Outside is now a sky with many stars
that make me shiver in my almost sleep.
There’s so much space that it’s called time instead
and deep down underneath this, only us.
I wonder when it was that men looked up
above their heads to notice all those lights
which didn’t fall down on the earth, but stayed
at nights, only to dissappear in day.
It may have been when men just realized
there must be more that we don’t know about,
as thunder made them sleep together close,
the loud and angry hauling of a wolf.
I see the stars and feel I could make gods
from angry wolves and thunder in the air
and my respect would be towards the stars
as there they live now, looking down at us.
We live on buried dead bodies,
our houses built on those long gone.
On and on we reinvent life
till the crust of the Earth
can not grow much further
into the sky.
We lie on top of each other,
smothering our reason with force,
sourced out remorse, giving birth.
While our children await,
they become us in turn
to do their part.
We shall be in their memories
till they too become soil and clay,
may what will stay be our fate.
We shall be dead before
we’re buried beneath them
like all who went.
It is the season. It makes me think of death and the lack of a reliable prospect to eternity. Time for lots of coffee and hugs! 🙂
A day further away from birth,
I stare at graves I haven’t seen in years.
Halfway here and neither there,
I feel the pulling of the Earth,
she wants my body to endow
what she claims is rightfully hers.
There’s death around me in the Autumn air.
How glad am I to leave this place. For now.
For now I’m safe as I can go,
aware of how, in some, uncounted, years,
one might stare here at my grave,
where weeds and flowers wildly grow.
Earth takes me back where I belong
as this is where we all end up.
It doesn’t matter what they will engrave;
long gone am I by then. Let them be wrong.
I made this picture in the woods here, not on a graveyard. It smelled a bit like rot though!
Find the bench under the tree,
sit here now for a while and be quiet.
Listen to the blood running through your veins.
It is the sound of you, only heard by you.
It is your life, and you should live it,
see what your eyes find around you.
No one else is seeing this now, at this time.
Feel the rain on your face, drops curiously touching you,
the wind striking your hair.
The Sun might appear, telling you of warmth.
Do you really need more to convince yourself,
this is you. Need whom you are, it is enough.
Where my grandfather’s father walked,
I walked the same way to the sea;
where his eyes saw clouds above him float,
so do I see them drift in changing shapes,
and though we never met,
I feel him close to me.
My footsteps here won’t last a day,
before the wind blows sand all over,
but once there comes a child to see
these dunes, this water and this sky
and, though we never met,
will then remember me.
Our minds have thought alike in our growth
but soulmates is a word we never use
as if to label it would mean to lose
what now is silently between us both.
The evenings seem more bareable somehow
when shared in company of you and wine
and let the storm outside rage on, it’s fine;
we have the warmth we need between us now.
To have those nights when your arms shelter me,
it gives me courage to go on with life,
maybe it was wise to become your wife;
I never knew though what you saw in me.
(Café Lieman, West Terschelling)
At night the fishermen from Urk* would
drink themselves to happiness next door
in the café where they would sing and dance.
A bright and cheerful murmur reached my room
and in a storm, the men would drink till four,
to over voice the hauling wind outside.
Accordion and singing filled the night,
a woman laughed, some breaking glass, a roar
all covered by the turning lighthouse beams.
In such a cheer no fear of mine it seems
would last to keep me from my sleep; therefore
I slept, till all went back on board.
I heard their wooden shoes above the storm
then only hauling wind, the squeaking floor,
a hungry screaming cat, a woman’s cry.
I’ve wondered much of how ‘t would be
to be in such a night once more
and smell the chimney smoke and beer.
* Urk is a former island in the former Zuiderzee, now IJsselmeer, from which the fisherman had a bad reputation of drinking and fighting when away from home.
This poem about the café next door to the house I grew up in (on the left – the one with the stair-roof (?) and the addition in between the café and the older part), was in draft for a long time, I might as well let it out :).
Some greyish funeral attenders
passing by my house,
while rain is hitting them and hail,
walk silently behind the hearse;
only the last one says a curse
but no one minds. This was his friend.
Old mates they are, and will be to the end.
The truth lies,
I suppose, in what there can be seen.
I know the world, as shown on my TV,
truth, in between the frame rate intervals,
finds ways into my cervix, where it stays.
A tortured Syrian child, the name Omar,
whose nails were torn out, lingers on my mind
then falls apart when a commercial starts.
Not waiting for the rest, I zap away.
From forecast on to football
to pruning of a rose, a cooking contest show.
A Ronny always makes me laugh.
By every second twenty-five
new images invade me more.
But when I go to bed,
accompanied by thoughts of life,
I close my eyes to find some peace
in dreams and fantasy.
The sleep won’t come.
How can I sleep,
as in a corner of my room
Omar is watching me
with frame rate twenty-five.
The trees bend in their waving dance,
it is a storm that makes them grow.
It is my chance to be like trees
when I’m in storms so much like these,
and, as those branches, I won’t break,
I shall be stronger. I can take.