patchwork poetry
Frayed words
April poem challenge
April fools day
Good Friday to April Fool's
Seven days, new rules,
One week, one life
My mothers.
Her peace is found,
No more the sound
Of her voice,
Or the stroke of her hand.
I find her now
In the eyes of my sons,
And the tilt of
My daughters head.
Open the void,
I am there,
Maybe time, and lament
Will stitch this great rent.
Good Friday to April Fool's
Seven days, new rules,
One week, one life
My mothers.
Her peace is found,
No more the sound
Of her voice,
Or the stroke of her hand.
I find her now
In the eyes of my sons,
And the tilt of
My daughters head.
Open the void,
I am there,
Maybe time, and lament
Will stitch this great rent.
2nd April
I stand in the shower water runs hot down my body,
my feet standing firm whist my mind soars freely,
Tenuously thin threads hold me there,
That snake around my head like medusa's hair.
Each thought twists and turns, they fight to be seen
Like snakes, those with the bright coloured skin,
Grab my attention. Maybe some lie in wait
with two fangs filled with poison.
This is my space, just me and my Medusa hair,
A repetitive ritual adding rhythm and flair,
To the thoughts, to the meanings,
some conclusions, some misleading,
Whilst hot water's still streaming.
I'll stay standing here.
I stand in the shower water runs hot down my body,
my feet standing firm whist my mind soars freely,
Tenuously thin threads hold me there,
That snake around my head like medusa's hair.
Each thought twists and turns, they fight to be seen
Like snakes, those with the bright coloured skin,
Grab my attention. Maybe some lie in wait
with two fangs filled with poison.
This is my space, just me and my Medusa hair,
A repetitive ritual adding rhythm and flair,
To the thoughts, to the meanings,
some conclusions, some misleading,
Whilst hot water's still streaming.
I'll stay standing here.
3rd April
Iconoclastic. Bombastic.
fighting world,
flaunting word,
divino jure?
Sabotaging futures,
Iconoclast. Bombast.
Damaged peoples,
Strained ideals,
Truth under cover,
Death and rubber,
Icon. Bomb. Gone.
Our Fertile Crescent,
Our human ascent,
Our faith in humanity,
An utter calamity.
Iconoclastic. Bombastic.
fighting world,
flaunting word,
divino jure?
Sabotaging futures,
Iconoclast. Bombast.
Damaged peoples,
Strained ideals,
Truth under cover,
Death and rubber,
Icon. Bomb. Gone.
Our Fertile Crescent,
Our human ascent,
Our faith in humanity,
An utter calamity.
4th April
The first,
The burst,
The start gun blast,
The second,
The second
My heart's blood burst.
The third,
The flood
Of force flows free,
The fourth,
The course,
Stretches out before me,
The fifth,
No time
And muscles strain
The sixth,
Is quick,
No waiting game,
The seventh,
Some zenith
I'm still striving for,
The eighth,
My place,
Within this race,
The ninth,
Truth chimes,
My race is nearly run.
The tenth,
Is nigh
The end is in my sight.
And at last,
I can see,
This life,
This race,
This one, two, three,
It's purpose,
Is purely,
Transformation
To clarity.
The first,
The burst,
The start gun blast,
The second,
The second
My heart's blood burst.
The third,
The flood
Of force flows free,
The fourth,
The course,
Stretches out before me,
The fifth,
No time
And muscles strain
The sixth,
Is quick,
No waiting game,
The seventh,
Some zenith
I'm still striving for,
The eighth,
My place,
Within this race,
The ninth,
Truth chimes,
My race is nearly run.
The tenth,
Is nigh
The end is in my sight.
And at last,
I can see,
This life,
This race,
This one, two, three,
It's purpose,
Is purely,
Transformation
To clarity.
April 5th 'death shall have no dominion'
This family, this gentle hub, this centre of familiarity ,
I press my nose against the window pane to see
What games are taking place inside, whilst I roam free.
But the games are inside me, the freedom I don't see.
This centre of relations, this gentle hub of lives,
we swarm around our queen, like bees around a hive,
But now our queen has left us in this friendly nest,
This centre of our life, leaves us bereft.
