A photo turned up

The missing photo turned up

When looking for something else

In the house, where articles go

Into hiding because we forget

Where we put them or things

Are not things as we think 

And move behind our backs,

Some of the persons smiling

At us have taken their leave,

Others are still around on earth

Some on land that sees snowfall

During winter and bursts into colour

When the sun returns from its retreat,

All of us are now entering our winters

Perhaps thinking of one another 

When we hurt from the rigours of age

And praying we don't hurt as much 

When time comes to take us elsewhere.

Niksen

In December the dawn stays longer

The day keeps arriving forever 

Like a leaf coming down floating

From a tall tree it is unwilling to leave

The fog cannot let go of the trees

Or the earth or the minds of those

Who are waking, sleeping, waking

Reluctant to give up the bed's warmth

Somewhere a milk cooker whistles

Showing others have risen early 

And going on with their daily routine

I prefer to practise niksen, doing nothing

Waiting but not looking forward to

The sun breaking through the clouds

Not minding what will or not happen.

Freeze time

We wish we could freeze time

When we are so happy we want

To stay there forever and not go

Past it or age or flower or wither

When the mirror mocks us with

What time has made of our face

We go back to the photo album

Where we have frozen time and

Look at our childhood and parents

Whom time has taken away forever

Speak to them as if they are alive

Asking if we would be meeting again

Or how would death feel like when it

Comes uninvited and ends all we know.

No cause

The invisible wind moves visibly

Through the tree like a shy bird

That wants to hide but cannot

The pair of mynahs fly away in

A flash of brown, white and yellow

Partly seen and partly remembered

The eyes follow them till they vanish

It is still misty and cloudy and the sun

Can hardly be seen though its light

Filters through and offers warmth 

The body cannot work up enough of

It is now December with just the dew

It is music taking me through green fields

Tomorrow welcoming me on the horizon

The pastoral flute following like a butterfly

A calendar year may be coming to a close

Yet time flows without a pause or cause.