Far from clear of his intentions
She looks at the screen of her phone
Where his photo comes up, his grin
As usual friendly as if a smile,
His words talk about difficulties in life
And she starts to think he is in prison.
He might have murdered his wife
Or done something else upsetting
To the laws of his country
Which is still the EU
But it could also mean
He has no money. Or has gout.
She offers him mental support
But he stays silent once more.
In the mean while
Another man appears out of the blue
And she hates complications
So she decides to sleep a lot
And not think of England anymore.
This side of the island has an artificial barrier to the sea.
At night sheep sleep in the grass of the sloping wall.
Nature at its best for a country with no nature left.
We walk here, hand in hand as if afraid to lose each other.
In the sky that is cobalt blue above us, stars are dressed up
just like us, for a dance where we only drank beer.
And the sheep snore. We step among them, carefully letting them sleep,
a woolen sea of peaceful mutton. Then one awakes,
and starts to scream, waking up the herd. You say ‘I love you’ as we run.
Trying not to think of you is trying to think nothing.
It doesn’t happen in between memories and dreams of you,
nor when I work or walk or whine. No beach is empty enough.
Trying not to think of you – I do not have the time for that.
You linger in the words you said, and every time
I hear them, thoughts of you keep molding clouds of you.
Water-circles form as I skip my feelings one by one,
they might sink deep but you submerge to fetch them anyway.
As I am writing this, someone on tv is talking sadly
about someone who carries your name. I am trying
to forget you but I do not have the time for that.
I am trying to think nothing. Always waiting to forget.
It is not easy to think nothing I think.
It could be on a sailing ship:
you recognize yourself,
or you might learn whom to be
in a landscape of snow,
in a desert, or night
with only stars as your eyes.
It could be in a message,
you find your own heart.
It might come from your knowing
a confidant hurt you,
or your friend is a foe.
It could be on your death-bed
as you accept you existed
not only on paper but also in me.
It could be anywhere, sooner or later.
It should be right here though
and it could be right now.
This could be a poem 🙂 it ought to be.
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.
The more I watch the room in shades you fade from memory.
The more I think of you, the less I know is true.
There is a reason for most insects
and for colours, flowers, snow
and sunshine too.
There is a cure for many pains,
there is an answer to all questions,
there is hope they say and wisdom, love,
and for Christ’s sake –
there is you.
The more I think of us the less I get it.
The more I watch the room in shades, you disappear.
Most insects have a useful talent.
I love most colours, flowers,
snow and sunshine too.
There is no cure for just not knowing,
for failing hope and fading memory,
for knowing less while I’m deeper thinking
and for Christ’s sake –
I’m not finding you.
I am having a period of just not grasping life. It will come back to me surely 🙂
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.