In a new strange land
with new strange people
wagging strange tongues;
none of it was planned.
But over time, only a few weeks
they are not so strange, they’re closer
warm-hearted, loving and witty
they’re what every lost person seeks.
Each beautiful in their own way
squares in a round world
inspiring me to do more—to write here
there’s only two words I can say.
New arrival
both young and old
out of my depth but excited,
ecstatic
all the time.
People,
lots of them
mindblowing, inspiring, advanced
achievements
full of life.
Beautiful people
especially the ladies
eyes shining,
a generous smile
and flowing hair.
All these people
are new stars
new shining lights
in my life;
those of my parents
shift to the background
guiding me.
New arrival
new experiences
lots to learn
open mind
and open soul—
feeling young and old
out of my depth
but joyful all the time.
The people you surround yourself with
are the people you become.
You are a smith,
you are the destined sum
of all their qualities and weaknesses.
Family is not something to choose:
do remember, the angels are your witnesses,
they need not search for clues.
If your friends are warm-hearted
you will be kind;
if they are, alas, narrow-minded
to beauty, you will be blind.
If they radiate with affection
you will have love to give;
Theirs is the direction
your existence you will live.
The endless city hubbub
bubbling and humming away
big train stations and motorways
are never far away.
Yet, it is in moments like these
from the buzz distant
that we notice a muffled sneeze
and the swaying of a pendant
the click of a pen
leaves us asking—it all started when?
I write this poem
in a place of art
a place of love
of tears,
of long-lived years
and a great many dreams
where people come together
each day
without fail,
we come together.
Come together
to come home.
To my friends:
now, a new chapter begins.
You, who have stood by me
while all else deserted;
You, who could see
what really mattered.
Those of you I joked around with
or engaged in staring matches
being normal: a myth…
You, who also had sweat patches.
Then there were those closer;
more than just friends
those to be hugged tighter (or pushed further)
to steer clear or worship as godsends.
The Beethovens and Puccinis
astounding, so incredibly talented
others, as dry as ten-day grissinis
or like ancient blades—blunted.
Peculiar, bizarre or perplexed
your faces have been;
while I was not vexed
some things cannot be unseen.
The future world leaders
and the future garbage men
all learned literary readers
some wishing they said “amen”.
The party animals
with seemingly bottomless bladders
others, mammalian cannibals
starting already to climb career ladders.
To be very brief, indeed,
it matters not whence you come
or what devils you believe in;
it’s the shared experiences:
those are second to none
and the cameras we have smiled in
putting aside our differences.
I have a message unsmall:
I love you all.
Upon these Wallooon fields
Of wheat, cabbage and barley
Where the sweet morning breeze
Brushes all thoughts aside.
They may be of loves past
Of loves in the future
Of self-reflection
Or the entire human experience.
It matters not;
They are all blown away
Far, into the distant clouds
By the sweet morning breeze.
Waking up at the crack of dawn
appreciating the navy heavens.
On the way, thoroughly empty, deserted roads
befriending cats and rats;
for they are the sole souls present here.
Arrived: not silence, but an orchestra
a crescendo of birdsong
and those pesky croaking crows
it’s vomit to my ears
(a rather unpleasant sound);
but then arrive the tits and sparrows
like the violins and cellos,
adding to it all, now more than mezzoforte.
Going towards the lakes these mirrorlike earthly reservoirs of life
not one, not two, not three—but about a million
(a very accurate estimate, believe me)
bleating frogs in unison.
But all falls to silence once the fiery ball comes into view
the ball still covered in cotton wool and packaging pellets
there they are—floating.
Who would have thought that they could, too, be
sources of life and blessing throughout civilisations?
The morning orchestra continues.
On this first day of June
there is still nothing new
as much uncertainty as before
at least it won’t continue on for evermore.
Can’t help but think what will happen:
will our generation sadden?
What about all the young love
deteriorated from beautiful to pauvre…
Who knows—all we can do
is enjoy the morning dew
and perhaps recall
the one day we ate a whole pizza and all.
It was naïve beyond belief
I thought our love was to stay;
Nor could I imagine the relief
When you finally went away.
Now, looking upon new horizons:
with unknown places left to explore.
I will avoid drawing comparisons:
it will be a new start, nothing more.