Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

benny  at 5

Between three scores and ‘leven
And five, there is a great sea-change,
Difference I cannot tell.
For day after night dogging my steps
Mum is the word.
Between decrepitude
And an infant the lay of the land-
Continents drift beneath the feet />
Difference I cannot tell.
Since the sun followed his rounds
And dream became real
Mum is the word.

In my time much water has flowed
between heaven and the earth
Difference I cannot tell
For something of dreams of another
Life as lived has become mine,
Neither for better nor worse
As I spent it all in whichever.
Day and night one after the other
Dogged my steps
Mum is the word.
If release should come I should be around
For sure as though I were a tweet
Retweeted from one age to another.

benny 71 jaar

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Now the New Year opens a new page for all:

My soul sounds and no more can in gloom dwell:

“Where He that was, He that is and will be”

If so be let Hope fill my barrel full.


A Prosperous New Year for all,


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Why do I love Okra?

It is mucous and sticks in my craw

To tell the truth. 

Why do I still eat it sautéed?

I ate my first helping 

While on my mother’s lap,

I cried all my four years’ worth

But thought I never had it so 

Good fed by my mother.

Past my prime I still eat

Okra that sticks in my craw-

For it is not mucous but a lump

Of memory and it fights for

Another helping.


*Okra-vegetable,ladies finger,


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I would rather be a splinter of dust

Hurtling through space and time

Than an opinion settled and grown

In the mind of men -they call it god’s truth

And mow down God’s children left and right.

In motion was passage of light

But too soon I am snuffed out by cold breath

Of earth grown settled in ways.

Rather than this corruption

I would rather be dust, -not knowing

its station nor its destination,

It blows hither and thither

And pass from wakeful sleep to dream.


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The tree of life has stars all lit for leaves

And below sends bitter roots through abyss:

Seek not where your sweetness begins or ends,

Your sentient life, and not the tree, lies.”



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My heart is but one stop from rest:

My hand has come all but strap

I hold on life as tenuous as vine

Breathing feeling and being

The motion, the congealed breath

Of straggling band their hand

Slung over straps I see

In the freaked out mirror of  living.

If I do get down I know not where

You ride along and it is no bother

For one dreamt death and lived life

I shall do well

Find my way home.


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As key to lock is Night to Light without;

It is all in context my dear sirs: Doubt

Profound shall not measure up to the pith

Of divine purpose nor Will cancel out.

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Love I can well understand: it is fine

My world is lit up anew by the word.

Many a bard has for inspiration

Sought and found love sublime their motherlode;

Who shall blame Romeo or fair Juliet

If love did pour such glorious music?

It is a flame fanned to such a height

Truth of what follows is not what we seek.

Put out the light, O Moor and with bare hands

Kill the green eyed monster, if you dare!

We miss truth when love is less than it sounds

Love we sound so loud, but truth do we care?

Love is sublime and we cannot but seek:

Truth is we are worn down by what we seek.


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I did not wear my sunday best

Nor my cane and silk cravat;

It was just call of nature, mate

Hold on, in a brothel you sate 

Call of nature: In my dire need  

Nature must have had her dark rede.


Nature set my body at nought: 

And what secrets deep she holds,

Truth past time and space shall make out

In light o’ the day, and no less by night.

Brothel is no less than fields,-

Art embrace more than Nature holds. 


Yet I am a journeyman of life:

‘gainst Nature with art I strive

Past fields of dreams and the sere sun.

An artist has no choice but drive 

His daemons as best as he can

‘ven so not all lose ear, nor life . 


Some daub here and a little there,

All with devil a slave driver 

Sell art for the price of drink

Or for profit – does it matter?

Green absinthe was my drink

Need say I more? I lost my ear. 


Yet I am a journeyman of life:

 ‘gainst Nature with art I strive

Past fields of dreams and the sere sun.

An artist has no choice but drive 

His daemons as best as he can

‘ven so not all lose ear, nor life.







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I am the one who made a hole

In the dark river of wasted splendor:

I would have made an end

But was too light to dimple

The infinite passage of time-

Time goes on and on, impervious

To wails of wasted souls

fed on senses ephemeral;


I could have made a run for high,

But clouds were forests on fire

Afloat and ever willy-nilly

Lit up by something far beyond my grasp;

Blanched before the incandescence

My eyes got used to settled

Habits of flowing as day will:

Ah  I creep back to my paper and slippers

I will neither go up nor down

Time’s wary watch must

From its own ranks find relief.



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