​Quick sounds
​of chopping steps.
​I write, cross-out
​and write again.
​The workings
​of a poet’s mind.
​And the year
​is nearly over.

I start as winter.
Alone and cold.
Over time, seasons
come and go.
The fruits of a
spiritual path.
Then again winter.
I am left alone and cold.
With the shadows
of a lingering sun.
​

Untying an autumn night.
I remembered all those
broken blossoms.
And the damp summers
that followed so soon.
I understand, that everyone
has sorrow and sometimes
unlucky stars.
So, I won’t think back,
too much.
It is such a beautiful
night to waste.

In the time I have.
We are one.
Lights of the soul –
paired with the earth.
Each word sparkles
with the strength of
ancient warriors.
A brave heroic truth,
and code of honour.
Cutting gems of wisdom
from a world of
dissolute entanglements.

​

​As I walk.
​As I work.
A life smiles with me.
How fresh everything is
when nothing is know
about tomorrow.
So, I take what I can
from the strength of the sun.
And deep compassion
from the moon, all alone.
It’s love indeed, that
keeps me walking.

​

I have never been too good
at going with the flow.
Or clinging to the past.
Everything I need
appears before me.
With eyes, ears, body,
nose, or tongue.
Some I need, and some I don’t.
And when I hear my inner voice,
asking me “Who am I?” –
I just ignore it.
For I have too much to do.
The Universe is so endless.

Asking who I am
I start the day.
Breathing now
I start the day.
And throughout the day
I say to myself,
‘Pay attention’.
Because I want
to be astonished
by the simplicity
of life around me.
And not just visit
the moments.

​

The sky is endlessly high.
My mind, always active
leans on nothing more than itself.
Exchanging joys here are there.

One day, my life will be dust.
There will be no more
happiness or sorrow.
But this day…. is not today.

And so, I walk and I write.
Drinking coffee, alone
with the sun and the moon.
Avoiding the shadows when I can.

​November is busy already.
​A leaf falling,
​and I wake up to the
​flourishing colours of autumn.
​And streaks of sunshine
​flashing across my words.
​Enough to see me through
​the remains of the day.

When I was younger
I never asked for a wilder life.
Wandering the streets
and my imagination
were my friends.
Now, I am older.
And still, I wander the streets.
Looking at life around me.
And a timeless truth.
In the end, young,
old and the streets.
It is just another form of dust.