Category: Poetry

Wish list

I want to move weightless
Even when the whole world strains my back
To fill the space between words
With boundless time.

I want to rise mountains,
With a whisper;
To learn to wait
Not counting time…
Just one stretched moment.

I want to feel everything without being touched
To live between many perspectives and none.

I want to want nothing,
For a day or two,
And then…
I want to want everything again.

I wrote this as my wish list for last year on a plane back to Amsterdam (Jan 1st 2020). They say that goals should be specific and measurable 😅, but I’ve always been the stubborn type, who likes to walk against the horizon. I don’t know how to move weightless. Yet. But I’ve learned how to cook 😅. I cannot rise mountains with a whisper, but I bought so many plants that my room has its own weather system 😂.

Inception

Today…

I tried

A
G
O
Y

For the first time,

I sp lit
a pair of twins,
conjoined as they were
by the roots,

And saw a brownie
Turn into a tree.

(Baked 40 minutes)

Nowhere did it say that
trees grow darker
at twilight.

So I threw ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ the crust ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ away.

 

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Writer’s block

I only feel the white wall
and the sleep
the not yet universe
where galaxies, lost children
are playing hide and seek
till end of time.

What was there before the spark of creation,
before the spoken word?
A thunderstorm ?

Inspiration comes as inspiration goes…
as with dreams, I remember mostly the bad ideas.

(Big Bang

It felt
like an inside out depression,
where all the light trapped in a black hole
was flooding out
for the first time in eons.

They say that joy is
to never want anything to change,
Yet we
we are blessed to never call
behind
home
again.

Home
is the map:
a book where all the empty
space
is shouting,
the author has changed their name,
and the title?

Who could digest an eternity
that has just begun?

Lost in translation

pics.png

Heavy yellow stones and one dark-faced monkey,
I’m sitting down, pretending to be funky.
She looks at me, and scans me up and down,
You’re not my type, cos’ you’re from outta town!

I try, explain, that we are all the same,
We laugh, we cry, no matter whence we came.
She says, no, no, you cannot understand,
I’m sorry, yeah, but cannot be your friend.

And so it goes, united by the wall,
We face the light, that down on us does fall,
I contemplate, and cannot comprehend,
How could it speak, so I can understand.

The grammar of emotion

I can never remember a time,
when people were still collecting stamps,
tabulating the symbols,
of letters not yet sent,
never to be sent,
many of them,
duplicates.

In my time,
in my book,
I’m collecting just names,
and their faces,
the post office has moved,
from downtown,
everywhere,
and the faces,
the names,
are still waiting for letters…

Strolling down my collection,
a lone finger sends waves to the crowd,
moving back, moving forth, till it stops,
pointing one name at random,
It’s the first on the list.

Open window,
And send:
Worried face,
A thumbs up,
Then a quick middle finger,
Laugh out loud on the side,
Zipper mouth, dollar eyes,
Throwing up,
Then an eye roll.
Goodbye!

I can never remember the time,
when I sent away my last letter.
The post office has moved,
from downtown,
everywhere.

Silent whisper,
has become our exchange.

With no words,
only signs,
intertwined,
disconnected,
by the beautiful,
grammar … of emotion.