Let us walk up to the Moon…
it’s not that far away.
Let us walk up to the Moon…
Dancing with the deaf
to an emerging loony tune,
played by a lonely angel,
in the eye of the Moon.
A heart beats the drum
of its insane longing
for the silence after death,
the release from clamour.
A soul holds still and waits,
for the shedding of matter,
a reunion with the source,
from whence it gushed forth.
twists around itself,
to catch every minute ray,
and stare dumb and found
at the rainbow
Water still and mute,
entices mighty Moon,
to enter its hallowed being,
for to whisper secrets,
as foretold by the heavens,
of the weaving of time.
Water rushes onwards,
screaming mad with fury,
at the injustice of it all,
to eradicate the slate,
and start anew and wait,
limpid clear as before.
The blood Moon rises,
full-breasted and aglow.
She stands tall and stares,
never once blinking.
Forever bound to Earth,
in a rhythmic dance,
with mesmerizing tides,
of longing and of sharing.
Pulsing, thrusting, needing,
until the monthly climax
brings forth the miracle
of her children’s dreaming.
At last the end’s in sight,
the hurt is gone,
the purpose found.
The light is seen,
now follow through
and start anew.
love has come,
alone no more.
of sacred trust,
given and received.
We have found home,
here or anywhere,
in each other’s arms.
I remember feeling young, so young it feels like yesterday, when I would feel so lost that lost was home and a place where no-one could ever find me, ever, never.
I remember feeling so alien the Martians felt like family, for surely I was not meant to be here, in this place that seemed so very wrong and sometimes it still does.
I remember asking other boys: Why do you hurt me? What have I ever done to you? And they themselves, they did not know the answer, but continued anyway.
I remember loving with a desperation that went so deep the earth would surely shatter, if it mattered, but I guess it did not, for it, it is still whole and in one piece.
I remember hating both my parents for having dared to put me on this clump of rock, where the mere fact of being hurt so much it made me bleed, from unseen wounds.
I remember every single brick of that shaky wall I finally built for myself to ward off any and all evil, to protect and keep me out of harms way, perhaps until this day.
But most of all I remember dreaming, ever dreaming of a world where love would reign and everyone would be my friend or lover, no need for wall or cover there.
And thankfully I do remember finding my first soul-mate to share this private world of mine and then of ours with and being born anew, a member of a kinder race.
Each pore of my love’s gorgeous skinmakes love to me in a most peculiar way.As if saying: stay, please stay.As if I were going anywhere, but there.Her liquid, loving eyes, they scare me,for turning plain, little meinto a giant amongst men.What if she wakes up, what then?What if she sees the broken husk,the crooked tusk, the gimpy leg?What if she hears the throaty whisperof a silly twit, a long-lost git?Can I ever live up to her expectations???
My demons are back, yes… again!,
but instead of fighting them,
I hugged them instead,
thereby turning them into friends,
which surprised them no end.
Gone is the enmity, gone is the fear.
Surprising, what a change of perspective can clear.
Kindness is a way of life, a way of being,
especially gentleness granted oneself.
A thousand books my library
And all are primed, it seems to me
Mine are so few I scratch in thought
For just a hundred of the lot
A hundred books, but of the best,
With wisdom savour and digest
Yet when afar from kin and kith
Of quietness I’m happy with
So as nine hundred at me stare
My lack I’m wistfully aware
Yet as my leave of living ends,
Of love I view a hundred friends,
My sweetheart paints
a picture of magic,
with her body and face,
on the canvas that is me.
With tender feminine grace,
her strokes, they redefine me,
transforming my separate entity
into the best part of her world.
Her world, which is now ours,
is an elongation of time,
where one single kiss
may last a lifetime.
The harridan who holds the inn
At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,–
I’m glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it’s hard to think,
Although my pow’s like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
I courted long ago.
I wronged her, yet it’s sadly true
She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although ’tis you,
The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
And soon lost sight of me.
So now she is a paunchy dame
And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
–Glad I did not wed her.
Yet it’s so funny sitting here
To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
To more and more enjoy
The joke–that fifty years away
I was her honey boy.
From Lieven Grillaert:
How can i tell what is in your mind,
the twisting of your thoughts
has left me wandering in the dark
has left me searching for an answer
its cold and lonely in the dark
where even silence makes a sound
and danger lurks around the corner
and no answers can be found
so tell me please where do i go,
what roads i have to wander
to find that little spark of hope
to find that wanted answer
what keys are there to open up,
the hidden doors to your heart,
so that i can find some needed peace
so that i can finally sleep
If you wish to know the real me,
you should see me with my friends,
my family, my brothers from the street,
those who have seen it all,
and still came out laughing!
Yes, you, you do not see me or them,
you judge, you ignore, you do not know,
what went on before.