This gentle hub, relationships of family,
Let's not pretend to
Understand humanity,
Our queen is now alone
I want to go to visit her, with my youngest son.
She lies there. beautiful yet cold, her spirit has flown,
Her face unlike the one we all had known,
My son, just twelve but emotionally full grown,
Lays his small warm hand above her resting heart,
the other on his own.
My breath, it catches, a bridge from heart to heart
My mind is turning, I never want to part
This child, who from his own delightful spontaneity
Has acted Orpheus with his now departed Eurydice
For him the generation difference has no hold
His action is a lesson to be told,
He teaches me,
That wisdom, love and hope come in all varieties,
This family, this gentle hub, this centre of my reality.
This family, this gentle hub, this centre of familiarity ,
I press my nose against the window pane to see
What games are taking place inside, whilst I roam free.
But the games are inside me, the freedom I don't see.
This centre of relations, this gentle hub of lives,
we swarm around our queen, like bees around a hive,
But now our queen has left us in this friendly nest,
This centre of our life, leaves us bereft.
This gentle hub, relationships of family,
Let's not pretend to
Understand humanity,
Our queen is now alone
I want to go to visit her, with my youngest son.
She lies there. beautiful yet cold, her spirit has flown,
Her face unlike the one we all had known,
My son, just twelve but emotionally full grown,
Lays his small warm hand above her resting heart,
the other on his own.
My breath, it catches, a bridge from heart to heart
My mind is turning, I never want to part
This child, who from his own delightful spontaneity
Has acted Orpheus with his now departed Eurydice
For him the generation difference has no hold
His action is a lesson to be told,
He teaches me,
That wisdom, love and hope come in all varieties,
This family, this gentle hub, this centre of my reality.
6th April "better late lune than never"
I am ecstatic,
I'm alive,
If sometimes I sleep.
I am ecstatic,
I'm alive,
If sometimes I sleep.
7th April
A Living Grief.
Dark winter trees stand out from the fog,
like tentative markings on an artist's canvas,
A branch begins to show the swelling of new life,
each new tear like each bud gives potential to this grief.
Each day adds another unique pattern to the wanderings of grief.
My grief, is not purely sad,
just as my life has encountered more than just happiness
This grief moves with me, living in me, and around me,
tangible, approachable, and alive.
A Living Grief.
Dark winter trees stand out from the fog,
like tentative markings on an artist's canvas,
A branch begins to show the swelling of new life,
each new tear like each bud gives potential to this grief.
Each day adds another unique pattern to the wanderings of grief.
My grief, is not purely sad,
just as my life has encountered more than just happiness
This grief moves with me, living in me, and around me,
tangible, approachable, and alive.
April 8th Arrrrrgh!!
It isn't Sunday yet,
And I already need a rest
My brain can't create
As fast as the
challenge has been set.
Maybe what I need,
Is a change of scene.
So a walk by the sea,
And some inhaled green.
when tomorrow comes
Perhaps I will feel,
That scene change was enough,
For the inner poet to reveal.
It isn't Sunday yet,
And I already need a rest
My brain can't create
As fast as the
challenge has been set.
Maybe what I need,
Is a change of scene.
So a walk by the sea,
And some inhaled green.
when tomorrow comes
Perhaps I will feel,
That scene change was enough,
For the inner poet to reveal.
9th April. Haiku for my mother
Wild flowers bloom on Canna,
My mothers haven,
Now her resting place will be.
Pilgrimage to be taken,
In precious boxes,
Ashes scattered to the wind.
On the wing flies her spirit,
Blossoms seeds unite,
Next years flowers shall ignite.
Eternity in flowers,
Sweet pollen her tear,
My mothers love lives on here.
Wild flowers bloom on Canna,
My mothers haven,
Now her resting place will be.
Pilgrimage to be taken,
In precious boxes,
Ashes scattered to the wind.
On the wing flies her spirit,
Blossoms seeds unite,
Next years flowers shall ignite.
Eternity in flowers,
Sweet pollen her tear,
My mothers love lives on here.
