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Let it pour

What I would like for a good day now
has to start as lazy long morning
after a lot of sleep
and you beside me smiling,
arms reaching, around me, all ending
in the nicest dream, a memory to keep;

there should be a blanket of warmth
and yellow candlelight
after walking a mile on the beach,
as we find a moist smelling fire-place.
We hear friendly voices near us talking
while outside rain is pouring over a window fast.

A good day is that.
And we had such before, you and me.
I would like them forever to last.
Let there be more, more.
Let it be, let it pour.
Let life be a bit like before.



Another beautiful posting (he always has beautiful postings! This one speaks very much to me though) by my dear friend John Clinock

Originally posted on art rat cafe:

affirmationDefenseless under the night

Our world in a stupor lies;

Yet, dotted everywhere,

Ironic points of light

Flash out wherever the Just

Exchange their messages:

May I, composed like them

Of Eros and of dust,

Beleaguered by the same

Negation and despair,

Show an affirming flame.

If you can, watch this video full screen, it is so very magical.

painting by clinock / poem: From Another Time by W. H. Auden.

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Personally (translation of Persoonlijk by my husband Toussaint)

My husband Toussaint is very ill now and he wrote the following:

“This posting might not remain here very long. Maybe I remove it tomorrow, or get up this night and remove these writings quickly.

A strange introduction? Certainly, hesitating so not to have to begin? Sure.
Acting interesting to capture readers? Certainly not, please move on browsing on the world-wide web. This is just a personal story, but it happens to be mine.

Why this long-winded introduction? Well because: this week I was told I am seriously ill. My stomach is being burdened with a rather rare form of cancer. With bad prognosis. I don’t want to go too much into details about the exact sort and diagnosis. Perhaps later, if I decide to keep on blogging. At any rates, my life has changed dramatically, as well as that of my family.

I am about to go into a period of goodbyes, limitations, getting worse and the end. I try not totally to let go of the little hope that is left (my limited medical knowledge and google don’t give me much hope). I do hope that some time will be given to me, to be active, as beloved one, father and grandfather. I am not ready by far to give that all up. The first hours of informing people, getting stuff at the physician’s, taking care of business, that has been done. Now it depends on whether or not I am able to live the live in the here and now. To not run for the future (if I could do that, I would probably have done so already) but also not to be petrified by fear for that same future.

This may sound brave and philosophical, but I wouldn’t know how to rephrase this as the emotional rollercoaster keeps going.
If I can give you some good advice: appreciate life and each other, it is gone before you know.

I now shall consult an old, sad friend. Symphony no 6 “Pathétique”by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Music which touches the essence of men to me. If you like to react to this, please do. I shall moderate everything, and might not publish everything.
For now, thank you for going with me in my story so far.”

For Toussaint, me and our family it will be a difficult time ahead.


Originally posted on toussaint schroders:

Dit blogje blijft wellicht niet lang staan. Het kan zijn dat ik het morgen weer weghaal, of dat ik vannacht uit bed kom en het schrijfsel snel verwijder.

Een vreemde inleiding ?  Zeker, treuzelen om niet van wal te hoeven steken ? zeker.

Interessant doen om lezers vast te houden ? Zeker niet, gaat u gerust verder rondkijken op het wereldwijde web. Hier vindt u alleen een particulier verhaal, het is mijn verhaal, dat wel.

Waarom deze omslachtige inleiding?  Wel hierom: deze week kreeg ik te horen dat ik ernstig ziek ben. Mijn maag is opgezadeld met  een redelijk zeldzame kankersoort. Met een slechte prognose. Ik wil hier niet teveel ingaan op de precieze aard en diagnose. Misschien later, als ik besluit te blijven bloggen. In ieder geval staat mijn leven op zijn kop, en dat geld ook voor dat van mijn gezin. Ik ga  een periode in van afscheid…

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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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A wave moves higher up the beach,
Water splashing round our feet; you cry,
With every jump you prove yourself that you can fly.

Above us clouds are moving in opposite direction,
I try to find your hand, but you’re too far.
A wave moves higher up the beach.

Some seagulls come quite near us, curious
Like children we wonder about shells,
With every jump you prove yourself that you can fly.

Away we are, away from what has kept us lonely.
No need to go back to the car and drive from here.
A wave moves higher up the beach.

North Sea darkness where no sun shines.
Flotsam and jetsam, we are home here.
A wave moves higher up the beach.
With every jump you prove yourself that you can fly.


I saw you for a moment as you were -
your shoulders lower and a silent stare;
you had been gone a while.

When you saw me, you dug out a smile,
although, let’s face it, we both knew
that it was over, me and you.

Oh fashion, I’m so sorry I don’t care!
I can’t be bothered with what clothes to wear.
So all the best. I’ll keep the grey mohair.



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