The Sunday Muse #222

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The violist I knew

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staccato pianissimo
mezzo-forte fortissimo

your playing was more bellisimo
than you behaviour towards me.

In crescendo
you danced your hair
and tangoed with me
smiling the air
Your towering pride should warn me
but I always let you be
you were strong,
loved my song
your violin stories amused me

Diminuendo,
scraping of the bow,
screeching forte, disharmony,
your eyes in agony,
you lashed out to make me go

Disappearing expectations,
no more flirtations,
music a curtain, like your hair,
no fluctuations,
you were imprisoned somewhere
decrescendo
almost silence
morendo


Like the day
you kissed me
hugged me
said goodbye and
walked away

Later we met again,
Familiar comfort on a new couch
Amsterdam rain echoing on cobbled stones
You still cared only for yourself
kicked me out (again)
like a crumpled bread bag
towards the bin
when you saw fit

People admire your music
but not you.

I tried to love you

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©Syl2022-2025

Bit of background
>>> here <<<

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The Sunday Muse #220

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Painting of Time

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Desolation
Neglect

Nature takes over
like a caring alien
lining memories
without dusty regrets

A railway to hell
or a stairway to heaven
blocked by inhumane strings
of silent decay

It’s the painting of time
after war and fear
paved a new way of life
sliding in absence

In the heat
we’re lost

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©Syl2022-2025

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The Sunday Muse #218

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Swimming in time

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the gaze
while drowning
in your mirror

humanity
lost security
of learning
from history

trying
not to see
the distortion
of compassion
misleading information,
covering
your complete being

it’s staying in the present
guided by the future
that keeps us
alive

wisdom of
Inherited intuition
keeps us
adrift

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©Syl2022-2025

Image found at Iglew

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The Sunday Muse #217

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Keeper of the Light

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Sing for the world,
my stars,
our sun and moon
are clouded by smoke
and pain

Not long before
they will destroy
my part of nature

All I can do is keep the light

I want to blow wisdom
all around
like dust in the night
catching a ray of the moon
lightning up bright

People have a conscience, don’t they?
People are all equal, aren’t they?
People respect each other, don’t they?
People want peace?

Do people really care?

I try to keep the light.

When it’s gone in me
and those like me,
there will be no future.

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©Syl2022-2025

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The Sunday Muse #215

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Tired undertaker

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Fire and freedom
are of different realms
all we can do
is watch them
trying to destroy each other
in the past
and in the present

We can only greet war
as the tired undertaker
of history

and even he
will walk away
from barren land

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©Syl2022-2025

Art:
Unforgettable memories
by SV-Blackart on DeviantArt

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The Sunday Muse #213

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The cogs

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You can be a queen,
eyes that can see everything
but can’t be looked in

mouth that can speak
but words need to be kept in

hide behind
hide behind

the cogs
turning
turning
secret yearning
turning
turning
the cogs of society
makes you live your life
among the rules and regulations
keeping peace among the strife

criticism
cynicism
skepticism
rendering
open on stage
closed in

imprisoned by etiquette
beauty outside and in
being you is almost a sin

the cogs
turning
turning
secret yearning
turning
turning
the cogs of society
makes you live your life

See without shields
times have changed
the collars are gone
we’re worried about waste

Don’t waste your yourself,
speak, feel, hear, taste and see,
be alive and feel free
be at last your own “me”

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©Syl2022-2025

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The Sunday Muse #212

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Hide?

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I want to hide
to protect myself
against

murderers
war
namecalling
racism
egoism
poverty
greed
pollution

the fear of change
lack of adaptation
leading to self-delusion
enmity
immorality
hatred

The ego in search
of like-minded
to feed arrogance
to loose oneself
in powergames
grow in arrogance
and cruelty

I want to hide myself
against bombs
and inner threats.
The envy, hatred,
the lying,
unreliability

but will it result in ignorance,
lack of compassion
lack of care?
Will I loose me,
when I won’t hurt,
protest…

Can I silence me?
Can they silence me?

I want to hide
but I don’t want
to get lost.