10th April.
Crag walk
The rain has stopped,
the earth has dried just a little,
Spring is in the ground,
the air, the trees, the birds I hear.
Limestone juts out of the earth,
making walking difficult.
The silver birches teeter,
Grasping, searching.
The rock acts as a drum,
the trees strung tight,
A living xylophone,
Changing key as they grow.
From major to minor,
The seasons change the signature.
Complicated wood orchestra,
of saplings growing through fallen trees.
The rains have exposed their roots.
They shine in the brown earth,
like hidden skeletons,
Wanting to be found.
this fertile ground rejuvenates my spirit.
Crag walk
The rain has stopped,
the earth has dried just a little,
Spring is in the ground,
the air, the trees, the birds I hear.
Limestone juts out of the earth,
making walking difficult.
The silver birches teeter,
Grasping, searching.
The rock acts as a drum,
the trees strung tight,
A living xylophone,
Changing key as they grow.
From major to minor,
The seasons change the signature.
Complicated wood orchestra,
of saplings growing through fallen trees.
The rains have exposed their roots.
They shine in the brown earth,
like hidden skeletons,
Wanting to be found.
this fertile ground rejuvenates my spirit.
11th April. "Bullseye"
This morning I woke,
I felt you,
You are here to help.
I feel your spirit,
Strengthen me
We dance together.
We are now finished,
Night has come
Sleep awaits us now.
This morning I woke,
I felt you,
You are here to help.
I feel your spirit,
Strengthen me
We dance together.
We are now finished,
Night has come
Sleep awaits us now.
13th April. Heaven and Earth
I look out towards the sea,
an ebbing tide leaves sand waves.
All colours merging into one,
sky, soft rising fog, water, and......
Where does heaven begin,
when the earth and sky are joined?
When does normal life begin
when the ordinary is no more ?
Which foot holes can I use,
If each step I take could falter?
The seagulls glide and in their cries
give purpose to my balter.
I look out towards the sea,
an ebbing tide leaves sand waves.
All colours merging into one,
sky, soft rising fog, water, and......
Where does heaven begin,
when the earth and sky are joined?
When does normal life begin
when the ordinary is no more ?
Which foot holes can I use,
If each step I take could falter?
The seagulls glide and in their cries
give purpose to my balter.
13th April The sequel to her soul.
Like the beating of my heart
pushing blood around my body,
the rhythm of my walking,
gives me some motivation,
forward, sometimes pausing
but never backwards to my future.
This surging of direction,
this forging of my life force,
this, oh so violent Spring.
Repels my silent sadness,
demanding of my senses
to listen, smell, to feel and see.
Whilst my hidden world has fallen,
all the references I've known,
are now cremated down to ashes.
I'm left searching for that question,
that elusive yearning for security,
In a sequel to her soul.
I walk, I talk, I stride, I stroll
I sit, I climb, I stop, I go,
I think, I mime, I try, and fail
Then realisation slowly dawns
The sequel to her soul I search,
Is, of course,
Just us.
Like the beating of my heart
pushing blood around my body,
the rhythm of my walking,
gives me some motivation,
forward, sometimes pausing
but never backwards to my future.
This surging of direction,
this forging of my life force,
this, oh so violent Spring.
Repels my silent sadness,
demanding of my senses
to listen, smell, to feel and see.
Whilst my hidden world has fallen,
all the references I've known,
are now cremated down to ashes.
I'm left searching for that question,
that elusive yearning for security,
In a sequel to her soul.
I walk, I talk, I stride, I stroll
I sit, I climb, I stop, I go,
I think, I mime, I try, and fail
Then realisation slowly dawns
The sequel to her soul I search,
Is, of course,
Just us.
14th April Left Empty
Empty shoes just left in a door way,
Neatly placed, as if they were home.
No stockinged feet near by to claim them.
Where are the feet and where have they been?
Where is the man that left the shoes so neatly?
Placed in that doorway for all of us to see,
Does he not realise that abandoned clothing
Can set a mind spinning quite tangentially
Empty shoes just left in a door way,
Neatly placed, as if they were home.
No stockinged feet near by to claim them.
Where are the feet and where have they been?
Where is the man that left the shoes so neatly?
Placed in that doorway for all of us to see,
Does he not realise that abandoned clothing
Can set a mind spinning quite tangentially
April 15th. The Tree of Life.
If I am the root,
then she was the earth that drew me,
If I am the trunk,
then she was the bark that protected me,
If I am the branches,
then she was the reason that I spread those arms,
If I am the leaves,
then she was the sun that made me breathe,
If I am the Autumn colours,
then she was reason I turned,
If I am her fruit,
then she was flower that came before me,
If I am the bare winter tree,
then she is that beautiful storm that shakes me free.
If I am the root,
then she was the earth that drew me,
If I am the trunk,
then she was the bark that protected me,
If I am the branches,
then she was the reason that I spread those arms,
If I am the leaves,
then she was the sun that made me breathe,
If I am the Autumn colours,
then she was reason I turned,
If I am her fruit,
then she was flower that came before me,
If I am the bare winter tree,
then she is that beautiful storm that shakes me free.
. 16th April. The Bad Doctor
Who exactly do you think that you are,
saying to me all those things that you said?
Thinking you know all that there is to know,
Between our earth and the sky overhead.
I would like to tell you just one little thing,
If you're human, as I strongly suspect,
That whatever you say to your patients and friends,
Remember this adage, as it may make amends
For the pain that you caused at my mother's end.
Please remember fine Doctor, for all that you've trained,
You must never assume that your right,
When concerning yourself with the things of this world,
Like conception, like birth, like death or a cold!
Don't put yourself over, above or beyond,
As you look like a fool, a quack and an arse,
And surely that isn't the Doctor sort of path.
So listen, sit up, pay attention, hold still,
My words may help you to better your skill.
Your arrogance, hatred and general distaste,
Of us people, we're part of that same human race,
We need care, and attention, respect and some love,
But I'm sorry to say, you've failed in all the above.
Who exactly do you think that you are,
saying to me all those things that you said?
Thinking you know all that there is to know,
Between our earth and the sky overhead.
I would like to tell you just one little thing,
If you're human, as I strongly suspect,
That whatever you say to your patients and friends,
Remember this adage, as it may make amends
For the pain that you caused at my mother's end.
Please remember fine Doctor, for all that you've trained,
You must never assume that your right,
When concerning yourself with the things of this world,
Like conception, like birth, like death or a cold!
Don't put yourself over, above or beyond,
As you look like a fool, a quack and an arse,
And surely that isn't the Doctor sort of path.
So listen, sit up, pay attention, hold still,
My words may help you to better your skill.
Your arrogance, hatred and general distaste,
Of us people, we're part of that same human race,
We need care, and attention, respect and some love,
But I'm sorry to say, you've failed in all the above.
17th April.
When I left the house today I took with me,
my pocket full of conversations.
Important conversations about everyday things.
Like love and sadness and a hot cup of tea,
Like spellings or baking and washing the sheets,
about living and dying and all that's in between ,
so when I have a minute I can open up that store
For all that is familiar, funny, mundane and so much more.
When I left the house today I took with me,
my pocket full of conversations.
Important conversations about everyday things.
Like love and sadness and a hot cup of tea,
Like spellings or baking and washing the sheets,
about living and dying and all that's in between ,
so when I have a minute I can open up that store
For all that is familiar, funny, mundane and so much more.
28 days.
March the twenty first to April eighteenth,
Exactly one month has passed,
March the twenty first to April eighteenth,
Only one month has passed,
Nothing stays the same, we are told,
life is about constant change, try not to be attached.
Now the changes are how the breeze blows the candle flame,
how the light makes the shadows fall differently on her face.
Those many faces and her many smiles from a long life loved.
The pictures stand unmoving, but our lives still move on through them.
March the twenty first to April eighteenth,
How has one month has passed?
Today I started to bake again,
Nothing stays the same, life is forever moving,
I lift my eyes to the vibrant blue sky wondering,
if I maybe will catch a glimmer of her wings?
March the twenty first to April eighteenth,
Exactly one month has passed,
March the twenty first to April eighteenth,
Only one month has passed,
Nothing stays the same, we are told,
life is about constant change, try not to be attached.
Now the changes are how the breeze blows the candle flame,
how the light makes the shadows fall differently on her face.
Those many faces and her many smiles from a long life loved.
The pictures stand unmoving, but our lives still move on through them.
March the twenty first to April eighteenth,
How has one month has passed?
Today I started to bake again,
Nothing stays the same, life is forever moving,
I lift my eyes to the vibrant blue sky wondering,
if I maybe will catch a glimmer of her wings?
19th April. Non-sense
The knife cuts, and skin peels.
Sparks of essential lemon oil,
enliven the air.
Day breaks, sun shines,
Sparking paper chain thoughts
in my head.
Unchained, each thought
circles and spirals,
Cerebellum circuits.
The knife cuts, and skin peels.
Sparks of essential lemon oil,
enliven the air.
Day breaks, sun shines,
Sparking paper chain thoughts
in my head.
Unchained, each thought
circles and spirals,
Cerebellum circuits.
20th April Paper Death
Certificate of cremation!
Didn't know we needed one.
A certificate after life has ended?
in a life of paper recognition;
Birth, vaccinations, examinations,
maybe marriage or divorce,
and now even after life.
Certificate of cremation.
Certificate of cremation!
Didn't know we needed one.
A certificate after life has ended?
in a life of paper recognition;
Birth, vaccinations, examinations,
maybe marriage or divorce,
and now even after life.
Certificate of cremation.
Not Blank. 21st April
I took a photo of my son today,
placed it by a photo of his gran,
They look like twins,
An undeniable link.
How perfect for my child,
With no paternal lineage
That is known, to be
an identical copy of his
mother's mother.
I took a photo of my son today,
placed it by a photo of his gran,
They look like twins,
An undeniable link.
How perfect for my child,
With no paternal lineage
That is known, to be
an identical copy of his
mother's mother.
Earth Day. 22nd April.
I exhale and,
I push my hands
deep
into the dark soil,
my nails filling with the earth,
Painful
finger tips.
Today's sun warmed
the earth,
A little.
But earth
has her own momentum.
Autumns abundance,
a dream,
A future of Summer,
asleep,
The long inhale of winter,
Gone.
Spring holds
the stage.
I exhale and,
I push my hands
deep
into the dark soil,
my nails filling with the earth,
Painful
finger tips.
Today's sun warmed
the earth,
A little.
But earth
has her own momentum.
Autumns abundance,
a dream,
A future of Summer,
asleep,
The long inhale of winter,
Gone.
Spring holds
the stage.
23rd Sonnet of Despair
Today I had to hide myself away,
Because my world and I no longer gel.
The question that my brain always replays,
Is why must it be me and this bombshell?
This course of thought requires a little time,
response to which I offer now for free,
To those that do not even have a dime,
Though nothing gained will ever come to me.
The torment that is seated in my brain,
Bipolar is a term that has been lent,
In the hope that it will duly explain
The voices and emotions I am sent.
To my dismay the term means only this,
The outside world can box me as they wish.
Today I had to hide myself away,
Because my world and I no longer gel.
The question that my brain always replays,
Is why must it be me and this bombshell?
This course of thought requires a little time,
response to which I offer now for free,
To those that do not even have a dime,
Though nothing gained will ever come to me.
The torment that is seated in my brain,
Bipolar is a term that has been lent,
In the hope that it will duly explain
The voices and emotions I am sent.
To my dismay the term means only this,
The outside world can box me as they wish.
The Hope. 24th April
I think,
I could.
I wish,
I would.
I hope
I may,
Be me
Today.
I think,
I could.
I wish,
I would.
I hope
I may,
Be me
Today.
25th April. Brain Drain.
My brain has gone on holiday,
I saw her pack a case,
I'd best not get in her way,
As she then might take my face!
My brain has gone on holiday,
I saw her pack a case,
I'd best not get in her way,
As she then might take my face!
