I am lost, so what

can I say? Nothing other --


than that I don't mind.

I am not myself,

I'm in love, I am waiting --


for him for hours now.

For children's sorrows

there's mama, as a hanky --


which doesn't cry itself.

Also worlds that we don't have
and have not even experienced
we can cherish, skaters
on the canals of the eleven cities
and those of Amsterdam

We know it from photos and
paintings, fashion from grandma's time
pharaohs, Indians and dinosaurs
the splendour of microorganisms
and the blue ice of glaciers

where cows now graze, the love
on the faces of strangers
which I look at again and again
or a drawing of a little trip
with the three of us on a bicycle

We save it all
somewhere inside us, in the world
which we built ourselves and
where we feel more at home
than wherever

My world and I were

growing, as long as we grew --


death did not exist.

He's very jealous

of his wife's dearest loved one --


whom he has to play.

The row of medals

divert people's attention --


from his worn-out suit.

The white butterfly

moves, to save it, I quickly --


put out the candle.

Look at the hippo,

then you'll cease to be amazed --


at human beings.

Brave from drinking, care-

ful after the drunkenness --


the army attacks.

The veteran fights

on the battlefield, at home --


on his survey maps.

They say it doesn't mean a thing
Because we are just mirrors
who kindly greet in return

But still, the baker knows my name
and the postman is happy
that I'm home

for the parcels
for the neighbours
'Happy New Year'

Looking forward, we keep heart
with good tidings, even though
they say it doesn't mean a thing

that in the rest of the year
calamities will smoke again
crimes and fear, what is normal

will get out of sight
even though you witness it every day
and that we will amuse ourselves again

with the ambulant judge to reinforce
peace with the right, and that is all
it means, they say

I enjoy writing

tear-off calendar poems --


The same every year.

New Year, I choose my eyebrows
Star, Paris or Princess
the lines of my happiness

as the edges of my view
and I protect myself with scents
never leave the house without

this assurance of the blessing
from above, the red carpet
on my fictive way

Stretching and extending
with graceful bows
of love to prevent

that my body sags
that's all
what it is about

being on the way
to a balance
until the evening comes

And tomorrow
the next day
the next year

There is no message

in the bottle on the beach --


So, what shall I write?

Who of the great saints

has lived up to all of them:


the Ten Commandments?

Our unconscious mind

is very dark, so we dream --


of the dawn of day.

More and more, we speak picture
language with digital icons of Home
Heart (in the colour of the moment)
Envelope, Clock, Arrow and Bin

but icons of paint and blood travel
with us in their world of gold leaf
as portraits of the life
we like to live

thoughtful and attentive
like a ***** bird
showing its feathers

and not camouflaging itself
in the attire of its neighbours
colleagues or pictograms

Beauty: a flower,

two people in love, or three --


high bar releases.

The Knitting Needles Museum
has a prudish name
that frightens the schoolchildren
and obscures the oppression
of desperate and ***** women

The torture museum
and the war museum also
lack the inspiration
from a muse
They are monuments

and should be called that
With the unbuilt museums
of destroyed art and
ancient cultures, they can
fill a street in any city

'Ecce ****', behold man
the noble beast, the master
of things and nothings -
virtual and vanished
worlds that are unlivable

The Friesian horses,

stepping in black cloths with hoods --


and snorting with life.

Who are you, you elusive
mermaid in my story
of desire and boredom?

My story, my story
of shipwreck and beach
beach, beach, pebble beach

Washed ashore, thirsty
and shivering of exhaustion
awakened by the hot sun

Beach, beach, pebble beach
washed ashore, delirious
from hunger and alone
all alone with you

dancing in the waves of the sea
the sea, the sea, the waving sea
and my story, only my story

is sailing past this beach
beach, beach, pebble beach
mama, mama, grandma

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday
Thursday, Friday, I'm doing my best
come soon, soon, don't leave me alone

We broke up and now

we give our little sweet words --


to a new lover.

We danced to a new year
in the utopia of the music
and the Golden Oldie
songs of love, longing
and sorrow that live
in our lungs

and emerge unpredictably
all of a sudden from the depths
of our breath
caressing or storming full
of experiences that make us
feel who we are

and what it's all about, seize
the eternity of our lives
in the stream of our breath
which is also the breath of others
while we are completely
engrossed in our presence

It intrudes, kicks things

upside down and connects me --


to people: music.

In sanding sand, we stare at the sea
we dream dreams and hope hope
we wish wishes and we listen
to the wind, the dancing wind
dancing a dancing dance for us
the dancing wind, dancing wind

Today is today today
we dream dreams and hope hope
we wish happiness after happiness upon happiness
and we desire what today, today
must be the day, today today
mercilessly today's day

that laughs his ugly face in my face
and pushes us with pushing pushes away
our dreams and wishes and best intentions
our desire to dance in the wind
dancing a dancing dance for us
the dancing wind, dancing wind

The night sky is full

of thunder-strokes and lightning --


from my intentions.

The hour has struck
Immediately we forget the time
and wish each other all the best
and boredom

that blessed can do everything
with the peaceful ticking
of grandma's clock without the hands
of an agenda that calls Action!

New Year, the realization
that time in ourselves never passes
In one body we are years
of experiences that are not closed

but do themselves well
on new discoveries and occasionally
set us thinking
about how it all comes together

My heart is awake,

a beehive crowded with dreams --


bringing me honey.

I am that woman
who takes a few steps and then
stands still in the wind
on her face, my skin

feels the world
new, the cherry trees
this walk to the store
on the corner around the corner

cars parked next to the sidewalk
are so much more than the view
of the windows all around, the gardens
chimneys and clouds, the wind

on my face, my heart
touched, pounding
in my throat, three times
I take a deep breath, only then

do I walk along the traffic
away from the cherry trees
to the store on the corner
around the corner

The year-end question:

How stupid will I be, with --


the majority?

After her reproach,

the street noise only slowly --


returns to his mind.

Prying loose a wire

without appropriate tools --


will cost you some blood.

He caresses her

tenderly in the moonlight --


at least her shadow.

The birds sing for me,

yes, they like me, and the hemp --


seeds next to my chair.

Come and visit us,

or do you prefer to wait --


until I am sick?

I'm looking for words

to understand my unease --


Oh, it is so vague!

A downpour, open

the door, then we all watch it --


not saying a word.

They are racing past

and they take it for granted --


that they're still alive.

They are ponderous,

real men, no, nothing boyish --


recognisable.

I'll resign, I will

no longer bear and downplay --


what keeps happening!

I know father well,

he is happy to see me --


though he doesn't show it.

Visitors are briefed

of how they should say thank you --


for the reception.

The elderly man

is between living and dead --


famously asleep.

You'll find pointlessness

when you search from the outside --


for any purpose.

I hesitate to

address him, so intensely --


wearily he smiles.

Left and right, voters

all are unfortunately --


against welfare cuts.

So you do love him,

you really love him, so much --


that you admit it?

Just become little

to really get great enough --


for humility.

Do you have to be

social to address anti-


social people? Well?