Archive for February, 2012

What to take with me, going to Whitby, and what to leave behind

So we pack our stuff and leave behind
what makes us us, the things well-loved,
but not much needed for the journey.

My tired eyes, like them or not,
must come along, of course,
I can not change my sight.

Nor can I do without the nose
that I was given. It’s attached.

I do so feel the urge to take
my legs along, but should
I really?
Surely they will ache me.

My English pronunciation
I do not leave behind.
(I rather wish I could!)

We want to take
some more unneeded things
for just in case a heat wave starts
in the UK in February.

And left behind, awaiting our return
in shock and awe,
will be the persons that are us
when we are home. The house already hates us
for leaving it and thinks we are unkind.

What shall we see, whom will we find?
How will the light be over there
and will the gulls be everywhere again?

The fortuneteller and the museums’
human hand
will they be around to meet and greet?

The ferry blows its whistle.
All set we are, goodbye for now.
The journey can begin!


All set to go for a holiday πŸ™‚
We will travel via 4 harbours plus the one in Whitby! πŸ™‚ and I am looking forward to meeting Belfast David. David, see you soon!

In the mean time I hope everyone will be having a good time reading here or the blogs of my blogroll! πŸ™‚ I can recommend them all!

ps: While I am abroad, my book “Veritas” will be out for distribution on the 2nd of March. πŸ™‚ I shall schedule a posting for that event.

My poetry house

For building my thoughts
I have stumbled with bricks
too heavy for me to carry.

The words slip away
they are made of thick muck
not much concrete, more slurry.

On a rainy day
my poetry house
crumbles and falls in slow motion.

I shall not give up
till this language gives in
so I can construct with emotion.


Spring nights

Dark blue is staying for a little while
as grey has passed away in the last hour.
The light feels better now it β€˜s almost night
and geese are flying over our isle.

In nights like this there is no misery
but only gratefulness for being here.
My love is sleeping in my arms till dawn,
what he might dream, will stay a mystery.

And in the morning other birds will sing.
They flew from far to stay till Winter comes.
The morning light is waking up my love,
the room is golden now, the shade of Spring.


Cutting the tree (and why)

Accusingly the tree branch points
to where the sun should be
but only how we now don’t speak
will make a memory.

Alarmingly you speak no more
of what our love could be
but only how there is no point
in staying here with me.

If only now I cut that tree
would then the sunlight burn
and if so, will you speak to me,
would our sweet love return?


When I age

Let me dance bare feet
on the beach when I age.
When my hair is grey
let me be that way
as the sea remembers.

Wave by wave I’ll swim
from the shore when I age.
When my arms are thin
let me swim away
as I shall remember.

hear the wind hauling

hear the wind
when hauling
I always heard
your cry then

with me
in remembrance
if not in thought

it gets darker
now all is over
hope has no symbols
to matter or care
no more

be with me
here is our place
on the shore where
I wrote my last letter

hear the wind
when hauling
and maybe hear
my cry then

Why the bird sang

We know why the bird sang
but there is no need to tell others.
Can this be our secret
a key to the old lock,
(the bird sang just for us
did it not?)

Do you remember that wedding
when we walked around in that park,
all dressed in festive clothes?
We were in a bright sort of heaven,
meeting each other in sunlight with drinks.

This is not why the bird sang.
We might tell so to others
but it would not be true.

Still that wedding of others
where we walked in fine gardens
with a castle nearby
and we all wore white,
was a little like heaven.

If I ever do find you
again at some wedding
in sunlight, or attending
a funeral in the pouring rain
and the bird sings,
look at me again in that way.
We shall make a new secret
to add to the others.

I can keep a secret,
a little bird told me how
when it sang at that wedding.

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