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.


it has no colour and no name,
no future and no destiny, yet
the wind, unseen, unshaped and unforgiving,
born out of an angry mother

blowing over land and sea
chops blooming trees for unknown reasons
and wrecks a ship
that could have sailed forever

it causes fire on a graveyard
as to make the dead ones pay
what havoc can a sudden panic bring!
we’re holding hands no more, it’s done

the sea is calmer, thunder gone
yes I have understood you well
you are now left alone
I have to move to where I’m safer


she feels the thought as physical, a wart, and it grows
under her skin, it glows in her bones, lava,
yet it also occupies the room she sleeps in,
walks with her and keeps her company as a slave
while her mind wanders off to the day.

the thought lives in her arms and wants to possess her,
and she lets it enter, time after time, the lover he is,
entering, staying and entering in new proportions,
new appearances – this overwhelming thought
that she could be herself again, and finally be safe.

%d bloggers like this: