In the pearl of the morning
Watching the dew tears
On unfolding Spring
Your face appears in mildly winking
Amongst other past features
Of uncertain times
And I am with you now
Cloud to cloud, blue to blue.
Love your smile.
It will stay with me
Till afternoon rain.
What you can see in raw light is more than a wishful thought,
A mere bribery of the mind and a dream never sought.
The yellow bulb is no light by itself but it gives
The thought you can see, in what stays, in what lives.
Over sea the moon is a lamp but it’s only reflecting the Sun.
Hear the sound of the night and the song of the birds:
Memories shared, told with no words.
A fine day it was when the light has been kind,
Morning and evening, thoughts like flames of the mind,
Pictures were taken and now all is done,
Everyone’s sleeping. The shadows move on.
Raw light is fading as hours go by,
Emerging – the dreams, like birds – how they fly.
The apple of logic falls, obeying Newton,
Clinging on to the earth.
A massive, irreversible bond
Is growing between them.
But how willing is the apple?
I can pick it up and throw it
Back into the branches.
That is the power beyond
The wise man’s calculations.
And you can add a fallen apple too.
Words have their weights, some sink
Right to the bottom of one’s soul,
Some never make it rising from the ink
Remaining as a meaningless experiment.
My first thought of you
is a nearly dead fish
stuck on a Sunday
in the fishing net
of a vessel in port,
drowning in air,
at where the sea
was his home
while the clean-shaven fisherman
is in church listening
to the preacher’s story
a fisherman as well
and the same name too,
he almost feels holy
with pride blushing cheeks
while in his net
a fish dies for nothing.
My first thought of you
is that nearly dead fish.
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.
There is no ordinary day
just memories repeating,
so you say, and I agree.
We watch a bird in perfect slide,
a special moment, happening
a thousand times
on every ordinary day.
Because there is no comparison, I want to be with you,
because there is no reason but desire, and no other way
to tell you than by clumsy means of my endearment,
while I’m trying to acquire more than is for me to have,
because you know this and keep silent. Because of that. I live,
comparing drifting, changing clouds with faces and with you.
And he stood before his tent
watching the damp of the morning
and he knew all was well. Bit chilly perhaps.
“I am only eight,” I said.
“Then I am eight too,” the man said.
It was a real shame he thought so.