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©Syl2022-2025

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The Sunday Muse #211

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Twins

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simultaneous growth
diverging on command of nature
growing intertwined
human ikebana

my mind and body
cradling them
In loving and nurturing protection

then triple symbiosis
broken to twins
interwoven
interlaced

the recognizable
blond grey small
black brown long
the inner enigma
of silent transmission

I can feed
but not lead.
The outcasted pericarp.

my quiescence
vivifies
the panoptic
eclipse
of duality

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©Syl2022-2025

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The Sunday Muse #210 – 1

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Message in a bottle

The ship has sailed
protected from the winds
the memories
like frozen photos
on a dark cabinet

Somewhere I can go
fly with the birds
find an escape
from bare sands
and empty life

I have seen
that dreams
create freedom
and loneliness is contained
when the soul
rises to the dark

For those who want to learn
the darkness brings the lessons
and the sky opens
for those who breathe

a single breath of the universe
blown in a bottle
inhale again
before your dreams disperse

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©Syl2022-2025

Photo: HYPATIASJOURNEY

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The Sunday Muse #209

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Nested

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hidden
curled up
frozen

time passing
foodless growth
forgotten in memories

the shriek of a large bird
far away
the misty valley below

cold enfolds
over the mountaintop

if ever the sun kisses
there might be some life left

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©Syl2022-2025

Artistic image by Sarah Treanor

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Remembrance Day 2022

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Remembrance Day 2022

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I hear him approaching.
The sound of medals
makes the birds go silent.
The hares stare quiet
in the golden morning light.

I see his eyes:
grey blue, somewhat hazy.
He goes, on firm memory.
He has hardly any sight.

A clock, from far,
accompanies his steps,
as if it knows
his boys, his friends, his mates,
lie there, in eternal silence,
in wind and rain.

He kneels.
The stone supports him,
like his friends saved him
from falling long ago.

His tears deeply move me.
I will be there
in grateful honor
the years after you go.

He speaks some words
to those who are with him
every moment of every day.

The sun breaks through the trees
and on his hand the light touch
of a trembling morning ray.

I help him stand up.
A military greeting.
His tears fall down
and moisten foreign grounds.

The single rose is left.
A tear still on a petal.
Again
the soft jingling noise
of his medals
covers all his past.

remembrance
will forever last.

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The Sunday Muse #208

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We have the keys

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Somewhere the keys are left
of houses, flats and apartments,
the locks bombed away
or smashed by rifle butts
on heavy boots

The child in the basement
clinging to mom
attached forever
when slain to death

You can use large keys
to lock away
what you don’t want to know,
but the truth seeps through the cracks
it smashes lies with an ax
it will hunt you through your tracks
you will suffer to the max
never ever you’ll relax
We have the keys.

Somewhere the keys are left
to enter all the ruins
to find those you have killed
and tortured in the dark of night
far out of sight

The old couple in the basement
unable to walk
embracing each other
when dying a premature death

You can use large keys
to lock away
what you don’t want to know,
but the truth seeps through the cracks
it smashes lies with an ax
it will hunt you through your tracks
you will suffer to the max
never ever you’ll relax
We have the keys.

You can walk a thousand miles
hide behind trees
or in the basement of your gram
shapeshift if you can
We will find you!

You murdered who ever you saw
you extended your claw
to civilians in an act of war
You can’t deny that anymore.

You can use large keys
to lock away
what you don’t want to know,
but the truth seeps through the cracks
it smashes lies with an ax
it will hunt you through your tracks
you will suffer to the max
never ever you’ll relax
We have the keys.

The keys to your heart were left
with your mom and family
you encircled the cities of others
made them thirsty and hungry
left them without medical care
where is your heart?
Where?

You turned from a boy
into a professional murderer
You followed a dictator
who will never bring you home.

You can use large keys
to lock away
what you don’t want to know,
but the truth seeps through the cracks
it smashes lies with an ax
it will hunt you through your tracks
you will suffer to the max
never ever you’ll relax
We have the keys.

Peace!
Freedom!
We have the keys.

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 23

Prompt:
Write a poem in the style of Kay Ryan.

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Resistance

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Many claim
their family
was in the resistance
in WW2

but they never
speak out
publicly
or secretly
about the present war

nothing learned?
or nothing gained?

