To hold your branches

I used to love the coming

together of us all by the sea

to love you, to celebrate you

and how much you matter to us.

You are old now and can no longer

go to the sea.

You sleep amongst the trees

instead, watching squirrels,

bushy-tailed and quick witted,

play in the evergreen branches.

We still come together though,

under your trees to love you,

to hold your branches and to

celebrate those squirrels

you love so much dancing

all over us to make you

smile.

The Summer Sea

The summer sea is a mirror

you dive into,

a coral mirage gushing

into rivers,

fleeing slowly into gardens

where carnations dream

of anemones dizzily

racing towards the surface

of the summer sea

where you kneel on a cliff

looking into

yourself.

You don’t have to do it alone

Walking through the dark

basement with all those closed

doors is not something

you have to do on your own.

Yes, you are the one

who has to open the doors

and confront whatever

is lurking inside.

But it is perfectly okay

to have someone walking

next to you, holding your hand

and carrying the flashlight.

Loss

He reached for the light in the window,

you said, and went on his way onwards.

It made you pray, it made you cry,

it made you think onwards.

When it was you turn I felt you

walk through me.

I was sitting by the sea like always,

and there was no emptiness.

You simply walked into the light

onwards where I could still

reach you.

It was your time to reach for the light,

like him that went before you.

Him that you loved,

him that you prayed for.

I cried, of course, but there was no

emptiness.

You didn’t walk away from me,

you walked through me

and the light-tracks you left in me

remained like sparks reminding me

of how much you loved me,

how much you still love me

from somewhere

onwards.

Devastation and beginnings

I skip in your hop-scotch of shadows

one-two-three split

seconds before I fail and

land in the sun where you

cannot find me.

I am not a darkling dodging

dangers like balls of burning

meteors.

I let them set me on fire

arising phoenix-like to the

occasion.

I do not fear the ashes of

dreams, as long as there are no

gilded cages or sugarcane

bars.

We are all born for

destruction and beauty,

devastation and

beginnings.

The Mystic’s Dream

A mystic dives into the clear

summer sea through garlands

of seaweed he sees

a navel of eels

spiraling upwards.

He pauses his crafty strokes

and ponders the meaning of this.

The sun flashes through his

humming ears and sharks

pull at his sorcerer’s cape.

A word immerses his thoughts

and the pit is pulled from

underneath.

He drowns with the hungry

sharks until there is no more

of his mind to eat,

and is left to circumnavigate

the sun from the surface

under the deep,

reflecting the movements

of the upward swimming

eels.