You are home now

Eline en Ina

You are home now, light is shining in your first dazed view,
the voices of those who love you surrounding you now
and you sleep through it all, accepting all of these new
sounds that embrace you, the laughter, the mothers’ know how.

Sunday afternoons

Unspoken words stay lingering, living
in clouds of smoke and damp of dark wet clothes,
adults drinking beer in silence, giving
shandy to the youngsters, trying to buy
some time before they have to return home.
Sunday afternoons in sad and lonely
hours, spent on a safe distance from the wife.
Unspoken words keep hanging in the smokey pub
when finally they leave the warmth and go.
What is not said on rainy Sunday’s here
no one knows. The landlord closes shop.
It’s dark, already. Winter in the air.

A Pitchford Fibonacci : C

flood
slowly
entering
she brings us treasures
while she crawls higher on the beach
each move she makes entering,  she withdraws a little

high tide is the quiet moment
moment for reflection in time

each move she makes  withdrawing, she lingers a little
while she crawls back from the beach
leaving us treasures
going now
slowly
ebb

this is an attempt to do a Pitchford Fibonacci, as “invented” by David M. Pitchford

the title “C” is  one of the vagaries in the English language

A blanket of seaweed

A blanket of seaweed was it’s presence,
that I found on the beach
and tried to spread over the sand.
It waved on a breeze coming in from the sea.

It was light to me, colour and weight,
more friend than ever friendship was
it covered me, sheltered me for a moment
but as the wind turned east,
getting colder, stronger,
I was not strong enough.

I let it slip out of my hand, it went
somewhere far across the water,
it disappeared. It was your love.

Like changing clouds

It is not over, but the evening clouds
in sweeter shades of blood
make it bearable to have you not here.

Where you are, is the same light,
maybe you are watching
the same clouds, thinking of me.

Do you see how the face of that king
changes into the map of France now
and back to a face with no name.

There is no chance, how could we be together,
but we are together, even apart.
See how we move on like changing clouds
in denial of our hearts. In sweet colours.

Metaphorically speaking it’s over

Like a lost bird in bitter cold snow,
this feeling I have is, and it won’t leave.
Like a song that is waiting
in melody fragments,
cannot explain why you needed to hurt me
when I mistook you for being kind.
Like a joke everyone understands but not me.
Like a word that won’t come, or a line that has gone
from the back of my mind.
Like a final false note ending it sadly,
over I mean, it is over and done.

trying out metaphors. 🙂

First time at last

At last we were us, in a bed after doing it,
after the talks, the drinks and the fights,
nights were no longer awkward for doing it,
the past let us be for more than a while.
We had the red tea and croissants to celebrate,
you made a song that you played with a smile.
At last we had found a first time for doing it
no more fears stuck with it, love conquered hate.

Days are dead now

Days are dead now. Ash is blowing over bare tree woods,
leaves make it slippery under our feet, starving blackbirds stick
as tar tears in the snow. In between seasons, days are dead
and even more dead in the night.

But life is already thought of. Designed somewhere in
muddy pools, newer trees grow secretly,
newer leaves are planned for next spring.
While the ice is breaking slowly,
making newer blood veins, all is awaiting the light.

entry for poetry picnic halloween special

Letter from a grieving lover

Maybe I should have waited by that old gate,
in the woods where the sun kisses the green tree.
Maybe you had not gone, just arriving late,
but I left, thinking you were all done with me.

I went to the stream watched the water go by,
fast on its way to the sea, joined with my tears
when, from deep in the woods, I heard this loud cry.
I thought it was you, but how wrong were my ears.

It wasn’t you near the gate weeping sadly
as I should have waited for you over there.
You mother, it was, said you loved me madly
and now you were not to be found anywhere.

So you were not done with me but just too late.
They found your drowned body days later in sea,
and at home was a note explaining your fate:
You wanted to die and this all cause of me.

I tried something “romantic”, somehow it made me laugh because of all the drama in it (it is fiction!) to see if I could do a poem with only 11 syllable lines.

Amber light mornings

When in morning the world is newer,
amber light shining over our skin,
how must we rise without feeling regret
as leaving the bed means loosing this view?

The window is wet of morning dew treasures
the light brings in newer shades of pure bliss,
colouring black birds already singing.
How do we rise on mornings like this?