My family
was a resistance group
they never were proud
of it
as they wanted
to have done
far more
than they ever
could have done

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During WW2 my family was a unit of the Resistance.
Among other tasks they helped aircrews to find a way home,
had contact with England by radio, spread information,
managed to get food for the hidden people and a lot more.
A grand uncle/priest (generation of my gram) was executed in 1942
after he was betrayed. They interrogated him, but he gave no
information at all.
My father went to England in the beginning of 1943.
He was too involved in the resistance, his face started to become known,
and as my family lived near the border of Germany, the Arbeitseinsatz
made walking on the streets dangerous for young men.
He went to England and joined the RAF.

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 22

Prompt:
write a poem
that uses repetition. 


Operation Market Garden
was an allied military operation
during the Second World War
fought in The Netherlands
from 17 to 25 September 1944.
Each year
there is a huge remembrance event
at the Ginkel Heath
with thousands of parachutists.
The event is opened by PGH,
Parachute Group Holland,
civilian parachutists jumping with
WW2 canopees.
Before this, they have jumped
during the days before at other
locations of the military operation
to remember those who fought
for freedom and peace.

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Market Garden

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They jumped from a plane
being shot at
in continuous lines
of snaps and bangs
and snaps and bangs
some killed in the sky
Murderers
can kill everywhere
They came to fight for us
for peace and freedom
Young men
innocent
now buried
decorated
with a white stone

My parachute group
remembers them
many times a year

Market Garden
The Ginkel Heath
A Dakota
boys and men
remembering
jump, jump, jump….
the canopees open
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh..
each gust of wind
pushes them
in another direction
and then they slowly
touch the ground
one after another
thud, thud, thud,
they’re alive and well,
some carry the name
of a soldier
who jumped in WW2

Then the large Hercules planes,
drop many more.
Military men
Innocent,
facing the large sky
but no guns…yet.
Some get injured nevertheless
not many jumps yet in their booklets.
And no guns, no guns, yet…

Another war…
a border not yet violated
waiting
they are waiting
and jumping
to automatize
every movement
every gaze,
every imagination
to be one with the canopees
with the lines
with the idea
that one day those guns will sound again
that soldiers in the sky will be killed again
That the letter they wrote
to their families and friends
will be opened and read
and read again
and their moms will look
at the photos of her boys
again and again.
and the tears will never stop

We all know
murderers
can kill everywhere

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 21

Prompt:
write a poem in which you
first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with,
then a job you used to have but no longer do,
and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time.
Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.

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Did she?

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She considered herself
a wise woman
without children
with a lonely childhood
She cared
for herself
very well
each act was contemplated
She wanted men
to be her toys and servants
I just wanted a trusted husband

She couldn’t cope
to see me happy
as a mom
She didn’t wait
for dishonesty
to enter
and enjoying her

It was good
she didn’t see me teaching
about life and research
at the university
too many potential toys
who would never become her servants

The endless snowy fields
of the arctic dreams
She never walked them

She left her friends
departed from herself
expecting huge statues
along the way

I pulled the sleigh
like polar explorers
Did she pull her ego
all the way?

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 20

Prompt:
write a poem that
anthropomorphizes
a kind of food.

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Flour

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In a paper bag,
in danger of being easily torn
spilling me,
I was smashed on the counter,
beside eggs and milk
handled with care.

“and last: bag of flour”

Flour I was
my rich history ignored
my youth, my ripening,
the wind rustling through my leaves
the sun burning
and the ground breaking
before the huge machines came
some of us escaped
they will emerge again
but my grains were taken
from our birth grounds
far away

now we are flour
taken to an unknown house

A loving grandmother
speaking softly
to her little granddaughter

She lets me out of the bag
makes me into a mountain
the child is allowed
to make a hole in the middle
her soft hands carefully
pushes me aside
like she is guiding me

They smile when sugar
butter and a bit of salt are added
they mix us all
add the eggs one by one
Show so much care
that I don’t mind to change
accept the moisture of the milk
and start smelling like never before

The grandmom puts a finger
in front of her mouth
and walks away

returns with a small bottle
with liquid
she adds…
Oh, now I smell even better!!
The fragrance of the rum
circles around me
when she puts me in a bowl
and in the oven
where I will be changed forever

My last thought is:
“I will be a cake!!”
“A rumcake!”

