Tag Archives: time



No longer stuck


between lines

not knowing

what to say next

balancing life

and death

between what was and what is

between nothing and less

but still.


Yes, I tried

to hang up

a hundred times

but now I am

spinning slowly back into the hive –

white and pale, humming

along tunes

balancing on a line

and piruetting out

of a box –

to Nolongerstuck

between loves

between hate and love

between lost and hive

between lines.


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Still waiting for the Barbarians


O, Boring rhetoric speakers

With your government made laws.

We all know already

All that you have to say

And loose ourselves in thoughts

But today-


Assembled in a waiting room

A forum with only one

White window, only one

Question – When will they come?

We are waiting for a sign

– O Barbarians!


You shall be so dazzled, confused even

By empty streets and squares.

Only ministers / predators parading

In emeralds and togas carrying

Their canes of gold

While we are waiting here

– Waiting to unfold.


When the night is moving closer

Our excitement grows, but then

We are dazzled, confused even, there are

No barbarians coming, men tell us

Who come in from the borders,

Waiting as well.


And when the night keeps falling

Borders, mayors, home secretaries, the Queen herself

What are we going to do now?


She walks home from the city’s main gate

Cleans her crown of jewels for auctioning, and we,

I guess we’ll slowly leave this room

Maybe leave one or two behind.


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Asked me

Why write poems?

I chase myself with words.

But maybe I am already ahead.

A stone can’t write a poem about me.

Or try to define what I am busying myself with.

Laying one cobble after the other or taking off into the woods.

It does not really matter that I’ll never finish the job as

poetry allows meaning that is diffuse, not settled.

Just like we are not settled, change always.

You can not take the same step twice.

So I try to weave the patterns

I am quick to glimpse.

It is not possible

to stand




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Soft stones

Strawberries sitting on hillsides, it is

just after a train crash and

all is silent when they meet

a phone rings but he does not pick it up.


She de-ices winter also, claims

nothing but that it does not matter if

to him The Milky Way leads nowhere

and bells sound mornings in.


Heaps are growing on ground, again,

and somewhere mid-air

silvery shades dance as she puts his hands

to span her stretched navel.


All the distances he ever walked join

one another and two-quarters

of a circle further down he takes

pictures of a scream, emerging skull.


Suns still set and toilets still flushed

as she made waves, again and again,

squeezing sand through an hourglass

the mother became.


It had nothing to do with them then;

Crashes and Quakes and Faint

suggestions in creamy bathroom mirrors

he never mentioned, and she

never told him about pebbles

screaming to her from beaches,

curling up between them in bed.


Now growing a stubble he leaves for days.

And she sits around in a big gown

listening … as the paperboy makes his round.

It might have got something to do with

the circles in which we stand, helpless.


The last breath of a child,  the two

of them there, left behind.

He closes his dental practice.

She goes back on the pill.

He misses the pain he causes

more than the teeth to fill.

She wishes there was something

else than time to kill.


She puts her hand to the radiator

but it is always cold.

She tries to call him

who does not answer

ignoring her breath

like the ice ferns.

In her dreams he is a stone.


She stays inside, fills a thermos

to see her through the winter

watches millions of flakes fall

yet fail to cover ground.

His hibernation is in skin

that razors can not touch.

Trembling under cherry trees

his memories refined.


She used to pose to make turbans turn

and flip flop across any market

in no time to embrace him in words

about mangoes, cardamom and

wherever next to go.


Autumn leaves fall again, paint vivid

premonitions, touch faces as they pass

not picking up on such simple clues

with disarranged hair, dishpan hands.

His bike is in the shed.

All needed is some air.

She is still, there.

Only the cupboards are talking

helped by a perfect Johnny Walker

to her head against the table.


His head turns at the traffic lights

where a woman in a pink over-coat

crosses the street, slowly

before through the cold she floats.

He is frozen, feeling sick,

and starts to melt

then and there

In another part of town

white sheets wave the winds

to move on by.


They are nearly there

(time is a ring, an oval)

Two ice-cubes sliding down

the slow unlearning-curve of life.

In the midst of it all

she is shaken

fumbling through the debris

looking up, on her floor

stands not the paperboy.

He takes her hand and leads her

(with thermos and two cups and saucers)

up steep narrow stairs.

Outside, lifting his chin to the air

he throws the question out –

Where does heaven begin?

But is already there.


The sound of dainty china

She says I am only starting to fathom

then lets out a laughter to share.

A child is walking now, slowly,

along a beach, zigzag

between stones that are orange

then throws one in the air.

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Life in-between

Like a stone, solid
By the brim of the sea
If there is more to it?
Only waves beat me.

Fragment, segment, ligament
Meet bone, rock, meat.
I was an excavated sphere
Conquered, emptied, forgotten.

Now I lay bare and
only the sun licks me whilst
dried grass pricks my skin and
I remember that face smeared

with marmalade and smiles
but my blood
will not
make rivers here
this is not
my final resting place.

I just want to memorise the skies
sculpt the clouds on my skull
their complex pattern of catacombs
the way a swallow flies.

It makes no sense to wonder
so I lie still and pray
not to close my eye, encircled
by fossils wanderings and a gliding vulture.

The spread of my wings, their weight on the ground
my ear to the earth and the ticking of time.
If anything can be known
it is out of the mind.

Porous, dissolving
I am at home
but will be going back.

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At the temple

Enter at own risk

You mild-mannered friendly labourer

with soft tongue, generous spirit

as impatient, foul-mouthed,

aggressive they stand.

And kneel before an altar, any

to count the rice.

There is no time to

take your smile off.

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