she feels the thought as physical, a wart, and it grows
under her skin, it glows in her bones, lava,
yet it also occupies the room she sleeps in,
walks with her and keeps her company as a slave
while her mind wanders off to the day.
the thought lives in her arms and wants to possess her,
and she lets it enter, time after time, the lover he is,
entering, staying and entering in new proportions,
new appearances – this overwhelming thought
that she could be herself again, and finally be safe.
Two times I walked as if on air
Two times the road appealed to me
And who was I not to go twice there
As foolish as a woman can be
Who thinks to love a man is easy
The first time seemed the road too good
With better views at every bent
So sunny was my loving mood,
But I had never understood
That he was not to be a friend
I made mistakes, a lot, but still
I think I came well through the dales,
And climbed my way back up the hill,
Forgotten was my broken will
But then I fell for storytales.
The road ahead has darkened much
I have no clue to where it’s leading
I only know I want his touch
As I have never felt as such
As when I lived his sweet words, reading.
after Robert Frost’s ‘The road not taken’
Again imagination and the sea go well together, the surface
a mirror not to be disturbed. Sailing vessels at a distance.
Room enough to forgive myself and others for having imagination,
for having thoughts that might do well on tempest waves
where one goes overboard quite easily. You seem nauseous enough already.
I like it calm and boring, and would have my days with you this way.
There is a lot of deep out there that we could look at, hand in hand
and shake our heads before we smile and take the slow walk back.
All turmoil seems a waste of time. The day would end with wine and
music somewhere playing, with spending night in safety of each other’s arms.
It was here on the beach that your Fedora blew off
and you ran to catch it, years ago already.
I didn’t think you could go so fast.
You gave the hat to me and made a photo of me wearing it.
An ordinary happy day. One of many. Unimportant.
Our life together.
The sand has moved, the sea came and went.
Millions of grains, thousands of tides later nothing has changed
except you are dead now, your hat torn and gone.
Happy days are like that, they mean nothing, they do nothing,
they are nameless days on calendars with no real events,
until only sand is left. No more you. No more Fedora. It was all wonderful.
I felt a wave of dying men, and heard their cries, and smelt the river mud
that came from beige and brown. From Somme and Rhine.
I stood where they had been, in Summer
to see what they had seen: the sun, a bridge, a girl and death.
Sometimes a wave tells horrid stories on the beach, a restless voice recalls the bitter times, and I walk by; it is not always meant for me to hear, but it goes on for ever.
I need awareness of the whole we are, the earth and us, the birth, the pain.
You feel my love, I feel you far away and almost gone. There is no telling who we are in all of this but we are part. We dwell, move on.
I feel the peace that we all find one day, it lies deep in ourselves. The first, the last man knows, and in between, we live. We love. We can’t do more. I am aware that deep inside, where we are one, we are alone as well.
The waves well know a way to reach the borders of the sea
and touch the beach if only for a moment;
there is no telling what they’ll find on solid ground.
Is it the thrill of something never found?
Why do they keep on trying to be where they can’t stay?
Waves are forever dying in achievement
with all the history that forced them onto land.
Like me they strand, like me they disappear
as only for a moment I am here where we can meet
and no, I won’t be waiting.
sigh. sometimes nature speaks wisdom to me 🙂