The air was filled with grieve

The air was filled with grieve,
no matter how I aired the room,
it wouldn’t leave.
It lived with me, it shared my bed,
it was in every word I said.
Light seemed to matter more to me
than it ever did before,
I searched for it even at night.
The grieve was in the colours
that became more grey,
if they were bright.
I drunk my grieving tea
and tasted apples that were sour.
The weight of grieve was felt
throughout the hour, every day,
never leaving me alone.
But Autumn came.
The trees lost all their leaves,
the light was silver, there were storms.
No day too soon came my relieve.
An end came to my hurt,
grieve left October third,
at half past noon.

entry for poetry picnic week 7 love and loss

Souvenir

So now you notice me
in wallpaper shadows,
in the cups in the sink
and the laundry in the dryer.

Tomorrow, I think,
my shadow will be gone,
the dishes done.
I will leave my laundry though,
so you will have items
to remember me by
and how it was in bed.

And besides,
it is not all completely dry
just yet.

David M Pitchford used some of this poem in his beautiful Souvenirs of you – click here

Trimeric on time

A moment has no measure
I recall some endless seconds
but time is a given spoil sport,
we count away precious time

I recall some endless seconds,
waiting for news either good or bad.
Some moments last forever

but time is a given spoil sport,
we invented the word,
now we have to keep pace

We count away precious time
captivated in hours, minutes, seconds
and never. Always, for ever.

I read about trimerics this morning  on this site   Writing by stone    and tried one .

The old cottage

The more we speak of days we were not here,
the less we seem to catch the time we spent,
away for good it is, the atmosphere,
the special light on holidays we went.

This little cottage where we made our child,
now as we stand here both in bygone’s shade,
the flowers, that we seeded, growing wild
and on the wall the drawing you once made.

The picture seems about another place.
We could restore this house and bring it back,
I want to see that smile there on your face.
Come on, let’s be in love, oh what the heck!

The time has changed a lot for us I know,
but if we try, we need not it let go.

I hope this is a Shakespearean sonnet

My bubble

I think of you while I am in this odd position, opposite the window, my legs in a sort of yoga bend way, but still relaxed, as I do nothing. I watch. Clouds, blue pieces of sky, clouds again. I do nothing.
My eyes start to water, my legs hurt now. I won’t do anything. I am not thinking of you, am I. Clouds go by.
Every shape is your face. I do nothing. I feel nothing. I am getting over.

It is getting darker, but slowly, and I didn’t notice till now. It is cold. I have to lift myself up. Out of this position, away from this window. The clouds are now moonlit hills. I have to lift myself up. The cat needs food.
I can only crawl. My legs are stung by hundreds of bees.
I grab a pillow and close my eyes. Over you. I have to be over you now. Lift myself up.

I wake up when the sun shines in my face. And again I think of you. Another day starts. More clouds.

I am not here at all.
My body is numb.
I am away for a bit.
Out of myself.
Somewhere nice,
my own world.
I am not here.
Don’t look me up,
I like it where I am.
I am in a bubble
drifting away from it all
coping with your absence.

entry for bluebellbooks slam week 11

My page on the Winter Goose publishing site!

“Truth and virtue, astonishment and wonder. Real life can be exciting, depressing, and confusing, but it is certainly always fascinating. In Veritas, the new poetry volume by author Ina Schroders-Zeeders, you will feel every exposed emotion as it connects with you and ultimately leads to your own personal contemplation. Whether as limitless as the oceans or as confining as our surroundings, these authentically stimulating pieces will leave you in awe.”

I have a page on the Winter Goose publishing site now. 🙂

my page on the Winter Goose publishing site

introduction and welcome on Winter Goose

A romance

When we were together
in the moist and molded bunker
the rain fell down through leaking holes
and poured on us to wash away this sin.

You took a feather
from the dead dove.

I remember very well
you wrote your name on me
with this feather on my skin
and with every stroke you wrote
I was more yours than I would ever be,
had it been written there with fire.

You engraved your name in me
with the feather, without trace,
with every touch and thought. With love.

In our embrace we spent the night
and the candle that we had, shone a
trembling yellow light
on concrete walls with swastika’s.

There I was your bride.

Europe’s lover

There was no breeze and all fell still,
even the rain
We were not here on earth,
there was no time.
There was no death nor birth
It was a moment as it never will
be here again, so full.
As you said yes. And I gave in.
My Zeus. Was I to think you were a bull?

Not really…

pic from wikipedia by Gustave Moreau

entry for gooseberry poetry picnic mythology

Mr Blue

The lifeboat entered port,
a blue corpse on the deck,
swollen from the water,
and no one knew his name,
nor from where he came.
We children called him mister Blue
and he was buried
with respect that we felt due.
We all put flowers on his grave.
He was everybody’s father,
everybody’s son. No body is so safe
then a corpse in a small harbour.

This is my acceptance post for the poets rally week 52

and I nominate Harry Nicholson

“Veritas”

This book will be out early 2012 🙂 Poems (in English). Published by Winter Goose, available through Barnes&Noble and Amazon.com

More to follow! 🙂