Posts tagged ‘poetry’

Watching from the past

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.

Trees and old people

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.

Morning in April 2014

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 tree that said farewell

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.

Best of gifts

A feather washed ashore and stayed on land,
remaining a reminder of a flight gone wrong.
Above the waves some murmurations end
before they reach a place to sing their song.

A shell is waiting to be seen, a hand
will pick it up, a treasure found among
debris. So much the sea gives to the strand;
this shell, though, has been dead for very long.

From where I watch the waves foam on demand,
no life seems present, yet the sea moves on,
the clouds mourn on this funeral event,
the smell of salt decay is very strong.

So all seems dead that comes ashore from sea,
but still it makes the best of gifts to me.


Best of mornings

30maart14 049

I was woken by a whispering sea,
the wind had turned and now was West,
the window open, a breeze was telling me
words, never spoken, a fairytale
so beautiful I closed my eyes
and dreamt again, quite heavenly.
The day had started with a feel of nice.

The forsaken son

The ninth of all the hours, cruelest, black,
no mother wants a child go through this pain,
forsake Your only son, why not abstain,
return to him? Instead You turned your back.

His death had impact to the world that’s ours,
but at what price, and causing so much grief,
a mother sees her son die for belief,
in cruelest black, the ninth of all the hours.

To die this way, his mother at his side,
what kind of father are You, asking this?
What had he done? – What has he done? For me?

Perhaps my questions are a sin, not right,
and maybe I should find his cry a bliss:
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani!”


An apostrophe is all that stands between
the me and life, reality and verb,
a little dot and tail, both so superb,
connecting me to being, that I’ve been.

Perhaps another punctuation mark
would be a much worse chaperone for me,
as I am troubled by the verb ‘to be’
that chases me in daylight and in dark.

Attached so well, it’s almost making one,
the ‘I’ and ‘am’, the I’m to be the me,
a syllable where once we had the two.

My life does know by now of how it’s done,
just make a little dot, a tail and see:
I am connected to the word to be.

Thanks maestro!

The day started differently
as I heard a piano,
to be more specific:
someone was making music
and the notes entered my room,
staccato, hammering.

As they chained together
echoing all that I felt,
they made me realize
not all was lost,
and everything


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