Archive for July, 2013

The flatness of water

All water lies horizontal by nature;
the field of water is straight,
a mirror of the skies, our solid base.

Water reminds me of you, the smooth surface
not telling of the deep underneath.
The ice you can become.

If I see a wall of water, it means
I am on a capsizing ship ( and I was,
but the ship got in port in time) .

Water always stays in line,
flat as it possibly can be.
all molecules well-ordered.

Just some of them are surface,
others never make it to the light.
There are no hills of water.

Until a breath of playful air
turns logic overboard,
a twirl, waves, white foam of anger.

Then sea regroups
and flat again
she will continue.


We built sand castles
and around us children
walls of old fortresses
were tumbling down.

But the sand held on
to dreams and truths
till we let go the grains.
Till we watched sand be smoke.

Around us grown up lies won over,
dark clouds emerged and
later from the sea
a cold mist came to chase us home.

All was gone now,
but the sun could still be felt
in the palms of our hands.
In the depth of the moment.


Meanings changed after what happened,
words seemed the same

but they were no longer exact.

The dictionary needs a dictionary.
The word for love stopped describing it,

and pain, what is pain.

As a Capricorn, I have Scorpio rising.
This means something, so they tell me

but I am not sure what.

The words are mediocre reflections
of general common notions.

Hidden meanings keep us thinking.

Maybe all poetry should rhyme to satisfy,
there ought to be a standard,

I want so much to reach you. So I try.

Somewhere in the middle, or the start,
or in the end perhaps, of all words is the word you.

It is all words. The heart.

What is the meaning of you? How
I meant to be a friend, a “you” as well,

but somehow “you” means more now.

You mean more now. Again the truth has bent.
Trust had my latest attention

while, like them all, you went.

Harbour men

Eyes that look dried up,
leathered skin faces
that are salted barriers,
hardened and silent:

Men near a harbour seem to look the same
where ever you are. Surrounded by seagulls.
Blue anchors on their arms,
and they smoke. Or they chew tobacco.

Sometimes they laugh about something
that happened a long time ago
that they tell each other every day
adding a bit to the story each time. To make it better.

One by one they don’t return in misty mornings,
one by one they are forgotten, but the story gets
better by the day, until they are whispered myths themselves
and the last harbour man walks away into damp.

Burning moths

Oh yes I remember that the nights were buzzing.
Cats opened one eye and slept on,
they were old but they waited to die later.
Though the street was a path, the road all gone,
a weeded way to my doorstep was all you needed.

I waited for you and listened while soft rain fell.
Meanwhile waves would bring in shell by shell on the beach.
As buzzing insects died in candle flames,
the cats slept on. Home was us both.
You said you found me by the track of shells.

I hated sound of rain and silence each,
the covering of crisp small deaths in light
that made me cry, before, unexpectedly at night,
the door went open wide and it was you once more.
No, I didn’t cry of you but over moths, I tell you now.

Years later when you lied here beside me
and rain was pouring, loud like always,
buzzing insects cried. You never heard them. You say
moths don’t burn in candle flames. The roof went leaking,
some cats died, children came and moved out.

The buzzing went on though, like your stay.
By then we had found reasons, as you told me
why the past was us, that we were like all seasons
and night owls had to die once, anyway.
You seemed to know why life was cruel.

Why did we keep the plates, knives and scissors, the love,
after eating, cutting food, paper, getting offspring –
because we might need all of it again, you said.
Because we can not do without.
But did we really need the candles?

And you would always look for good alternatives,
trying to find the reincarnations of moths in butterflies,
long after the longing, after the dining, the wine.
The children have their own breed now. Let’s save a night owl.
We need not burn the candles anymore.

Reader’s block

Maybe it’s me. I am getting more stupid
and I can’t understand what I read, nor feel
the hidden meanings of poems, but it could
also be that the poems are the problem.

I try to see an image as shown in lines
but I don’t know what the words mean or should say.
I try to follow an original thought
but get lost in weird constructions that bother.

What others tell me, I suddenly don’t hear,
my daily read is not even disturbing.
This must be reader’s block then. Does that happen?
I am not into Neruda and Shapcott.

My mind needs to unwind from the poetic
and only take in light, not absorb the dark.
Maybe it’s me. I am getting more stupid
and can’t understand the words nor the real me.

Summer Night

We are numb by the lasting heat wave,
our bodies wait for the night to pass
and nothing lasts in our memory.
Words we said once, now keep a distance
and stay hidden in wall paper shades.

Here we had children, in this old bed
they came from you and me together
from another world, another time
here they started. Here we shall end too.
The curtains dance on the thunder drum.

Why do I think of life and death now,
as lightning seems to want this moment
kept for eternity, you and me
and the furniture that knows it all.
Our naked bodies have no secrets.

The sheets are cold in this time machine,
our bed, a cover for a moment
as the cool won’t come this night. Won’t stay.
Numb we move away from each other,
waiting for the outburst of cold rain.

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