I kept entering, feeling those
Old wooden floorboards under my feet,
Bringing me back from the outside
Where birds flew right through me,
While the wall paper bit you to pieces.
Unseen I had stood in front of the window
Looking in, watching us being apart
In black reflections until the door opened.
Warmth and promise came to approach me and so
I kept entering, feeling those.
With every church clock bang further from faith
he rises to absorb the Sunday morning,
reading the paper to comment the world
while his old dog sighs and waits patiently
like once his wife did, before she disappeared
into the fading wallpaper.
After the ringing of the bell the silence
Becomes too much for him to bear
And his own voice has nothing to say anymore.
He leaves the house to take the dog for a walk;
At that moment rain starts to pour and will be pouring
Till the moment he returns home. His dog knows this.
Remembrance as we had the time now;
Memories of the roller coaster kind
Came towards us both, apart in distance only.
We relived moments that lively existed in our past.
Where will your wonderful mind be with all you know
After every sun we ever saw will have set forever?
We didn’t wait for the moon to black the sun
But how we felt it, the cold grey silence,
that proof of nature’s sudden death. Do you remember?
We felt it apart from each other during that eclipse
when ducks were sleeping in the middle of the day,
and trains of memories passed us when the sun had mostly faded.
We waited for the evening bird to sing
Away our weary thoughts, while holding hands.
The bird was late, we thought it lingering
Nearby, but silent, as it might have other plans.
Some shots were heard of a hunting man’s gun
Who must have aimed at our singing bird
As nothing happened and the night went on
Without its lovely music to be heard.
Then, there the singing started in the tree
When morning came along. We were content.
So lovely was his song for you and me.
He gave his best a while and then he went.
I found the bird with open eyes but dead
That morning, in cold rain and greyish light.
A bullet had destroyed its lovely head.
Its last song had been ours that very night.
The hunter died within a week from then.
No one could understand his sudden death.
In days he had become a weak old man
who spit out feathers taking his last breath.
😉
This could be yesterday, for all I know
Closing my eyes as I don’t want to learn
New thoughts meandering in speeding flow:
Affection should not be something to earn.
Could I ask you to make the fire burn,
put the kettle on when you go down below,
ask anything from you at all? I yearn
for more affection but I can not show.
I hear your heavy footsteps as you go
From dark and loud till light, of no concern
To me as I sleep on, and shall be so
Deeply at peace awaiting your return.
Has this been today now or tomorrow?
Have hours passed since we were to adjourn?
The bed is cold and empty in its sorrow.
I feel I want you badly as I turn.
Why are we to forget and what not so:
You make a list with pro’s and con’s, both sides
Have meanings clash, as if the world collides
With facts from outer space when we let go.
I have forgotten age. Maybe it hides.
Why are we to forget and what not so:
A Winter’s night, a lovely time, the snow,
Or how we both felt during evening rides.
Have meanings clash! As if the world collides
With things, exceptional enough. Don’t know.
Now I don’t care if such a list misguides
Why we are to forget and what not so.
Some things are better gone than make us low
In better, worse, the high and lower tides
Have meanings clash, as if the world collides
If we arrange our minds with facts in row.
Now all has been errased, and that divides
Why we are to forget and what not so
Have meanings clash, as if the world collides.
Me leaping abysses between your words
While nothing happens above surface, yet
We haven’t had the time to find regret.
Till we’ll both fall, we wait for when it hurts.
In vacuumed time let’s think of how we met:
Me, leaping abysses between your words,
you listened to the singing of the birds,
Time on our hands, the deep no threat.
While nothing happens above surface yet,
The cliff shall wait, the waves seem nervous herds
Of wolves claiming our past, they won’t forget
Me leaping abysses between your words.
We hear the surf sing in harmonic thirds
Stand, unprepared to watch the sun go set
While nothing happens above surface yet
The meanings of our love phrases – absurds.
We jump into conclusions as I let
Me leap the abysses between your words
While nothing happens above surface. Yet.
Roads Book 1 contains hundreds of poems about the Road to the Other and the Road to Ourselves.
I am very pleased to announce the book, published by Winter Goose Publishing in California, is on Amazon.com and will be on other sites like Barnes & Noble. Kindle and Paperback.
Forget what has been said in nights long gone.
It doesn’t matter how and who was right.
Let go of all the troubles and move on.
It will be day again, it will be dawn,
Already birds are speaking about light.
Forget what has been said in nights long gone.
Think of the mother, and the curtains drawn,
There is no fear, no cold, she holds you tight.
Let go of all the troubles and move on.
Your childhood nightmares want a rapprochement.
With all the sleep you lost and dreams in spite
Forget what has been said in nights long gone.
Remember only kindness, and you might
Get rid of anger, pain is a forgone.
Let go of all the troubles and move on.
There is no need to wait and be withdrawn.
What happened should not rule, as once you might
Forget what has been said in nights long gone.
Let go of all the troubles and move on.
Between those moments without air
I breathe in whatever the sea brings me: tar and salt,
diesel and dead seaweed. The air before evening.
Here on this dune my world looks well enough:
Sky still blue, calming waves, the ongoing sound
of the north-western surf. Here I can breathe.
Crows. They approach me to include me
in their secret. I see their souls. They understand
I need some quietness and ask no more. But then
The church bells ring for yet another funeral,
The foghorn starts, my world now fading
into mist. I return home to suffocate again.
Moving on
The Balance
National Poetry Writing Month 2012
Ina 
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