#netherlands
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Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 12:20 AM UTC
Dad says it’s a disaster,
so I start talking faster —
they don’t want to hear
about the tiniest things I fear.
They’ve got their own fears,
they’ve shed their own tears.
But how could they be sad?
How could I not be mad?
When my dad says it’s terrible,
my grandma calls it unbearable,
I just think it takes too long —
and maybe they’re wrong.
Rob Jetten, their future prime minister.
Yeah, it’s not perfect — not even close.
But I don’t need perfect,
just a dose
of something good,
a small spark of hope
on this slippery slope.
They have female-led political parties,
people who smile when they speak.
And here — in Poland —
if I saw the man leading left,
I’d run,
or hide,
and hope not to be seen.
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 3:18 AM UTC
keep the photographs
the city is overexposed again
take more walks in the nearby woods
the world we knew as children
watch out for frogs and detonators
mind the wires
new aerial boundaries at dawn
no one steps inside by choice
adapt to the proper order
and no sleeping under tables
the reflection tower is a good place to start
tourist trap, a certain approximate
bring the thing under the couch
in case of an unexpected visitor
more nightmares cut out of the newspaper
what is an Astra 600?
three different hat sizes
Hannie says yes to ménage à trois
the joy in discovery
the joy in forgetting
like God without a compass
not a lot, just forever
Jan 2, 2023
Jan 2, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC
I am in Netherlands,
Through my university course,
Has allowed me to travel across the lands,
Of the beautiful Europe,
Me and a friend have come to lend a hand,
To farmers for voluntary work,
Which is also a school on the farmland,
For kids who can't achieve the mark,
Who can't study in the normal system,
I am in the pure countryside,
And it is beautiful and majestic,
There are fields wide,
Long clean canals blue,
It is a beautiful sight,
I cycle looking at this view,
The sun shining golden bright,
The wind blowing past you,
The dim villages at night,
It feels nice to be away,
Away from the fright,
This is what I like,
This is,
The Dutch countryside
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 1:43 PM UTC
You told me that your name was Maria,
And that you came
From the Netherlands,
But you looked more like a Latina,
With flowing dark hair,
Perhaps a natural tan,
I was in love,
So much in love,
But I let love pass me by,
All through my life,
So much of my life,
I have let love pass me by.
You left me with a casual ‘I’ll see you’,
But I looked for you
All over London town,
It’s like that I was paralysed with fear,
I could have sworn
I saw you on the underground,
I was in love,
So much in love,
But I let love pass me by,
All through my life,
So much of my life,
I have let love pass me by.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
what i cant understand
is how people can write poetry about the flowers
or the sunshine
it just seems so irrelevant
when there are so many more beautiful things to write about
like your dainty, thin, long fingers
and the way your lips emit a tiny bit of air when you pronounce ‘th’ words
your towering, awkward, bony body
loosely, limply entwined in mine
that make up your gentle, comforting hugs
how melodic your voice is, almost lulling me to sleep
your contagious, animated smile
how you write as if embroidering the pages
gracefully, an art
and the words float mid-lines
reflecting how your thoughts float among the clouds
doolally detonations of enigmatic pure excitement
over the most extraneous of matters
your eyes, the captivating bluish-steel of a mid-winter night sky
their flare, and the way they light up when you maunder lovingly of such passions
alas perhaps, poetry about plants or the weather are just as beautiful
but i
would not know
for even the planet, and nature
and sheer beauty of life
seems pale
in prejudiced comparison to your radiance
and how bright you make
my insides feel
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Mustard sweaters in the Mauritshuis,
scattered ashes at the foot of our bed.
We run, run round in circles,
till the stars drop out of their cat's cradles and into our laps.
Empty paintings and glasses frames,
dozing atop anarchist literature in the back alleys
of some distant treasure island.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.
Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.
Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.
At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....
The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.
Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...
And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.
We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.
And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....
Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC