We lived with an elephant in the room,
pink and with the size of Texas, it stepped
on toes, putting chips on our shoulders.
It lived with us for years, then we killed it
with sarcasm, and buried it outside.
All participated in the murder,
but the elephant was never mentioned.
We started to feel guilty of the crime
and the space we gained, soon became choking.
Another elephant now lives with us.
I’m amidst a birthday conversation,
with six people talking at the same time,
words leapfrog through the room that’s filled with smoke,
exploding in laughter. I lost track somewhere
between the price of fuel and the weather.
Then, out of the blue and cigaret fumes
you enter. So we are back together,
miles apart. Your eyes hardly remember.
Photos are taken, the flashlight X-rays
prove I’m with strangers now. I should have known.
“This used to be my brain, now is a grave yard
where memories rot in grey and brown shades.
Once I could remember what they were about.
I do not mind. My mind has done with me.”
She stares over the street that she can’t name.
Her room is on the top floor of the building
where windows never open. Black birds
smash themselves against the glass. Despair.
“I need a spade,” she tells the nurse who frowns.
“I need to dig the grave yard up.”
Her medication is adjusted. Another black bird
kills itself by wanting to get in. Some years go by.
One morning her bed is found empty. A window
is shattered, glass everywhere. But no sign of her,
she seems to have disappeared. A note says:
“Gone to do some digging.” And a black bird screams.
The morning sun shines hazy,
some swallows make a nest,
a cat wants to attack
and tries his very best
but falls asleep in spite,
before the crucial leap
then gives it all a rest;
the feline is too lazy.
;) Happy Easter!
The echos and shadows we created,
the unforseen extras of our being,
where do they go, in nights, behind our backs?
They won’t give us a clue, they don’t leave tracks.
Our written thoughts, our footsteps, what we say,
seem useless and forgotten very soon,
which probably is how it should be too.
New thoughts take over, so what can we do?
The echos and shadows we created,
not set in stone but lingering a bit,
they only were a part of us, a past
and we should well accept they do not last.
Sepia and faded the past is watching me,
eyes following my moves. The old portrait
tells me in every angle of the room
that I am not alone here as I dust.
Her eyes beg me to stay. I must.
How did she do that hair, I wonder, did she
shape it every morning in that way
or just on special days, like
when they had the photo made?
What was her life about? But she can’t say.
For minutes she and I connect,
and for a moment I am her:
a woman anxious for the lens
as it may take her soul away.
I feel the blame – did I disturb her grief?
I smile and now her lips seem curved.
I leave the room to go on with my day
but she stays in my mind, ancestor with my name.
What trees have to endure in storm and hail!
The branches choose: to bend or get ripped off.
They are not weak though, finding strength this way.
Old people smile; they understand the trees.
“We are here just a while. Let fate prevail.”
What they had to endure, and do not speak
about: trees know, as they move with the wind.
I know so little, even less for sure.
The red morning has butterflies dancing
the tango. Looking East, all seems blood now.
You praise the day and I close the curtains.
One should never look East before coffee
nor worry of “maybe” long before lunch,
you say. What will happen next? I worry.
The thought came, a swan in my day,
landing on the surface of the lake
corrugating the water, shaping
endless flows of new thoughts
in the cool and green haze
of the silent morning.
Then she spread her wings
to fly away again, leaving
me calmer as the water forgot.
The shivering roof tiles abhor and moan,
the storm struck house is shaking to the bone,
while water from the sky falls down, and blown
away are well loved trees, hardly full-grown.
Then suddenly the wind falls still and we,
not hiding anymore, come out to see
how bad it is, the damage and debris
and what became of our old apple tree.
Who would have guessed that blossom met our eye,
such lovely white, and out of season, why
it started blooming now, in Winter’s high,
with branches full, why did this tree not die?
A miracle it seemed, that Spring like tree,
but it was a farewell, to good to be.