26th April. Drop of Silence
I heard a drop of water
fall through the air today.
A single drop,
falling almost silently.
Leaving but the smallest of
Vibrations in the air.
an image, a word, a feeling,
merges me silently,
with,
this single drop of water.
I heard a drop of water
fall through the air today.
A single drop,
falling almost silently.
Leaving but the smallest of
Vibrations in the air.
an image, a word, a feeling,
merges me silently,
with,
this single drop of water.
27th April. Passage of Time?
We meet, we greet, we smile, we embrace,
"you haven't changed at all!" "neither have you!",
"We are merely older" "And perhaps a little wiser?"
We meet, we greet, we smile, we retreat,
those years have left their mark;
a past that was rhythmically beating is now syncopating,
smiles that shadow the past, but now hold no real meaning.
We met....I left......No grieving.
We meet, we greet, we smile, we embrace,
"you haven't changed at all!" "neither have you!",
"We are merely older" "And perhaps a little wiser?"
We meet, we greet, we smile, we retreat,
those years have left their mark;
a past that was rhythmically beating is now syncopating,
smiles that shadow the past, but now hold no real meaning.
We met....I left......No grieving.
28th. Sound Waves
The cold spiral stone stairs filled my senses with their musty smell,
blisters of blown plaster erupt on the ancient walls,
leaving dusty spores of the past,
this first room felt abandoned, dejected almost,
surprising me with how closely this reflected my mood.
Tasseled bell ropes hung lifeless,
I longed to pull the life back into them.
Sounding the bells until they echoed through the city,
giving me a sea of noise to float away on.
Drowning the noise of my own emotions,
a rumpus more significant than the human voice could create.
The sadness, the grief, the sorrow, the anger,
the frustration, the despair, the giddy sense of loss,
would be launched into this ocean of vibrations,
To be lost, to be washed, to be healed.
The cold spiral stone stairs filled my senses with their musty smell,
blisters of blown plaster erupt on the ancient walls,
leaving dusty spores of the past,
this first room felt abandoned, dejected almost,
surprising me with how closely this reflected my mood.
Tasseled bell ropes hung lifeless,
I longed to pull the life back into them.
Sounding the bells until they echoed through the city,
giving me a sea of noise to float away on.
Drowning the noise of my own emotions,
a rumpus more significant than the human voice could create.
The sadness, the grief, the sorrow, the anger,
the frustration, the despair, the giddy sense of loss,
would be launched into this ocean of vibrations,
To be lost, to be washed, to be healed.
29th April. Remember not to Forget.
I remember being 3 and shaking the bars of my playpen,
remember being 4 and the feel and smell of my curtains,
being 5 I remember, sliding down the new roof until I had holes in my trousers,
I remember being 6 and falling from a ladder, breaking my leg and jaw.
remember being 7 and climbing the ghost tree so I couldn't be seen.
being 8 I remember loosing my best friend.
I remember skipping so not to be sad.
remember being 9 speeding down the hill on my mothers bike,
I will not forget falling off the bike and my toenail being torn.
I remember being 10 and my sister going to boarding school,
remember being 11 and following her there.
being 12 I remember and 14 and 17 then,
I remember being 27 and leaving for Holland
18 years later arriving back and,
I will never forget my 3 children I who came home with me.
I remember being 3 and shaking the bars of my playpen,
remember being 4 and the feel and smell of my curtains,
being 5 I remember, sliding down the new roof until I had holes in my trousers,
I remember being 6 and falling from a ladder, breaking my leg and jaw.
remember being 7 and climbing the ghost tree so I couldn't be seen.
being 8 I remember loosing my best friend.
I remember skipping so not to be sad.
remember being 9 speeding down the hill on my mothers bike,
I will not forget falling off the bike and my toenail being torn.
I remember being 10 and my sister going to boarding school,
remember being 11 and following her there.
being 12 I remember and 14 and 17 then,
I remember being 27 and leaving for Holland
18 years later arriving back and,
I will never forget my 3 children I who came home with me.
Tranenthee
By Arnold Lopel
Uil pakte de ketel
uit de kast.
