The time will come
when I will greet myself
in another place.
Joy, anger, depression
and a love of life.
It will all be there.
Just as it is now in this place.
So, I am grateful for
whatever comes my way.
Here and now,
and in another place.

Outside my window.
A single magpie.
Hungry for knowledge.
Not ready yet for
ashes and dust.
We both know
where we are.
A new day,
a new moment.
Another world
within this world.
​

I take in and breathe all that is.
No longer taking down the
love letters from the shelf.
Now, I create new images
to make a place around me.
A place of possibility
and new delight.
No longer hanging
onto the threads.
A place almost empty
of the old furniture.
No longer waiting for
a guide from the past.

Sometimes, the clouds
open their heart
and soul to me.
In such exotic moments
there is no strangeness.
And everything is solid
beneath my feet.
Life is what it is about.
The clouds, the rain
and the conversations.
So simple and focused.
Like a house of belonging.

In this circle
of muscle men.
“What rain?’, you say.

It is all there.
On the streets.
In the sky,
the stormy sky.
Perhaps only those
with a fond longing,
can see the rain.
Wet, dark and with
colours in hiding.
And what about the magpies
roosting on the wires.
Can you see them?
​

On the streets.
Spring scents
are already in the air.
Being pulled by
fading memories
of deep winter blues.
On every corner just
enough cherry blossoms.
To give us hope for
tranquil days to come.

A day to mourn.
A day to remember.
But also, a day to
find new hope.
Brushing lightly against
the remnants of
the dark winter streets.
Or nestled, ever so slightly
in the corners of the tired souls.
​

I am the one
who drinks coffee.
Thinking the
mind is everything.
Watching the world
with both eyes open.
Never too tired
to know the noise
of the earth
And the silence
of the sea.
​

​
​I am of this world.
​I am of this place.
​In the spring streets,
​the show ponies
​are never still.
​And I, a poet, or so
​I sometimes think.
Must go on and on.
To the limits of the
mountains, and the plains.
Until the end.
When my heart finally settles.

​

​
​For some, self – loathing
and self-pain darkens.
I cannot change this.

But, I can show compassion.
A smile, a good morning.
And a ‘hello, how are you today?’

Each word a dewdrop
around the thorns.
That tells a different story.