Stillness echoed long and loud
Among the waterlilies out,
And was repeated by the trout
Who would not move or swim about

Silence reigned at morning come
And into noon the world kept mum
Noiseless sunlight beams become
An unforgiving tranquil thrum

I came upon this place by chance
Where time had stopped its ageless dance
Mirrored waters at first glance
Who’s picture put me in a trance

Not a single sound was heard
Not a cricket nor a bird
Perhaps a fly that soon demurred
To stillness that here reigned unstirred

When at last my mind awoke
From its dreamlike state, I spoke,
Attempting to still make a joke
Of shunned fire without smoke

“By god! the Farmer had his way,
All he took, he would not sway
But not to cry, he’ll surely stray,
And give up his terrain some day”

Quick I left this place that not
For any living thing begot,
Besides the stillness of the spot,
A single thing to tempt but rot

Even in darkness there is still the moon.
Even when something is gone there's still our memory.
Unless we forget.

I think that sometimes
I nod my head too quickly
It’s not that I disagree,
But I answer
Before I’ve attempted to make up my mind.

Luister daar aan de deur
Gefluister, gemompel, geritsel
Wat is dat?
Sssst, wees still.

Verroer geen vin, wacht
Smachtend, naar geluid
Op de mat
Zonder dat je wat zeggen wil.

Je hoort, bent
Een soort van
Blind.

Gespannen, tot
Je plots dan
Vindt

Wat je zocht, zo stil voor was
Dat een tocht, te horen was.

Luistervink.

Last night I dreamt
Of music
And theatre
Front row seats

I could see
Every expression
Every fake tear
Every barely hidden laugh
Like I was in on the joke

There were some others
Too, I think
People I knew
People I loved

Together we smiled
There, in the front
Upon plush red seats
Numbers 88
To 91

Until suddenly
BOOM!
The air ripped me apart
Only a second of realisation
Before that world was gone

How queer the sparrow looks,
Flapping through the air.
A flash of brown, a muted sound,
Near, far off, and there.

Quick they hide among the leaves,
They neither jump nor twitch.
Behind the threads a spider weaves,
They utter no cry or pitch.

And so our little sparrow sits
There on a crooked tree.
Among the colours where it fits
And where we cannot see.

If I were a painter
I would capture your likeness
When sat under yellow light
Playing games at the table
Or bathed in the flickering glow
Of a campfire underneath the night’s sky
Your skin a playing field
For different shades of red
So I might remember
With perfect clarity
Your contour that I could see
Sitting opposite of you

Perhaps when I
Warn myself
Of unrealistic fantasies and dreams
I forget that there
Is such a thing
As unrealistic nightmares
Too

I cannot romanticise the fact
That I have no clue what I mean
My thoughts are an uncoordinated scramble
Here this
That
Something else
Something something
Something with meaning
Elusive words I pass through like mist
It is cloudy in my mind
I itch to knock on a door
And have it be Clarity who opens
But I only ever stand on the threshold
My feet glued to the ground
As a voice calls “come in!”

There’s nothing so soft makes me cower
As the ticking of a midnight clock
In this still and quiet hour

I sit, enveloped in the thickest dark
Comfortable and all alone
Upon my mind this echo leaves its mark

I’m free to contemplate without the noise
Of day’s loud vibrant life
I'm left to think of choice

Were it for this soft sound to leave my ear
Then I'd face true solitude
Not sure if that would a bane, or dear

Oh! For true silence, yet I daren’t mock
The quiet ticking of a midnight clock

The way that we perceive the world
‘s entirely depended upon
The way we wish it to be perceived,
and what glasses we don
Though from time to time,
we do not realise which we wear
Or we might forget at all
that they are even there
And then we think that what we see,
is clear as day and true
Discounting other eyes that view
the world not as we do