"Vanavond ga ik
tranenthee zetten,"
Zei hij.
Hij zette de ketel op zijn schoot.
"zo," zei Uil,
"Ik ga beginnen."
Uil bleef heel stil zitten.
Hij begon aan
heel verdrietige dingen
te denken.
"Stoelen met kapotte poten",
zei Uil.
Zijn ogen werden
Al een beetje nat.
"Liedjes die niemand
kan zingen," zei Uil,
"omdat niemand
de woorden meer weet."
Uil huilde nu.
Een dikke traan
rolde
naar beneden
in de ketel.
"Lepels die achter
het fornuis zijn gevallen
En die je nooit meer terugvindt,"
Zei Uil.
Er drupten al heel wat tranen
In de ketel.
"Boeken die je niet meer
kan lezen," zei Uil,
"Omdat er bladzijden
uitgescheurd zijn."
"Klokken die stilstaan,"
zei Uil,
"Omdat niemand
ze meer opwindt."
Uil huilde nu heel erg.
Vele dikke tranen
vielen in de ketel.
"Een prachtige zonsopgang.Die niemand ziet,
omdat iedereen slaapt,"
snikte Uil.
"Heerlijke aardappel-puree
op een bord
die niemand wilde opeten,"
jammerde hij.
"Een potloodjes
die te klein zij geworden
om vast te houden."
Uil dacht aan
Nog veel meer nare dingen.
En huilde en huilde maar.
Al gauw
was de ketel
vol tranen-water.
"Ziezo," zei Uil.
"Dat is dat!"
Uil hield op met huilen.
Hij zette de ketel
op de kachel.
Het tranen-water
kookte al gauw.
Uil schonk zijn kopje vol.
Hij was heel tevreden.
"Het smaakten
een beetje zoutig,"
zei hij.
"Maar tranenthee
Is toch altijd
weer heerlijk."
Tea of tears
by Arnold Lobel
Owl took the tea pot
out of the cupboard.
"This evening I am
going to make
Tear tea,"
he said.
He put the teapot on his lap.
"Right" said Owl,
"Let's start."
Owl sat very quietly.
He started to think
about terribly sad
things.
"Chairs with broken legs,"
he said.
His eyes began
to mist over.
"Songs that nobody
sings," said Owl,
"Because the words have
been forgotten."
Owl was now crying.
One big tear
rolled
down his
cheek
and plopped
into the teapot.
"Spoons that have been
lost behind the fridge
and will never be found,"
said Owl.
More tears rolled down his cheeks
into the teapot.
"Books that cannot
be finished because
the last page is missing,"
"Clocks that no longer tick
because there is no one
to wind them up."
Owl was now weeping,
his tears streamed
into the teapot.
"A beautiful dawn
that nobody sees,
because everyone
is asleep."
Sobbed Owl.
"A plate of
delicious mashed potatoes
that hasn't been eaten".
Moaned Owl.
"And crayons
that are far too small to be used."
Owl thought about so many desperate things,
that his tears flowed easily.
Quickly
the teapot
was full of Owl's tears.
"Good," he said.
"Enough crying!"
Owl stopped thinking sad thoughts.
He put his teapot
Over the fire.
The Tear Tea
was soon warm enough
to be poured into
his tea cup.
"It is a little salty,"
Owl said.
"But my Tea of Tears
is always so comforting."
By Arnold Lopel
Uil pakte de ketel
uit de kast.
"Vanavond ga ik
tranenthee zetten,"
Zei hij.
Hij zette de ketel op zijn schoot.
"zo," zei Uil,
"Ik ga beginnen."
Uil bleef heel stil zitten.
Hij begon aan
heel verdrietige dingen
te denken.
"Stoelen met kapotte poten",
zei Uil.
Zijn ogen werden
Al een beetje nat.
"Liedjes die niemand
kan zingen," zei Uil,
"omdat niemand
de woorden meer weet."
Uil huilde nu.
Een dikke traan
rolde
naar beneden
in de ketel.
"Lepels die achter
het fornuis zijn gevallen
En die je nooit meer terugvindt,"
Zei Uil.