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 19

Prompt:
write a poem
that starts with a command. 

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Create peace!

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Watch snowflakes
watch blossom
Watch the sun fall down
on the land
and burn
a hole
in your heart
fall through it
and land
at the bottom
of your being

Look
behind you is a rainbow
climb it
Yell as loud
as you can
Peace!!

and again!

and again!!

Jump down on a parachute
invite others to climb
and yell
Peace!!

Flatten the rainbow
on your hand
so they can see each other
and create peace!

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 18

Prompt:
write your own poem
that provides five answers to the same question –
without ever specifically identifying the question
that is being answered.

So not on prompt today
as I have my own questions

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Easter 2022

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The urge to drown oneself
in fairytales and food
makes forget that not all people
and actions are good

The eastercakes and coloured eggs
are fixed in tradition like insect’s prolegs
the beauty of the story disappeared in the past
’cause all enjoyment depends on the weatherforecast

People want to roam nature and drink spirits and stuff
and when they can’t, they think that life is rough.
They forget that many can’t display dinner delicacies
because they lack money for luxuries.

They wish “Happy Easter” and “Enjoy memorable days!”
Whereas in fact memorable can be defined in different ways.
A country is in the meantime bombed to dust,
but elated wishing well we must.

The world is no longer a kind and caring mother,
Is the core you or the other?
Mass murders are contemplated
peace is seriously deflated.

Right at this moment children and their moms are killed
and you worry if your chicken is well grilled?

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 17

Prompt:
dogs you have known, seen, or heard about

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Boris

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the size of a tiger,
black as night
fur as long curtains
wooshing behind him
like a bridal train
with eyes peeking
from behind the veil

a doormat on my feet
motionless
I sat there
a statue,
breathless

I was afraid to move
in case he wouldn’t approve,
bite me, skin me,
eat me, devour me,
But Alex sounded a disprove:
“Just ask him to go aside and move”

The emperor moved
and so did I
hakuna matata

upon return he looked at me
I looked back and felt so free
all heard his loud sigh
and I was no longer shy

he folded himself around my feet
Boris finally had found a friend
Our bond lasted till the end

Others called him
a horse, a camel,
a cow, a long haired mammal

He was my pillow, soft and warm
never did any harm
He sniffed my hidden tears
took away all my fears
held my books
and often gave me funny looks

Until that day.
The sky was heavenly blue
in my mind: Boris is calling you
He was on the floor like exploded wool
got my hand and tried to pull
I hugged him or he hugged me
He gave me a last loving spree

Boris, he was always kind
an everlasting comfort in my mind

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 16

Prompt:
The curtal sonnet form
was developed by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
A curtal sonnet has eleven lines,
instead of the usual fourteen,
and the last line is shorter
than the ten that precede

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00.01 hours

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I tiptoed on golden feet
more precise than a dancer on a cord
never could I live up to her need
she didn’t accept me as her breed
I was a throw away thing of some sort

So I turned away looking for the morning sun
and found the sunset, bold and red, with birds loud singing
the storms and thunder which kept my ears long time ringing
but in all commotion of the night
I knew the path before me was absolutely right
My day was just beginning.

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Word Garden Word List #19 

Prompt:
use at least 3 of the 20 words
on the list in an original poem.
List on the site.

Used:
altered, moonlight, dreary,
rainy, willows, slough

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Another era?

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Someone has altered the sun.
Maybe the moonlight reflects
on the rainy willows
and the dreary sloughs
Or has another era begun?

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 15

Prompt:
write a poem about something
you have absolutely no interest in

Each time I say something
He feels the need to talk.
So he freely associates,
or literally repeats what he has been reading.
It feels like a lecture,
like he is belittling me.


So here is a comment on that.

..

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Words and more

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I say something

you say more
your blabber has no core
but it makes my ears sore
I’ve read already more
and I don’t need an encore

You may think I want a subject to explore
but I just want to ignore
the attention you look for
so I won’t listen anymore.

furthermore
your reaction is uncalled for
I didn’t open any door
I just said a word or four
about going to the store
and buy some yarn I yearned for
I know you will abhor
a sjawl in that colour
but I don’t care anymore.

