Last will

On high ground in evening light, how nice,
the sea before me seems so undisturbed –
Terschelling island waiting for the night.
Not much is wrong here, the lighthouse beams
shine over quiet waves.
A legacy of ebb and flow,
the scene I want to pass on
to my children’s children in my will.
This gift of nature,
a dream to start my night with,
in pink and orange wrappage. Will it be mine to give?

Then, seagulls, trapped and dead in bright
blue nylon, wash ashore and start to be part of a nightmare.
More and more the rising sea proves to be
a giant bowl of plastic soup.
Unsavory. Unprecedented. Ugly, made of useless nonsense
like 60 years of waste, my life, in balloons, bubble gum and bags.

The wind is howling now and disapproves.
I close my eyes. I do not want the day to end like this.
When I wake up the demons of the night have washed themselves away.
A seabird screams and leaves, the sea, a mystery again,
waits for the new tide to repeat,
a little higher every day her movements,
giving back to us all the nasty spillage of her human vomit,
leaving us our home-made killing legacy.

I wrote this poem yesterday to perform this morning for the participants of the Springtij festival (symposium) here on the island. As it is an international affair, I did it in English.


Enigma (sort of song)

The more I watch the room in shades you fade from memory.
The more I think of you, the less I know is true.
There is a reason for most insects
and for colours, flowers, snow
and sunshine too.

There is a cure for many pains,
there is an answer to all questions,
there is hope they say and wisdom, love,
and for Christ’s sake –
there is you.

The more I think of us the less I get it.
The more I watch the room in shades, you disappear.
Most insects have a useful talent.
I love most colours, flowers,
snow and sunshine too.

There is no cure for just not knowing,
for failing hope and fading memory,
for knowing less while I’m deeper thinking
and for Christ’s sake –
I’m not finding you.

I am having a period of just not grasping life. It will come back to me surely 🙂

Question tags

Hands not forgiving, eyes for closure; you and I not going to happen, are we?
Mermaids on the run, storm approaching, autumn starting; no chance of a change, is there?
More of what could have been, less happening; life is a waiting room for some, isn’t it?
Maybe question tags have a reason for existing, for keeping open a weary doubtful mind.
Haven’t they?

At drift

I’m drifting and the sea gets rough,
the salt is on my skin; the cold and deep I am within –
an ocean of forgotten demons.

It was different when I still had you.
Sometimes I think I see the light of an island
in my sight, but never I can reach the shore.

I drift once more, the beach behind me.
I know that I can not rely on someone else to find me.
This is my own survival task.

I shall not ask for lifeboats nor for heroes.
I am alone as it must be. I am at drift and free,
no matter where the tide will take me
to be my final destiny.

The lodger

Death moved in with me some years ago
and will not leave.
It pays its rent in ticking clocks,
I hear it sigh in squeaking floors and howling wind,
and dust reminds me it is here to stay.

It sits opposite me at breakfast in a silent grumpy mood.

I put a brochure of a cruise on its plate today,
hoping it will take the hint
and pack its stuff, and go away.


after sleep I dress up for the world again
wearing small talk as to cover hurt
until the evening I shall dance insane
alive and dangerous, a flame
burning letters from your name
until their ashes mix with dirt
after sleep I dress up for the world again

but in the night I do not feel the same
in dark I let myself return
I find your arms and all is well.

after sleep I dress up for the world again
until the evening I shall dance insane
but in the night I do not feel the same
alive and dangerous, a flame.

Too deep

Within the truth we seek is room left for translation –
I call a spade a spade, yet it won’t be a spade at all
in Greek. Or French.

I thought I found the facts but they are buried deeper.
Depending on the language that we speak there is a
moment gone, or made a memory. Or both.

I do depend on you to read between translations.
We dig our graves and way too deep. There is no going back.
The truth is that we never kissed. I think that is the truth.

And you won’t call a spade a spade at all, I know.
If I translate my soul into your language nothing holds.
(Already I am losing you and still two verses more are waiting)

You don’t see eye to eye from where my view is,
as I can’t call your spade a spade, it is not mine.
We are in different truths it seems.

What we have missed in time, in space will not return. We have one life.
The truth is that the spade is rusty and the grave all dug and done.
And too much time is wasted on this urge we have for digging deeper.

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