Er drupten al heel wat tranen
In de ketel.
"Boeken die je niet meer
kan lezen," zei Uil,
"Omdat er bladzijden
uitgescheurd zijn."
"Klokken die stilstaan,"
zei Uil,
"Omdat niemand
ze meer opwindt."
Uil huilde nu heel erg.
Vele dikke tranen
vielen in de ketel.
"Een prachtige zonsopgang.Die niemand ziet,
omdat iedereen slaapt,"
snikte Uil.
"Heerlijke aardappel-puree
op een bord
die niemand wilde opeten,"
jammerde hij.
"Een potloodjes
die te klein zij geworden
om vast te houden."
Uil dacht aan
Nog veel meer nare dingen.
En huilde en huilde maar.
Al gauw
was de ketel
vol tranen-water.
"Ziezo," zei Uil.
"Dat is dat!"
Uil hield op met huilen.
Hij zette de ketel
op de kachel.
Het tranen-water
kookte al gauw.
Uil schonk zijn kopje vol.
Hij was heel tevreden.
"Het smaakten
een beetje zoutig,"
zei hij.
"Maar tranenthee
Is toch altijd
weer heerlijk."
Tea of tears
by Arnold Lobel
Owl took the tea pot
out of the cupboard.
"This evening I am
going to make
Tear tea,"
he said.
He put the teapot on his lap.
"Right" said Owl,
"Let's start."
Owl sat very quietly.
He started to think
about terribly sad
things.
"Chairs with broken legs,"
he said.
His eyes began
to mist over.
"Songs that nobody
sings," said Owl,
"Because the words have
been forgotten."
Owl was now crying.
One big tear
rolled
down his
cheek
and plopped
into the teapot.
"Spoons that have been
lost behind the fridge
and will never be found,"
said Owl.
More tears rolled down his cheeks
into the teapot.
"Books that cannot
be finished because
the last page is missing,"
"Clocks that no longer tick
because there is no one
to wind them up."
Owl was now weeping,
his tears streamed
into the teapot.
"A beautiful dawn
that nobody sees,
because everyone
is asleep."
Sobbed Owl.
"A plate of
delicious mashed potatoes
that hasn't been eaten".
Moaned Owl.
"And crayons
that are far too small to be used."
Owl thought about so many desperate things,
that his tears flowed easily.
Quickly
the teapot
was full of Owl's tears.
"Good," he said.
"Enough crying!"
Owl stopped thinking sad thoughts.
He put his teapot
Over the fire.
The Tear Tea
was soon warm enough
to be poured into
his tea cup.
"It is a little salty,"
Owl said.
"But my Tea of Tears
is always so comforting."
May's maybes
Reflection
The sun's rays stream through the vaulted arches,
the gleaming tombstone floor catching the light,
protected, polished and painted glass, bronze and slate,
canvases that illustrate past stories of a people's future.
The open air amphitheatre, echoes with different song
where tombstones cracked and weather worn lie fragmented,
inscribed stories of unheard lives,
The sun's rays illuminating a play by lost people,
reflected in their shattered Smirnoff bottles.
The sun's rays stream through the vaulted arches,
the gleaming tombstone floor catching the light,
protected, polished and painted glass, bronze and slate,
canvases that illustrate past stories of a people's future.
The open air amphitheatre, echoes with different song
where tombstones cracked and weather worn lie fragmented,
inscribed stories of unheard lives,
The sun's rays illuminating a play by lost people,
reflected in their shattered Smirnoff bottles.
In the Pink
The wind is stripping the Spring,
the bare ground coated with
preposterously pink petals,
pausing only for a moment,
gathered by children and lovers,
by the lens of my phone. and,
held on the bottom of my shoes,
Aprils blooms are Mays confetti,
Their mastery and majesty of colour.
The wind is stripping the Spring,
the bare ground coated with
preposterously pink petals,
pausing only for a moment,
gathered by children and lovers,
by the lens of my phone. and,
held on the bottom of my shoes,
Aprils blooms are Mays confetti,
Their mastery and majesty of colour.