The rock bank hangs down

from my feet into the air --


under the water.

The rompy tomboy:

a belly with arms and legs –


dancing in the grass.

The row of medals

divert people's attention --


from his worn-out suit.

The rustling bamboo

encloses me, I look up –


and follow the birds.

The ritual after work
in the dark at the end
of the evening twilight

The dim light of the low clouds
in 1883, when the nights in the country
were still black

The farmer stoops
poking a dry smell
from the weeds of the day

It lingers
in a plume of smoke
above the sparks

It's the old story:
Everything Becomes New
Everything Becomes Young, so cruel
is the beauty of life

which sacrifices adults
to their fault
their most grievous fault
of ageing

They still can stay, wise
and competent or not
if they give up their place
earlier than they are ready

Maybe they will then understand
that they also have jockeyed for
position in the past, and even worse
that nobody has benefited from it

so that sacrifices to youth do not exist
There are only real needs to sacrifice
the wasting ego to, and let's hope
there will be hospitable compassion

My darling is gone
the earth pushes tidal
tears up through the sand

sails in the east
round me, signs
upon them, I walk

for miles
to spartina and seepweed
and fro to the beacon

build a stone tower there
break stone for stone
read word for word, listen

and build writing and
singing sentence for sentence
our love again

The sand, lying down

and blasting up, this is how --


the beach is breathing.

The sand wants to be

here, or on the other side --


not in the middle.

The scent of flowers
                                              
goes to my head, and my legs –


start dancing around.

You on your balcony
with a memory
a sweet memory
a sweet night, silence
you on the balcony, I in the room

dusky mists a glow
over the city, like then

when you woke up from the high
numb and clammy
a few men still
fishing, the scent
of the wide small world

of ground fog, that atmosphere
just stepping over all the years
from that grass to this balcony
a memory to share
over all the daily worries

The sea encloses

me, my scream comes back to me –


because it can't swim.

The sea is whitened,

the sand's blown up in the air –


secure from the flood.

Behind the tears between my heart
and my head love is shining
inexhaustible I think

the clouds are just knots
and in rain love is pouring
too because it's the time

of Aquarius, the sun
of dear people shines
in my heart my open heart

I don't fly I am
strong because I have become
so and that makes me

beautiful you say with the seal
of the giving moon
and the all receiving

sun on your heart yes like you
see me I want to be, a flower
in our season

The sea near Kijkduin,

dressed in a thousand colours –


in a thousand moods.

These are caring days.

We eat, we work and we bath --


These are perfect days.

The canal is green today
grey in the evening twilight
the precolour of winter

Running engines, winter coats and
heat lamps, little red spots
on the skin of the city

We want to vibrate
not repose with the supplies
We bring light and green into our homes

into the insides
of our existence
an eager feeling

no boredom, no tardy time
no long fixed hours
in the low sun's sidelight

We make plans in autumn
we clean up in spring
we repose in summer

Complementary to the season
we feel that we are alive
An eager feeling

The sea used to be

an ocean, because smaller –


was everyone's world.

The secret lovers

get caught between their kisses --


Their future closes.

A teenager again, ignorant
of what I want, confused
of all kinds of things, seeking
what I need
and discovering what not

I dream of freedom
and still wish to learn
the secret rules
of ***, the interplay
of eyes, skin, and hands

how to step across the threshold
and expose myself
with another person
to the mystery
of maturity

The sense of how large

the universe is, makes man --


both little and great.

The sense of human

suffering is awareness:


global attention.

The sentimental

people chat to explore their --


growing consciousness.

These rotting pieces

of youth, desire, and trauma:


my own manure heap.

The set of singing

bowls is glimmering to please –


waiting for my stroke.

The *** Ed booklet:

man and woman hand in hand --


keeping their distance.

The sexton enjoys

lamenting about God's love --


and the vale of tears.

The shadows are long,

I'm waiting, it's getting dark --


it's coming closer.

The shaman welcomes

the spirits, their wisdom is --


sweating from his pores.

The journey is restless, but
the ship is marvelous
It's a beautiful ship

Unfortunately without ship gnomes
to help the whole lot escape, no
there are only fools on board

who sing songs of freedom
and toast to distant beaches
Alas, we get off our course

The magnetic field loses strength
and the north pole is shifting
Ports remain unread

Sessilia grab us by the keel
growing anchors to the deep
of the restless water

The unreachable moon draws
a sweet scent in the salty air
But who could live there?

The short summary,

summarised just one more time:


Wait! What's it about?

After jumping I learn
between tears and laughter
with steady partners
the silent steps

Sometimes I cry for later
always about bygone days
and their repetition
as if they have to be redone

Dancing I also think
about the pleasant things
that are not possible and
that I am released from

although I miss them
which I reconcile when I rest –
through an old crack
fantasy sneaks in

and there is what was

The silverfish slips

away after exploring --


the floor, which is cleaned.

The silvery sea,

through cloud veils: the glinting sun –


cuts into my eyes.

The single greatest

economic power is --


bribeandcorruption.

The sitting room makes

me feel like I have to walk --


in a gliding way.

The sky is clear blue,

the day is new, I am free --


from expectations.

The sky is glooming,

the headwind tires me, I wish –


the moon was shining.

The sky is yellow

and the deep blue sea turns black --


Light in the houses.

The slowed down breathing

of the towering water --


walls of the ocean.

In bed, in the dark
below the **** I hear
the hum of the river

vessels curve heavily
loaded in the bend
of the slow time

where we never venture, knowing
what happened to that boy
whom nobody knows anymore

where we swim in summer
a few strokes to
and fro in the bay

build lookouts
and are bored
with the creep of

the little waves
the long barges
the slow time

peering
at new cars or other
cargo on deck

The small grocery

is a dark hole, the front room –


of a hoarse old mole.

When my friend comes
I don't have to do
anything to make things
happen, shamelessly

we are who we want to be
we let warm breaths
play with happiness
in our blood, and exchange

words for bites
of peace in our belly
- the small world
...of contentment

...in the big world
...of striving -
until we are satisfied
and stop laughing

The snow has erased

the roads, a blank sheet is left --


to devise new plans.

The snow stops traffic,

all I can do is stand still --


with my own shadow.

The soldiers scurry

away from what I don't want --


and not can believe.

The songs of that time

were our world, the places where --


we saw each other.

The sound of the wind

and the water comforts me --


Tell him of my love!

The Spartan women,

sitting on the salty shore --


are combing their hair.

The speaker pauses,

he is impatient, but can --


force himself to wait.