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Two feet going forward
one foot at a time, giving
every step a new direction
on the tracks of change

Who's in charge here?
the eye sees the path to go
the ear hearing fresh winds blow
the mind seems the one to know

Yet two feet shape their way
going further step by step
to targets and to destiny
where things come round

All is choice and choice is all
links together build the chain
of small events in a stream
flowing to the great blue sea

Eelco van der Waals
1 August 2025
Hospital bed
like a boat in the night
drifting on waves
of uncertainty

machinery blinking
on the pulse of your arm,
beeps on and off like
a lighthouse at sea -

your vessel reaches
the harbour of dawn
where white-coated sailors
enter the gangway

bringing news and measures
of a safe journey home after
a bumpy ride. You disembark
on shaky feet in gratitude.

Eelco van der Waals
29 July 2025
Time

Time is a tube that
connects you to ever
the past at one end
and the future the other

Time is the moment
this photo was taken
your first year at school
with your class in the yard

The looks are still there
expectations forever
caught by the shutter
that day in the sun,

decades ago now, many
hopes later. Still learning
what life is connected
by time.

Eelco van der Waals
Home is a roof
like a hat under heaven
as a shelter for dreams
that drift in the night

Home is belonging,
tune in and becoming
is to land on your feet
and stand in the light

Home is the heartbeat
that echoes the silence
home is the soft wind
caressing your face

Home is the love that
you give one another
turning your shed into
the world’s dearest place
Let me tell you a secret
bout The Meaning of Success

1. Go away
2. Do other things
3. Come back
4. Find what has been there all the time.
Family, the feeling
of a simple life,
interconnected,

a village in time
where things rhyme.

Childhood memories
mingled with the present
we live in,

pillow talk, fathers
and mothers gathered
and making their point

at the end of the day
before sleeping, together,
your hand on my chest

and mine on your thigh
till the end of Time.
Poets taste letters
on the tip
of their tongue,

make lines out of
nothing before

sleep gets along.

They sit and they hum
and they write

in a streetcar at noon,
in the heart of the night.
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