My eyes are blurry,
being old I am released –
from judging others.
“My eyes suddenly start to fail” (c. 1060, Mei Yaochen)
Collection "Thinkles Lusionless"
She is old, fidgets,
before sitting down she fans –
the dust off the chair.
“Makura no Sōshi” (“The Pillow Book”, 1002, Sei Shōnagon)
Punters only buy into words
if they believe there’s worth.
I’ve been begging for buyers
before premature birthdays.
Let earth spin unaware –
never questioned its axis.
Hid from the anxious parties,
continued chewing table cloths,
then choked on the spike of a train stub.
Not much value in a decade thrice lived –
standing on the coast in yesterday’s underwear,
a teenage busker sits between hip-hop legacy
as new marble faces arrive in constant rotation.
I’m waiting for my estranged brother dance,
who ran out on me despite his free diary entries.
Desperate for reunion. Bitter for the jives lost.
I’ve stepped further than I ever pictured
but I’ll never walk away from the stalking wolves.
Cubs are warned but continue to ignore all advice.
Lions that scrap with the pack tell me to enjoy the plains.
So I forget the bites and burn this poem in my future face.
Poem #24 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. Coming to terms with getting older.
I charged at the enemy, slashed,cracked,pierced wounded and killed.
The ecstasy of fleeting lives, still stale eyes, a ****** reached.
***** mingled with feces, kidneys cooked by grenades, a scent
of the battlefield.
I am in diapers my ***** now mingled with feces faces of nurses
scowling. Words abandoned the mind, my skin a wrinkled cloth.
Scars of a warriors pride long faded. I can taste no more, my sight
a sea of shadows, whispers cling to my ears. I long for battle cries.
I use to breathe now I'm bedridden with tubes and diapers.
no sleep no rest no peace nor death.
I wrote a poem called the old lady, this one is about an old man.
The wheels are worn out,
they become stuck, with a crack –
the old cart crashes.
in underwear, he's fragile –
a shy boy again.
“Geel touwhaar” (“Yellow rope hair”, 2020, Raoul de Jong)
I have felt old today
the food squeezes my gut
and the words slip away
out of my torn nets
With some ifs and buts
I can still participate
calmly and comfortably
riding in a sidecar
or showing the way
only a joke if it works
Inside, I am collapsing
I often go for a ***
but nothing comes out
of my head and my hands
I have a chat with the neighbours
For me, no thick enjoyment
between golden bars
or sitting between
for attention and the future
of acquaintances and family
I'm just tired, so
you shouldn't want anything from me
I've celebrated it
forty, fifty, sixty, the ten-
year steps of my life
have been preserved as memories
among the countless parties
of others, just like me
aging and remaining who they are
even though something starts
not to correspond in the mirror
When did that happen?
Was I present?
With my friends?
On forgotten in-between days?
When my hair thinned, my skin
weakened, and I became different
from how I feel – everywhere
where I touch myself
it is still familiar
I am ageless in life
with a deeply rooted pen
that wants to continue to enjoy
the taste of the deep
water, filtered through the earth
sunk from the present
Collection "The Yellow House Museum"
Like leaves of autumn
our longings still are blowing –
up in gusts of wind.
Collection "The Big Secret"
Asking for my stick,
and for my glasses, that's it –
my life without you.
“Zo zal ik dan worden” – 1 (“That's how I'll be” – 1, 1980, Louis Paul Boon)
Collection "Here &Now&"