Posts tagged ‘poetry’

The other option

Is there another option, so you asked.
We stood barefooted on the bedroom floor,
The wind was hauling through the bathroom door
Ajar, and rain was falling. It was not even six am.
It was appalling.  The other option is to stay, I said.

We rather went right back to bed
And give the cold and dark a miss.
But ferries hardly ever wait for us
To get in somewhat of a travelling mood.
So there we stood, no other option left
Than to stick together, to get dressed and go
Into a future with no warranties. We felt bereft.




That day

For every time you smiled, a butterfly will show
When that day has come, while many flowers bloom,
When our goodbyes are done and you move on and go.

When that day has come, may you remember all
The good days that you had before this very Fall
And may there be a thousand birds and some to guide you.

A million butterflies and more, may they surround
You on your voyage and beyond, while every flower blooms
For all the love you gave. When that day has come.

That bit

There is no word to call the bit
That we don’t know of one another:
The mind, the thoughts, the life unseen,

Unheard, the feelings.
Everything we guess about
and we don’t know off; pain.

The secret distance from the you to me
Seems shorter now the lights are dimmed,
And almost as in tune we breathe and talk and see.

The bit unknown, the private will, the smile
Behind the hand on which you rest your head,
All that.

There is no word to call it by its name and yet
It is what makes you you, me me.
No one the same.



I have not looked for it nor did I find
The reason why we live, or die, the kind
Of questions we are bound to ask. I won’t
Go into any details why I don’t
Want such intrusions targeting my mind.

But every now and then I hesitate:
Should I not care more of my kind of fate,
And mind. Can all those many priests be wrong
And have they been mistaken all along,
Is it too early to find out, or just too late?

I have not looked for it and didn’t mind
But recently I’m having doubts, the kind
You have when someone has a certain date
With death. The darkness felt as heavy weight,
We stand before eternity. Aligned.

The book

On the other side of the page
The book may get better
Or will it be worse in there
Where I’m not reading yet?

I’ve read a lot and halfway through
I turn the pages back to find
Where I met you. Exactly there’s your letter.
Somehow the book seems thinner now.

I do not want to turn the page
But stay in chapters that I know.
Who wants to read the ending
Of well-loved stories anyway?


To find what you saw, I went to harbour towns
Where you might have been years ago.
Every windy quay had weed and pain
Growing through the stones,
Each bollard was rusting in sad silent rain.

The ships came and went, come and go as always.
Once you must have been there as well
And I always heard echoes of slamming doors,
You in splashing laugh
Although I don’t really remember yours.

All the ports of the Baltic, of France
And of England, of Ireland and Belgium,
Scandinavia too:
I came there looking
For memories and traces of you.

Sometimes I found you in other people
Who might have seen what you saw.
Recently I’ve stopped looking for you. As it is:
We can not go on
Meeting each other like this.

Not meeting each other like this.

Kindred spirits

The cat and me, we stood and watched
The dogs fight in the street.
We looked at one another.

I raised my shoulders,
The cat shook its head
Then we went on
in opposite directions.

Some things are shared
Between kindred spirits
Without them being said.


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