In the pearl of the morning
Watching the dew tears
On unfolding Spring
Your face appears in mildly winking
Amongst other past features
Of uncertain times
And I am with you now
Cloud to cloud, blue to blue.
Love your smile.
It will stay with me
Till afternoon rain.
Something different from my usual postings.
On Easter a memorial plaque still attached to some piece of wood washed ashore on the beach of Terschelling and we think it might be coming from the UK.
Read here in English about the beachcomber’s find
Looking for relatives. If you happen to know a Steve Hall who died in October 2011 and was 45 years of age, it might be him. Please let us know.
Because of fences on the road ahead
We’re kept from danger on the abyss side,
Where friendly moonlight seems to miss our tread,
But we don’t fall to our surprise. We said
We’d never make it – then we may have lied
Because of fences on the road ahead.
We find our courage and are nearly mad,
Forgetting those afore us who have died.
Though friendly moonlight seems to miss our tread,
We shall not fail our goal now we have fled.
But dumb we were to go without a guide
Because the fences on the road ahead
Are weak and take us down, we’ll end up dead.
For us there is no hope. Yes, we were right,
And friendly moonlight seems to miss our tread
As we were wrongly told and falsely led
So there we fall, to deep and far and night,
Because the fences left the road ahead,
And friendly moonlight made us miss our tread.
From my hand to the paper went my mind,
The ink fled wider than the words, my thoughts
Found space while beaks became a delta,
The poems were a sea of all I wanted you to know.
But your ships would never sail my waters,
And a draught has blown the sheets away,
Last words that never made it to Pompeii.
I hope you made it safe and free.
To start a new year with a new poem and wishing everyone a very good 2017.
Sea breath comes in damp ashore,
Telling, whispering of death,
The waves are lamed already
And from where I stand what is left, is just me,
Is just bone and flesh and tears that rest
Alone in mist in tender thoughts and faded hope.
I’m looking between North and West
and see no end and no beginning.
Another funeral goes by my house today.
The church bell tired in the Winter air
The mist horn crying, longing too
For this one year to go away and die.
Cold air entered first
as the door opened wide,
the man coming in
brought in mist from outside.
For a moment he stared
after shutting the door.
No one had ever seen him before,
he seemed lost. He seemed tired.
He walked to the bar
and ordered a beer.
We, the girls, ignored him, him not being
from here and alone, from afar.
But an old man approached him,
and asked who he’d be.
He didn’t answer. He got his drink free
as the old man went on
with his questions of how
had he managed to get here
where no living soul came.
This put him a bit of his balance we saw.
“How do you mean?”
“We are dead, see.” And all of us nodded.
“So what is your name?”
He did not answer, but knocked over his stool
as he ran out the door straight under a car.
Who could he have been? And why was he here?
His glass remains on the end of the bar,
and is never removed. But dead is his beer.
Before I had glasses the world
was simple to understand
in shapeless colours
which could mean anything,
left to imagination
and voices had a life of their own
connected only to scents and perfumes.
Once I did see the stripes between bricks,
the individual leafs on branches
and actual faces of relatives
nothing was easy anymore
as all seemed to matter. The unpredictable
pattern of cement-roads in walls,
the telling movement inside Autumn tree tops,
the way wrinkles fold and relax, matters.
The problems of dealing with others
begin when you can see their hidden intentions,
begin where it shows that the mirror has cracks
in between what is real and what not.