody runs, tries to whistle, escapes and hides
Hiding from those flying birds, and creepy crawlers!
Playing in that deep green, with its soft soil…
And from the swings and teeter-totter, drama under the blue
little boy Shawn, with straw white hair, blond and fair,
”All is clear” his eyes tell me... “I’m safe, I’m okay!”
a warm wind and a view that puts a smile on the boy’s face
they are living in a magic world, merrymaking revelry
with the dome of the earth overhead,
looking for that golden trumpet that sounded a while ago!
Cody his brother Shawn and me it is 1975;
but they don’t say a word, their vocabulary is just forming;
they just think….
Our apartment is down the street some
I reveal a secret as we walk, to Cody:
They keep their secret smiles—look up:
They are living in fog, with multiple wings…
and Shawn’s mind is racing like those park swings
and life goes on, and on, and on, as always.
Your picturesque cathedral, weather tarnished;
Your citadel-worn clocks—Bavarian *time;
The city’s fountain of regal design;
Your ancient, thick walls of Roman descent;
Your houses of pleasure, with red lights of tinge;
Your burial grounds, where all must lay in time;
Your lost and hidden beauty undefined.
Your houses of schnitzel, † and guesthouses** of brew;
Your rural potato pickers worn old.
(Ah, Augsburg! Ay, me! Your texture, your cover.)
Your festivals of tents, with flavored birch—
I feel your medieval songs, Your harvest gold,
Past, but still present inside my soul.