Archive for February, 2012

Indigo night

while waiting for the night-bird’s song
this indigo night we have snow
in snow you can not wait too long
the night-bird might be frozen stiff
let’s wait some more, if we don’t go
there ‘s always if, in deadly snow
we might find out it still does live

this indigo night we have snow
just walking in dreams with no sound
slender with grace the trees do bow
deep under the load that they bear
we know there is wildlife around
eyes lighten, move, not to be found
while hiding in holes everywhere

in snow you can not wait too long
still the night-bird might be living
if all is well and nothing wrong
so we stand here and wait some more
for the music it’d be giving
all are waiting, all the living
like we waited in nights before

the night-bird might be frozen stiff
how will we know what happened here
so many creatures will not live
by dawn, they’ll be deep frozen stills
a cry somewhere, of dead and fear
may be a stray dog or a deer
or something that the night-bird kills

let’s wait some more, if we don’t go
we may hear how the night-bird sings
and if it does, then we will know
that what we heard was more than life
it is one of the finest things
when in the snow a night-bird sings
and keeps it up till after five

there’s always if, in deadly snow
what if we stay and never leave
why would we bother now to go
is it much better where we live
is there more hope or more belief
where all are hurting in their grief
while here the night bird wants to give

we might find out it still does live
the bird, the world, the hope for more
than what this winter had to give
if we just wait here in this cold
we have survived this way before
it is too far to the front door
so what we freeze and won’t be old

I am not sure what kind of poem this is, the form abacbbc  7 times ? and the repeating lines of the first stanza, but I liked doing it. It is one of the headache poems  so it might be a bit odd 🙂

For the lover

I felt a moment lasting long,
it was a different way of time
and you were there as well, with me.
For a moment I knew love
when I closed my eyes in trust
I felt you were still near and loved.

There will be moments more like this
and when I open my eyes now
you are not gone, you will be here;
remaining lover of my life.

I have to be away of keyboard for a bit

Hi all,

because of the fall I took last Friday, the doctor told me today to rest,  lay down a lot  and not be on the computer for a while, so that is what I am doing now. Bummer!

Thank you for reading and your comments!  As soon as I can, I will be back 🙂


Love, hugs and arohanui 🙂

End of journey

Maybe not soon but one day in future
nothing you have learnt from life will matter.
You see yourself in the mirror without
thinking of altering your face or hair
and then you will know that you have found out
what the trip was about in the first place
and you can forget why you sailed away
from those windy quays on rusty trawlers,
going past misty stations in brown trains,
as it was already there, where ever
you went, it was in yourself from day one.

Dead days

When I think of the days of not living
I go to the place buried deep in my skin
where the shivers live, and my sense of death.

And all this with the screaming, words beyond
pain, from the hungry crows on the quay
who want to be in charge of the sea gulls.

Inside of me there is a quay like that
where I can watch shiploads of thoughts enter
only to be chased away by black crows.

Under the ice

Now death has come in white, covering all,
food and life, in a coating of plastic
sugar, not living continues, in, under, the ice.

As it must be cold there, where no one is,
the ice in the sea has no feelings for
those ships that have sunk in sight of safe ports.

But while slow frozen water is crushing
the coast, seagulls find a way to find fish
and the sun attempts to melt the cold earth.

I made this picture this afternoon, ice in the harbour

Olga’s Winter Journey

It was winter and snow at the station.

A moment it was, just a moment we shared,
nothing compared with eternity really,
fate decided we should share this train, together.
Or was it nothing like that, just two passengers
boarding? It could have been anyone. I took out my book.

I read Solzhenitsyn, well I gave it a try,
as the white window views passed by us.
You watched me, and took the book
and you hold my hand for a moment to show
a phrase on a page in the Russian translation.

The words went above me, beyond language
as I listened how you read them out loud.
Heavy, reverberating, deep, your voice told me
of lonesome landscapes, depression, war,
or whatever it meant, in rhyming verses,
while the train approvingly, comforting, commented
with every vowelless Russian syllable.

I didn’t ask for your name, but you gave it away,
as you and the writer shared it, you claimed.
I pronounced it, and you smiled.
“You should be called Olga,” you said,
a name I didn’t particularly like.
I laughed instead of asking why.

We shared your bread and half a bottle of wine,
and when you had reached your destination,
we just looked at each other.
You wanted to say something
but didn’t. Still being strangers
we parted without a goodbye.

When the train left the station,
you still stood there though;
a black monument of loneliness
lost in the pain of the snow,
raising your hand, and we waved.

Nothing changed, but everything was different
in the way I would think about the name Olga in future.

Weird world

It is the quiet of the day that we hear loudly
before the television tells us that the world is burning,
and as the smoking corpses are shown in the news,
we drink our coffee thinking of silence.

Take in what the pixels show us in the paper
while we wait for the bus to arrive
we are  part of a meltdown in progress
and there always is coffee at five.

Birds of a feather

As soon as it is light, I am walking in cold air,
dressed appropriately for the early  hour of the day
not for the cold though, of that I am well aware.

Off I go to feed the birds outdoors and see
them showing off in plastic colours green and blue
waiting with contempt for the softy likes of me.

One old blackbird, shy, grey and picked at to the skin,
is watching me, approvingly for what I bring
shiv’ring in my pink thingy that is way too thin.

I also wear an old sweater someway next to grey
above green willies in a too big husband size
completing my outfit in a practical way.

The pretty birds rush off, high giggling from the sight
when humbly I put down the food for them to have,
so not the grey bird. She does stay and takes a bite.

So I am a killer for the hottest passion
but I do think that both the bird and I agree:
let them laugh as Winter is no time for fashion.


this pic was made a few days ago when snow was gone, tomorrow there will be snow again as well as frost.

I hope to be able to make pictures of the birds then, in the snow, eating!

don’t closure me

of what we can not speak
I don’t want to write
let the memories
sink away to hell
where they all should be

of what we should not write
I do want to speak
let the freedom of
our minds prevail
the way it should have been

of what I have not said
I don’t want to think
let the silence speak
silence says it well
when the words come short

don’t feel too bad for me
I’ve seen it coming and
it’s not the first time now
I know you have to leave
there’s no alternative

and so what the hell
it is not really if
we know each other well
I see that now
so pack your stuff

and shut the door
it’s been enough
why wait for more
we’ll never blend
were never meant

to be a pair
go anywhere
leave me alone
I shall go on
I’ve always done

she needs you more
the needy one
it’s like before
so go away
no I don’t cry

they’re bits of dust
got them in my eye
pack all you want
yes I can cope
don’t leave your lust

don’t leave the hope
don’t show regret

don’t leave me yet

not yet, don’t


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