Them and Us

Them,
The crawling creatures go
Combatting with each other,
Carrying manure in clumsy Atlas style,
Though the impact of their efforts
Hardly that of a mythological figure;
We look down on them, we kill them!

Using a fingertip only, we shake our heads
watching ants run in circles. Spiders end up in
Our hygienic Hoovers, we have contempt
For the woodlice, never moving on in evolution.
We sit back and are content
Because, better than them, much better:
us.

A Goodbye in Sunshine

10maart 1949 - albertje en maarten, robbie
Photo: My parents, then not married for another 7 years, as this photo was taken was on 10 March 1949 and they married 19 May 1956

In steam and mist a goodbye seems forever,
More so than when it’s taking place in rain
And I could not believe that you were gone
When Sun was shining on your funeral.

Such brightness that day had, we all walked
Smiling to your grave, you would have loved
To be among us; for a moment I was sure you were.
In steam and mist it would have been forever.

When Sun was shining on your funeral,
You went, the coffin white with roses.
More so than when it’s taking place in rain
A goodbye in such light does not mean forever.

This poem is a repost. When I wrote it in July, I was not aware it was about my mother’s funeral, she died 20-09-2009 so that is 5 years ago today. On her funeral, the last Summer’s day, we listened to Last Rose of Summer (Celtic Woman) and everyone had a white rose to give to her when she was buried. Sometimes I feel as if I only now get to know who she really was.

It was no farewell, just a goodbye.

Wood

Old words go back to being wood
The paper changing colour due to time
How well they once were understood
Repeated fingers going over rhyme

The leaf veins ran with nightblue ink
The paper changing into art
With words to make four generations think
And hear the beating of the poems heart

Though with some pages missing here and there
(Words written seem for ever gone)
Some half ripped out by sudden tear
The reader can not stop, needs to read on

Thus more and more the book becomes a tree
To carry fruit and live eternally

Dust

Dust is us
Our scattered dead skin
Spread all over old pieces of furniture,
Looking the same, yours, mine, that of
The Greek lady who let us a room
And tried to rip us off,
Dust everywhere, not just hers
But also that of warriors, tourists,
Writers: everyone who ever stayed here
Who ever said foot in this Naxos place
Is spread over all the old furniture
And we all look the same
Whirling under the bed,
Us, scattered and forgotten.

The sea has mingled
With my past today,
Fiercely spitting out
Leftovers of its junket meal
In a brownish grey
While trembling air
Digested parts,
As it should be:
Lovers touches,
Reckless (always trying to be fair,
But reckless) prattle,
False assumptions,
Cherished letters.
You and me.

Use

You ask about the use of fountains,
Spraying water only to drink itself,
Still the most wanted places in cities.
We stood in one, on a hot day.

There is no use, I say. Only the beauty
And to cool the feet of tourists,
To throw in a coin for good luck.
Now there, that is a lot of use, you say.

You make me see life in a different way.

Touch

Ina:

A moving poem deserving more readers :)

Originally posted on Belfastdavid's Weblog:

I sit back,
close my eyes,
free my mind,
reach out my hand
to touch whatever’s there.

Sometimes soft sand upon a beach,
sometimes rippling water of the sea,
sometimes grass growing on a cliff top,
sometimes naked flesh of inner thigh
above a stocking top.

But every now and then
I reach
and nothing’s there.

I search and search.
I need to find
and touch again
familiar things I love –

the mug from which I drink my tea,
a book with well-read pages,
my favourite teddy bear,
your hand.

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