Archive for March, 2012

At six pm somewhere in March

To be in a place you don’t know
at six pm somewhere in March
and smell unfamiliar food being cooked,
you suspect the sun to go down soon
but how soon – you don’t know,

to find it is time for a drink
in a pub, then make a stroll
not too far out of town

where the shades make you think
you have been here before,
that you lived here, you must have
but they have forgotten your name,

and yes the sun sets right on time
in the sea when you reach the shore,

to be there in March
watching that moment,
to be in that moment,
that is what you came for.

Your face, your voice

I saw a face in setting sun
that I adored, a face so old
in quietness, but young in looks.
I heard a voice in evening prair
that I found dear, a voice so young
in timelessness, but old in words.
It was your face, it was your voice,
Papa. I dreamt of you last night.

Ninety something

Getting out in the sunlight
after a season in the old people’s home
there she is, pushed by an angry looking woman
who wears sunglasses and an expensive coat.

Her wheel chair is brightly decorated with balloons
and she is smiling. She made it through another Winter.
“Let’s go to the harbour!” she says with her birdly voice.
“I want to be close to the water!”

I am not sure this is a good idea,
as the expression of her daughter’s face is changing.
“Yes mother, what a lovely thought!” she says
before giving the chair a big push in the right direction.


Evening shades

Now evening shades are entering the room,
a little later than the day before
(although that is not noticed much by whom
lives here, and who just came in by front door).

They slowly move, take over the white wall,
the portraits, fading in oblivion,
see no longer what is here at all
(as if they’d care of what is going on) .

And just when darkness conquers light,
when dusk gives in- the magic’s gone
and all is night. The tv now shines bright.
The lamp switched on, the mystery is done.

Although the shades are leaving grounds once more,
tomorrow evening they’ll be back I know,
to get the right that they’ve been fighting for:
their place under the roof, that they want so.


The trees

I walked through dunes in sunny Spring
just passing trees I’ve always known.
I tried to climb them as a child
I buried birds between their roots
I brought my children here to play
and birds made nests up in their tops.

My secret thoughts I shared with them
and here I stayed in hide and seek
my tears were wept in their safe shade
they sheltered me from rain and hurt
their patient movements brought me rest
and I hoped that no tree was cut.

Their branches bended with our lives
as seasons came with frost and rain
and Summer winds dried out their husks;
destroyed by fire, some of them.
When here the young man hanged himself
it was as if I heard them cry.

Rondeau redoublé – Maybe it was passion

A moment ago when your eyes met mine,
just seconds it was, it seemed longer though
it was all in this look; it wasn’t fine.
Now I have seen you, your mind I do know.

Of course it is true that all was just show,
maybe it was passion, maybe it was wine?
I should have stayed up, and not looked below
a moment ago, when your eyes met mine.

It was a moment not very divine.
How could our morals have sunk and so low!
We should not have crossed this very thin line,
just seconds it was, it seemed longer though.

We went with the lust, we went with the flow.
About what we did, we should not much whine.
We both wanted love and we did so.
It was all in this look; it wasn’t fine.

Had there been time for me just to resign
-and I was in a hurry, apropos-,
maybe I would not have called you a swine.
Now I have seen you, your mind I do know.

As we were stuck in this lame status quo,
hoping your motives were not that malign,
I progressed to undress and did it real slow.
How was I to know that you strained your spine
a moment ago…


Every kind syllable hurts

Your letters tell me you are well
and to make sure I understand
there are some drawings from your hand
of flowers and of churches too.
The words are chosen with much care
and all of this makes me aware
this is no longer you at all.

Your letters tell me nothing’s well
between the lines I read goodbyes
I see your honest, caring eyes
and how you struggle to find ways
of letting go in friendly words
but every kind syllable hurts
this is no longer us at all.

It is the way it is

It is.
The chosen road,
it is the way it is.

Is it the only way,
dividing destiny
and designation
each in its own
secluded section?

A road is just a way
to go or not.

Should one obey the tarmac
as laid out
or be a bird
and fly
regardless of direction?

It is the way it is,
and every road
leads to reflection.


My words are neatly organized from thoughts
I gained in time, and follow grammar rules
to have them read and shared with you.

They may not always be the sentences
my mind would like to see,
nor meet your expectations,
but here, this much, is truth
as seen by me, improvement anyway
compared to chaos of a weary soul.

Extractions of my inner world.
So bear with me and know
I try to write how much I love you
but in a different verse each time,
where nothing rhymes, in longing for
your understanding of the whole.

All with no anesthesia

Giving birth never gave me much thought
while expecting, why think about the inevitable
but in between contractions
I could hear the moaning
of centuries of women,
an opera of labour,
I saw them squirm,
smelt them fear,
all feeling the same impossible math
trying to solve the puzzle
of a head getting through a hole
that can’t be stretched so wide
if you think of it
but it can
and time after time
children came out of me
and there was nothing to it.

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