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Last will

On high ground in evening light, how nice,
the sea before me seems so undisturbed –
Terschelling island waiting for the night.
Not much is wrong here, the lighthouse beams
shine over quiet waves.
A legacy of ebb and flow,
the scene I want to pass on
to my children’s children in my will.
This gift of nature,
a dream to start my night with,
in pink and orange wrappage. Will it be mine to give?

Then, seagulls, trapped and dead in bright
blue nylon, wash ashore and start to be part of a nightmare.
More and more the rising sea proves to be
a giant bowl of plastic soup.
Unsavory. Unprecedented. Ugly, made of useless nonsense
like 60 years of waste, my life, in balloons, bubble gum and bags.

The wind is howling now and disapproves.
I close my eyes. I do not want the day to end like this.
When I wake up the demons of the night have washed themselves away.
A seabird screams and leaves, the sea, a mystery again,
waits for the new tide to repeat,
a little higher every day her movements,
giving back to us all the nasty spillage of her human vomit,
leaving us our home-made killing legacy.

I wrote this poem yesterday to perform this morning for the participants of the Springtij festival (symposium) here on the island. As it is an international affair, I did it in English.

Question tags

Hands not forgiving, eyes for closure; you and I not going to happen, are we?
Mermaids on the run, storm approaching, autumn starting; no chance of a change, is there?
More of what could have been, less happening; life is a waiting room for some, isn’t it?
Maybe question tags have a reason for existing, for keeping open a weary doubtful mind.
Haven’t they?

At drift

I’m drifting and the sea gets rough,
the salt is on my skin; the cold and deep I am within –
an ocean of forgotten demons.

It was different when I still had you.
Sometimes I think I see the light of an island
in my sight, but never I can reach the shore.

I drift once more, the beach behind me.
I know that I can not rely on someone else to find me.
This is my own survival task.

I shall not ask for lifeboats nor for heroes.
I am alone as it must be. I am at drift and free,
no matter where the tide will take me
to be my final destiny.

The lodger

Death moved in with me some years ago
and will not leave.
It pays its rent in ticking clocks,
I hear it sigh in squeaking floors and howling wind,
and dust reminds me it is here to stay.

It sits opposite me at breakfast in a silent grumpy mood.

I put a brochure of a cruise on its plate today,
hoping it will take the hint
and pack its stuff, and go away.

 

thought

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.

The road twice taken

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’

Future, remember?

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.

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