Sunday, 29 May 2016

A Triplet On Three


Three X crowned, stoned or scented, I roam
Across dried out dikes and along stinking ditches
Grass green, a whirling oak leaf lands on my shoulder

Three landscapes in Holland, a meadow, a forest, a beach
And on my boat shoes I sail over drops of dew, like salty tears
From the North Sea that whips my face with fine sand from an inner storm   

Three holy figures float through my mind, abide my time, fill my life
Take possession of my legs, make me run through the ebb and along the tide
Back home, the trees waving at me and you are there, wet to the skin....but for me....

Wednesday, 25 May 2016

Two.2.The Stanza Came In Two.


Twins or just the two of us, a couple
Is a gathering in the mind of a maverick
A loner who has a look-alike is not really alone

Twofoldness or Janus face, sun or moon, day or night
When rising, the night ends in your brain whether it is dark or not
Awake then and fear not Deborah, she who sings with God is never lonely.

Sunday, 22 May 2016

Just ordinary


I am just an ordinary man
And would like so much to be different

Something artistic or to save the planet
Because making it better is no longer enough

Not myself and not the world
I am just an ordinary guy

And I want to be different from what I am
A self portrait in shades of grey

While I have all the colours of the rainbow in me
And God created it as a sign that He is with us

That is why I sometimes am an ordinary man
And I sometimes sparkle like a rainbow dressed in grey.

Wednesday, 18 May 2016

Children of Astarte


Hard as granite, are the women in my family
But at least granite has its own beauty
The equation is not entirely correct
As is of course more in life
The world suffers from one-sided reporting
Journalism today is all about fables
Lied facts that in the old days were reserved for politicians.

What kind of mothers would the reporters of today have had
They too have grown up with vain certainties of the ‘I am right’
Or means her right only 'for my happiness, my will, my law'
And is therefore every tormented soul now an internet journalist
Can all be traced back to the unfree free childhood
Everybody unique in the same way, children of a stony mother
Only the poet disposes himself of the imposed truths....

....and slashes his way through the granite to his freedom.

Sunday, 15 May 2016

Within a square mile of what once was my home / The traffic lights of Santiago de Chile


A man in his wheelchair
Prudently tacking through the traffic
Red the traffic light

Hand up to each window
Weary asking for a handout
The longer it is red, the better the proceeds

Window open or closed
Open, the car has no airco but does have coins
Closed, the driver can afford airco but refuses the beggar

Dark brown burned in the Santiago heat
No legs in the chair
The man is an ‘original’

There are original beggars
And there are, as they say, professional moochers
There are honest beggars who know no other occupation

Next crossing, an old man on crutches

And one too short leg
What else could this human do here

Friendly tanned face with a baseball cap
He blesses you if you give him some change
I encounter him during midday, limping towards the cathedral

Coloured balls holds the lad juggling in the air
Jesters bonnet on and whistling watching through the front window
Yellow light, quickly collected some small change in his bonnet

A pour child with or without a snot bubble nigh the torrid road
Nearly always a little girl
And mama begs along the waiting cars

Sometimes lottery tickets or candy are offered
A man quickly wants to wipe your windows clean
Also fresh fruits are a popular article

Some are worth the wait
Fresh strawberries or melons of the country
But the people who are offering still are tired

On the TV today proudly the topic
Of the original way the pour of Chile
Scrape together their pittance at the traffic lights.


Wednesday, 11 May 2016

Days of woe and happiness


When the European climate disappoints you
Tears of onions will rain in a Chilean vegetable garden

If a freezing cold in a wooden Finnish cottage
Dispels the summer season out of the heart of Sweden

When a smug Dutch lackey plays golf
On the remains of a beergarden in Singapore

If an Afghan teenage girl without burka
Speaks fluent Frisian and skates on thin ice

When Christmas in German style flourishes
In flowerpots on a wall of rice paper in Japan

If that is why the summer explodes in your heart
Aren’t you exactly at the place where you want to be

Sunday, 8 May 2016

When you and I were


Doom
The sun is setting
Sky lines

I watched the birds
Fall into the sky
When you and I were

We did not stop
The world from
Growing chill and cold

Too busy with
Throwing birds
Into the sky

We fished
The leaves
Out of our hair

The forest deep asleep
We did not make a sound
When earth was leaving us

When you....[your name]....
And I....[my name]....
...[nameless]....were.

Wednesday, 4 May 2016

Family breakfast


The sound of boiling water
The smell of melting butter
In the frying pan

Just before the egg is broken

The alarm ticks
The yoke whole
Or yet to be scrambled

The water boils the T made

Rosy warm out of bed
The folds from the pillow
Still in your cheeks

Shuffling in your pajamas

Down the stairs to below
Can it be otherwise?
Look the sun shines through the windows

Mum and Dad already at the kitchen table.

Sunday, 1 May 2016

End game.


Who calls it betrayal
When the offspring revolts
And what does it take to provoke

Dark as your skin
So black is now my soul
And what is the dark in which I plunge (you)

What pain that I pre-experience
Do you pass on to your dearest love
And yet what is death in times like these