My friend Paul, who is no more,
who planted forests in his days,
who had property in Belize,
was found dead and took away,
for stinking up the neighbourhood.
Why did he drink, you ask yourself,
as did I, who drank aswell…
Well, not until my lady died,
did I understand, what he was about.
I came told him the news,
and he hugged me, as friends do,
and told me: “It will pass!”
Then my friend, whom I thought I knew,
told me a snippet of his tale:
“It happened to me aswell, and more than once,
my friend, five times was I to be wed,
and five times they were lost,
to me, the world and their family.”
I queried: “How in the world do you endure?”
He answered: “One day at a time, me boy!”
And now, my friend, dear Paul, he is no more.
No more kind words from his smiling face,
but Paul, you still are here,
for not in a zillion years shall you be forgotten!
Putting memories of misery to rest.
They be best in the grave,
where, no harm done,
they may lie safe.
I’ve no need of pain, no more.
I cut the bonds of these old sores.
But still, somehow,
the emptiness remains.
I saw your soul and fell in love.
One naked glimpse of your feminine perfection
has changed my world forever.
You can not unrock my universe, ever!
Even though you choose not to be in my presence,
your presence will always remain in mine.
You would persist to give me form,
to conform to your norm,
but NO, I am but me, just me,
I wish you could see, just me.
To call me a poet, to call me a cad,
is an injustice to me, me old lad.
For to add an adjective to a soul
is an insult to the being.
I do not need your perspective
to exist, for I merely AM,
yours, ours , but mostly just mine.
I wish you were blind!
For to see is an illusion,
to hear is a betrayal,
I am pure energy, I ‘am’!
NOT your opinion, so sorry, but NO!
I shall spin a web of wily tales,
for spiders to ponder,
and mutter in wonder:
“A marvel ‘t falls not asunder!”
For bees to buzz around,
inquisitive-like and nosy,
and perhaps to drop some honey,
to sweeten it even more.
Fire-flies ‘ll burst into flame,
at the magic of its splendour,
asking themselves the meaning,
or the purpose of this riddle’s plot.
And the pixies, they shall come,
from far away in faery land they’ll flock,
to carry back these tales of light,
to the King that holds all secrets.
For Him to proclamate aloud to all,
and p’rhaps even to sundry,
this news of great portent,
that a true bard is born again.
To the memories that are no more,
that never were, that were just lies,
to illusions of the hope-drunk fool,
I raise my hat in jest, I smile forlorn.
I turn to dream instead of that sad wake,
though wakes are for those who passed,
and pass I shall, pass on to another now,
a now of one and not of two, and not of you.
Through the strands that connect the stars
flows a sense of ripeness like old wine,
a nurturing warmth that knows no harm,
that flowery feeling of budding spring.
Gathering lighted souls along the way,
it winds forth through newborn space,
and patiently, but steadfast doth create
a cradle of perfection for all living beings.
When eternal Love
vomits you out
into naked matter,
you may shiver…
But the memory
till it’s time
From Give me Light:
I am the light
in the shadows
of your mind.
can not be extinguished,
even after death.
A flower I shall be,
little pretty me,
fragrant as a belle,
with quickening sap.
And burrowing roots,
to feel for my friends
and to gossip a while,
with inquisitive bees.
To smile to the Sun,
and bow to the Moon,
to prepare for that day,
that might come too soon.
To release all my children,
who, bourne on the wind,
sail to faraway corners,
of this fair land of Green.
To lie in angel’s arms,
sheltered by its wings,
carried to the stars,
to the Mother-of-all-beings.
Cradled in the heavens,
spirited to blissful sleep,
in the divine womb of She,
to wait there for rebirth.
Cuddled against siblings,
who in forgotten dreams,
float on the gentle dawn,
of a new tomorrow.
Graciously translated from Turkish by Okkan Kuş:
Nobody is speaking a language I’m like …
That nobody believed a deli …
Even the author, reading a book …
Who never played a song …
Never had not been asked a question, I’m like …
In the crowds, there are, but I’m not …..
Kimsenin inanmadığı ,bir deli…
Yazarının bile ,okumadığı bir kitap…
Hiç çalmayan, bir şarkı…
Hiç sorulmayan, bir soru gibiyim…
Kalabalıklar içinde, varım ama, yok gibiyim…..
If you want to get a favor done
by some obliging friend,
And want a promise, safe and sure,
on which you may depend,
Don’t go to him who always has
much leisure time to plan,
If you want your favor done,
just ask the busy man
The man with leisure never has
a moment he can spare,
He’s always “putting off” until
his friends are in despair
But he whose every waking hour
is crowded full of work
Forgets the art of wasting time,
he cannot stop to shirk
So when you want a favor done,
and want it right away,
Got to the man who constantly
works twenty hours a day
He’ll find a moment somewhere,
that has no other use
And help you, while the idle man
is framing an excuse