Archive for May, 2011


“When the wind hauls, you can hear the Indians come,”  my cousin Billy had said. Apparently, he said it often, he was a drunk I suppose, and rather useless in his little hometown somewhere in Arizona. Now I had never met him,  we lived in The Netherlands, but his mother wrote her brother, my father,  letters, describing her hard life in the cooking hot desert, living with her awkward son. She made it a tradition to tell us about how often Billy had been in trouble with the local police,  how he ruined the roof one day setting fire to it,  how he was found more dead than alive in a well and so on.

“He is getting weirder and weirder,” she wrote one day.  Her monthly letter had, for some reason, been lost in the mail and travelling for weeks before it finally got delivered and we all were anxious to know what he had done this time.

It was Summer, a hot day had ended in a thunderstorm and the lamp flickered. We sat around the table drinking lemonade as my father read on.  “He now thinks he can see ghosts. He claims he has befriended a man with a Stetson on a horse,  riding towards the horizon every night. He calls him Abe.”

“He must have seen too many John Wayne movies, “ my mother chuckled. “That part of your family has always had a screw loose.”

“There is no movie theatre where they live. Nothing there but sand, rocks, snakes and#3p” His voice went silent, abruptly. He stared at the window.

The lightning put everything in a flash, and for a second we could all see the arrow, sticking on the windowpane. Then it was dark for a moment. Thunder made speaking impossible. The lamp had died.

My mother found a candle and matches. My father went to take a look at the window.

There was no arrow to be seen.

“Read on,” my mother said, she was hoarse. My father’s hands were trembling.

“Billy is getting worse and worse,” my aunt had written. “What am I to do? I think I will have to send him over to you. ”

“No way!” my mother  immediately exclaimed. “He can’t stay here! Why, he can’t even speak Dutch! We haven’t seen him since he was a little boy!”

“Tomorrow I will send her a telegram that it is out of the question!” my father said.  “Now all of you, go to bed!”

At that moment, there was some knocking on the door. A visitor at eleven o’clock in the evening?

My father put the door ajar.

“Yes?” we could hear him ask.

“Hi there!”

We stared at each other. An American?

My father let him in.

“My name is Abe,” he said. “I just want to tell you that your sister’s son Billy decided to stay in Amsterdam. Good evening.”

He left as quickly as he had come. We stood in disbelief as we heard horse hooves running away.

The telegram was never sent and no one ever heard of Billy anymore. My aunt died that same year.


entry for

Shelter me


shelter me with your embrace

so I shall be safe tonight

to see at least one friendly face

so much hurt there’s to erase

keep me far away from light

shelter me with your embrace

wrap me in your finest lace

yes there has been another fight

to see at least one friendly face

I ran to you like other days

does my instinct tell me right?

shelter me with your embrace

 for me there is no better place

I have to be out of his sight

to see at least one friendly face

you are my haven just in case

stolen moments that you might

shelter me with your embrace

to see at least one friendly face


( a tragedy in verse)

entry for thursday poets rally 45

After the storm


There she is, the sea, deceitful in her silenced roar

As if nothing has happened on this beaten shore

she lays there,  her beauty never aging

while the wreckages of her raging

are covered up in sand

and floods  still drown the land

she kisses now with whispering smooth waves

How well she now behaves

deceitful in her silenced roar

the mistress of the beaten shore

her beauty never aging

A cold and evil whore


Entry for Jingle’s poetry potluck week 37  : “Thunderstorms, Floods and Water fury”

is it you and me?


The paint is dry, but is it you

who looks away, ( we see one eye)

it could have been me too?

Is it a tear, a laugh a cry?


Is it you, this picture, when

it is not me, are we both here

is it a  hollow image then

just canvas with a bit of smear?


Why has the painter left his work

unfinished on the floor

and is that smile there just a smirk

as he walks out the door?


The canvas will just rot and mold

 rats will come, the fabric torn apart

We can´t be painted, so  I am  told.

Just tears can paint an akin heart


entry for jingle potluck starting Monday 23 May 2011  theme: images, pictures an paintings

the whisper shell


There was a moment when, together but alone

we stood close to the sea both far away in thought

The whisper shell the waves had brought

I held it to my ear as if it was a phone

and when you saw me doing that, I felt so caught

remembering the times we fought

when  voices had a different tone


You started running on the beach

I followed you and we fell in the sand

like we had shipwrecked and found land

You had two more shells, one for each

It was the last time that I felt your hand


The pillow note


all nights with you are like there is no tomorrow

moments as waterfall adventures by canoe

scents of earth and sin and sorrow

dreams of red and purple landscapes too

such moments of eternity and passion

and of all the nights I spent with you

last night  most memorable in its own fashion

so wake up! and let me show all my  thanks to you


I got an award! 🙂 The Celebrate poet of Summer award

entry for jingle thursdayrally



No one in particular

Did he mean when he scolded

In the direction of the waves

Every day

Another day on the beach

Another day to show his anger

But  the sea didn’t care much

Never did

Only roared louder, spitting

Foam towards the drunkard’s face

 The indifferent sea drowned him

For ever


entry for jingle poetry potluck

Over you in May


you were not much of a real friend

the stitches of the seam are torn

you were no friend  at all to me

the black dress that I’ll wear to mourn


and for memories of what could have been

I find no future there

nothing left to wear

but naked lies


how you thought the truth could be so bend

how you thought that you could lie to me

it was something I had never seen

now I know to be aware


it is like waking up in Spring

the welcome of a  finer day

awaiting morning birds to sing


the black dress taken by the storm

at last the rain will come and wash away

this pain and shape it in another form

I am over you in May


entry for jingle potluck

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