The circle

Left on her own
a few weeks after the funeral
she realised life
is not a line
but more so
it is a circle
and the curve
is just about right.

Finding a rhythm
she discovered a new world,
and new eyes, new fingers
as she moved the ring
from one hand to the other
so it would rest above her own
and it didn’t fall,
it did not get lost.

Apart from you

Cut off my limbs, torn out my heart –
no it feels worse, a toothache rotting into bone.
Alone, a borrowed dog, a caged blue bird and me.

You should not, but you do: you kindly fade away,
so out of reach, beyond control,
your legacy keeps changing colours.

Sometimes I think you spoke
of love in Spanish.

I need to grow new arms, new legs, new memories,
become a newer creature.

Apart from you I’m not myself it seems.

Saturday 28 May we had a wonderful time in Midsland, Terschelling, performing and reading poetry. And two wonderful musicians (not in the photo) accompanied the poems.

dichterbijzee 2016 28 mei

Lost

The chair, your pillow:
all is empty and time moves on
discriminating all beauty
but slower than life. Days have no end.
The whisper shell is silent
and the sea withdraws
to show death in the sand.

I am your widow, no
still your wife aware of you.
There is no possible denial.
Yet, where are you now?
Where is your soul and where am I?

We stand on both sides
of a fence
and you walk on
as I can not
and you can’t stay
and I can not.

And from the sea
some footprints go
into the past.
Away. Away
and further on.

 

Roads book 2 released

Roads book 2 Winter Goose Publishing

Today would have been Toussaint’s 68th birthday.   Every moment of the day I miss him but I want to try to live on. So I proudly announce the release of Roads book 2.

Please follow the link!

 

 

 

Toussaint

On the evening of Saturday 19 March my brave and beloved husband
Toussaint Schroders has died from cancer. He was 67 years old.
He died at home, we were there with him.
He will be buried Thursday 24 March here on Terschelling.

Power

What you can see in raw light is more than a wishful thought,
A mere bribery of the mind and a dream never sought.
The yellow bulb is no light by itself but it gives
The thought you can see, in what stays, in what lives.

Over sea the moon is a lamp but it’s only reflecting the Sun.
Hear the sound of the night and the song of the birds:
Memories shared, told with no words.

A fine day it was when the light has been kind,
Morning and evening, thoughts like flames of the mind,
Pictures were taken and now all is done,
Everyone’s sleeping. The shadows move on.
Raw light is fading as hours go by,
Emerging – the dreams, like birds – how they fly.

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