it is my first full moon in leiden
and the chambers of rain have stayed away

the black tanks of the canals are covered with a different skin
they whisper a different oath of light

thick with silver and uncatchable
often times it is just beyond the breaking of the waves

or tucked away in some cobwebbed corner
but it is always there right before us

that dangling fragment of mystery
that single note of light that can change everything

and if we wait and are patient enough
we will come to understand that it is not ours to hold

or own
but ours to always look for

I cannot eat this.
Eat.
If I would, I´d feel like puking.
Eat.
I don´t like the texture, or the taste.
Eat.
I am not even feeling hungry. Not that I ever do.
Eat.
I don´t like the color and form.
Eat.
It is mushy and weird.
Eat.
The thought alone makes me sick.
Eat.
I do not want to eat this.
Eat.
I will feel sick.
Eat.
I cannot eat this.
Eat.

I was on my usual morning commute, succumbing to the ease of autopilot, when I happened to glance out my window at a magpie. Our eyes met, just for a second, and in that moment, I dissolved from mindlessness into pure joy.

A smile overtook my face as I felt nothing but this beautiful creature’s gaze upon me. I felt his unbotheredness - huddled against the wind, keeping himself warm without complaint. In that micro-second of silent conversation, I sensed his quiet affinity for life—his gratitude for the earth, which, day after day, provided him with food, and for the sky, which so effortlessly offered him passage. He wastes no time lamenting, only enjoying.

It was with that thought that I realised: we are the same—on a parallel commute. Him, guided by his intuition, and me by mine.

mother
with infant armed

walked the seaweed
and stones

further out the strand
her dogs galloped black

against the gulls
dull the blue skulls

of mussels
dropped shattered

on the path
and grass

along the cliffs
the sudden sun

breaking the grey
so silver

on the surface
of the sea

gathered before such things

we become light
we become breath
we become the wild gods within

on    we    we    wa         laughlapping
ce              re      ter         in the tided stands

on    we    we     fi           gathered
ce              re       re          at the feet of our fathers

on    we    we     li           cast clear
ce              re       ght       in a winter’s night

on    we    we     ai          perfectly winged
ce              re       r           from rope and swing

LEARNING TO BE. . .

been dead a week
before I knew it

thought the world had gone
a bit transparent

people walking through me
like ghosts

only I was the ghost
just couldn't get used to it

bit boring being dead
nothing much to do

except hang around old haunts
and try to remember who

the hell I am
who I used to be

and what

happens now
I mean is there a part 2 or what

or is this it

and when does Heaven arrive
or

does it?

I watch the rain
falling through me

my 3 year old cries
her tears hurt me

I want to cry but
- can't:

*

A friend of mine "died' for a couple of minutes and I asked her did she float to the ceiling and look down upon her self or go towards a beautiful bright light at the end of the tunnel only to be turned back? Instead she said she saw herself as her own ghost trying to get used to "this being dead lark" and watching her little girl crying over her. She thought: ".. if this is the afterlife...it *****!" and made a conscious effort to come back and come back she did! Dying wasn't for her! She is at the moment living...happily ever after.

The thought I meant to write
was lovely and serene, but gone
before I found the words to make it stay.

Perhaps it had the wrong address, was meant
for someone else and fled, embarrassed to be seen
instead by me;

Or maybe it was floating free
And somehow blundered into me
But barely made a dent and didn’t stay;

Or it could have been a wayward dream
Stranded on this side of sleep
Waiting for the night to slip away;

Most likely just a thought of mine,
But one I couldn’t grasp in time,
And remember as the thought that got away.

if i could
give one piece
of advice

it would be
to learn from
the past,
not live in it

the world’s got a habit
of chewing you up,
spitting you out
like a bad cigarette.
it doesn’t care
how many dreams you’ve got,
how many scars
you’ve earned.

people will smile at you,
talk about hope
like it’s something you can hold in your hands,
but they never mention
how it slips through your fingers
like sand
and disappears
before you can even grab it.

they tell you
there’s always a way out—
but you know better,
don’t you?
the exits are all locked
and the keys
are hidden in places
nobody bothers to look.

so you drink,
you smoke,
you **** up again and again,
and maybe you smile,
but it’s a lie,
a desperate lie,
just like everything else
they told you.

the truth?
the truth is,
no one’s coming to save you,
no one’s going to rewrite the rules,
no one’s going to put you back together
after you break.

you’ll just keep going,
because what else is there?
and the world will keep spinning,
chewing,
spitting,
until you’re nothing
but dust in its mouth.