Hannie Rouweler
 


Fog patches

Sometimes you want to hide away. In fog patches
of early mornings. After the silence of night hours
collapsing by an invisible burden. Another
sits in a corner of the room and emphasizes
his absence with a look, focused outside. Not
existing. We crawl in our own skin timidly.
A landscape is also often not visible, behind
mountain ridges. The line of a horizon in full width
stretched out above the polders. We forget to say hello,
looking at the ground, moving footsteps
on stone. Only thistles and pollen grass stand out.
Yesterday afternoon rain showers hit me that I didnít see
in coming. Look better at the sky, pay more attention,
you would say but something pulled me down to bottoms.
The day is almost over. IĎve looked carefully at someone
else's words and dreams. Iíve seen thoroughly the depth,
rise again slowly. Almost weightless, like the thinnest leaf
from a tree, small paper, bearing an invisible watermark.


My Zen TV


I was traveling late last night. Seen a lot
and it was incredibly beautiful!
Despite the newspaper reports I left at home
the world was breath taking, peace and quiet almost divine
and the water glistened over the small waves to the beach.

The palm trees were delightfully slightly curved in sun glow
as I had seen them before on bounty islands. It was overwhelming,
the beauty, and we all enjoyed it. We are with five women
on board, the sailing ship is anchored in a bay. Provided with food
and drinks, we buy from the locals. We get fish out of the water,
the captain sits in the wheelhouse, she sailed earlier tramping,
wild voyages.

I drink a sip of water that is on the table, open
the book, with almost every wave to my feet I look up, seeing
how everything fills in. The day, the hour, the story, images.

Hannie Rouweler

 


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