On heathen days we might be blessed,
as we have no religion, you and I,
we dwell in churches
to seek shelter from the rain
but find tears in our eyes
as we are not alone here.
The people who once prayed
under this roof, between these walls
linger in a crowded way, unseen,
we feel the cold damp sadness,
not from the rain that falls outside
nor from the mould. They are the prayers.
In desperation voices whisper, beg and stay,
a pray for afterlife to give them hope,
and then they suffer till their death
but they are heard beyond their graves,
beyond their time. Beyond belief.
We seldom leave an ancient church in joy.
We seldom cope with such abundant misery.
There is a comet coming
and if we rise real early
in the dark, cold night,
we might have a change
to get a glance,
to see this ball on fire,
a coming piece of hot ice from afar
pretending to be some kind of a star.
I doubt I want to leave my bed
as from description
I think that we already met
in a bar some years ago
and his name was Harry.
The Snow White Gift is the lovely new short story by Diane M Denton and available on Kindle! Diane is an artist who has written many poems and the wonderful novel “A House Near Luccoli”. Diane’s blog
I am very happy to announce that my anthology of love poems, “Amor”, is now released!
Like “Veritas”, my first English poetry book, it is published by Winter Goose Publishing.
The book is the story of a love in 227 poems. I hope you will enjoy!
Amor now available!
My books through Winter Goose Publishing
More about buying Amor
Earlier this year this blog reached its 1000th posting and today “Observation” is the official 1000th poem here, as far as I can check in my sloppy kind of administration (I miss a few poems here and there I think lol. )
Poetry is not about quantity. I know. I have often been told I post too many poems. But what else to do with them… I tried not writing, but that is not really a solution.
After three years, I do not consider myself a poet (yet? who knows) . That title is for the ones who are really good. I write my Dutch novels and I try to write poetry. There is a difference I realize I need to learn a lot more and I enjoy doing that very much.
Still, this number 1000 is something I would like to celebrate. I started writing and posting my English poems here on November 4, 2010. Almost three years later I am very grateful for everyone who has been reading my stuff, commented, follow my blog, told me of errors and encouraged me to write more. I am very happy and honoured to have found online friendships with other writers. And I met 1 in real life! I really love the English language, that is why I sometimes think I should not try to write in it lol. I do apologize for all the mistakes I made, grammar wise, spelling wise, other wise.
In a few days “Amor” -see sidebar- will finally be released, my second anthology of poems in English, but I will post about that when it actually happens.
Have a nice Autumn I took the photo here on Terschelling, 7 okt. 2013
The immortal politician lives in this house where I live too,
we share rooms and bed and food
but the books he reads are thicker, his words on an average
are a syllable longer, and he is the owner of dark blue suit.
I once put on that suit and it looked differently on me.
So he must be made of another material than us mortal souls.
I watch him. I make notes. I see that he is not the only one of his kind.
Sometimes there are more of this sort in the house.
Thus I have studied the species of immortal politicians.
They are almost like us, but when it comes to discussions,
they like to win as if their lives depend on it
where we just like to talk. They make the nicest stews and love.
Someone told me my soul needed to be rinsed
so I took it to the dry cleaner’s
who put on his glasses and examined the fabric.
He could not guarantee
that my soul would not shrink in the process.
I then took it back home with me, stains and all
and put a vase on them so they won’t show.
Forgotten that I hadn’t come to find,
I found without searching what I got right here
and all of it in one October sunrise on the pier.
My mind just needed to remember.
Four photo’s gone from the light they were taken in,
the short parade that hardly forms your life, lying on the table now,
two of them made of you as a mobilized soldier,
a face with a long nose and frightened eyes,
(this is just before you met my grandmother in Rotterdam)
none of your wedding in 1919,
one of you with a basket of bread,
and one of which no one knows is it really you.
All of them fading now,
and these lines will only be read
by those who never knew you nor heard you
while I remember best your trembling voice
singing in the old people’s home
where we never took pictures.
The song was about a lord being your shepherd
and of lushly meadows where you never wanted to be. Grass is for cows.
Your face serious and beautiful paper white and pink
will live on sepia forever in a closed photo-album.
I have no pictures of you and me together
though I knew you for 14 years.
You left no inheritance, they say.
You even had to sell your wedding ring for food.
I do feel you are in my blood and more so in my face.
I’ve got your nose and I do like to sing when you are in my mood.
I did it again: I used the word “were” instead of “where”. Grrr