Instead of listening to you, bore,
I’d rather go to the dance floor
and enjoy myself in every pore
while you fall asleep and snore
I’ll let life in me soar
and let the tiger in me roar

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©Syl2022-2025

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 14

Prompt:
Write a poem
that takes the form
of the opening scene
of the movie of your life.

I decided to leave out
all the instructions
For scenery, camera actions,
and the whole lot,
as the prompt is
to write a poem,
no to write a script.

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Room 23

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Ice crawling on the quays of the river
storm leaving no trees alone
Even the hospital windows rattled
when a child was born
to an unwilling woman
On the nightstand
a glass of water freezing
in the meantime

The grandmother arrived
dressed in two coats
and a large shawl
struggling on the broad stairs
like she was still
going against the outside storm

She wanted to see
the mistake of the posh mother
knowing she had to compensate
for lost love

Rules and nurses standing in her way
were brushed aside
as some inner voice
told her to hurry,
go faster and faster,
and open that door.

Room 23
a blue child
not breathing

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©Syl2022-2025

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 13

Prompt:
Write in honor
of the potential
luckiness of the number 13


So this is not on prompt.
I was asked to write something
for a short song
about the war.

So I did.


13

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13 steps
since “goodbye” and he went

13 steps
The stairs to the basement

13 steps
to the middle of the room

13 steps
to the small window
where I can see one daisy bloom

13 steps
to drink some water

13 pencils
to draw, for my daughter

13 potatoes
that are left for us to eat

13 peppercorns
to spice up 10 cm of meat

13 kisses
for my daughter and 2 extra for her fear
because she knows the bombs are near

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©Syl2022-2025

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 12

Prompt:
Write a poem about a very small thing

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Grow

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The toe
touching the water
creating circles
and circles
and circles
in a neverending rippled row

One flake
covering another
clustering together
it becomes snow

One smile
soft and understanding
or bright and greeting
makes a heart less cold, and glow

Small things
tiny even
put together
in a flow
can make a person less depressed
and make something good suddenly grow

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©Syl2022-2025

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 11

Prompt:
Write a poem about a very large thing.

Immediately had to think of this one.
I wrote it in 2020.

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Of course you are

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Of course you are
the most intelligent person on earth
you’re a paradigm of IQ
as high none has ever heard
on top of Mount Everest
You’re a soprano of knowledge
or even higher
even the aliens can hear you shriek!

You are the peak
of peakest
in a week the weakest
so fast you are
that even a broken leg
doesn’t need a cast
you heal so fast
you catch one corona virus
between infection and recovery
you enable discovery
of the largest ego on earth.

You are so tall
in your own imagination
that your head
to my utter fascination
can reach to China,
where it on examination
has grown into a mountain
and higher, and higher
so you blurp like a fountain
a vulcano of exuberance
creating such a large distance
between you and me
that I finally feel free!!

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©Syl2022-2025

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 10

prompt:
a love poem

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Remembering our love

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Your brown eyes
reflected my silhouette
in the window
the evening sun
smoothing my body
for you
I danced for you
soft bare feet pointed
to your shadow
you studied me
for later research

wordless love
in giving
just being

your happy smile
relaxed hand with cigarette
I sensed your longing

soft safety
caresses embalming
us

night
the invisible bond
your hand
with millions of stars
on my head

I dream of you
can feel your whispers
in my heart

Your love stayed with me
like a soulful
emotion
of art

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Syl©2022-2025

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American Sentence

Allen Ginsberg, ( June 3, 1926 – April 5, 1997) was one of the eccentric poets of the Beat Generation.
One could say they thought there should be no boundaries to what’s written. What can be thought, imagined or be done can also be subject of poetry, they said.
Ginsberg is famous for his poem “Howl“. It consists of 112 paragraph-like lines, which are organized in three parts, with footnote. The content is explicit in such a way that his publisher was brought to court. But in poetry is everything allowed, the judge thought, so the publication of the enormous poem was allowed.

Ginsberg’s writings reflect the time in which he lived.
Experimenting, copying and playing around.
He wrote haiku’s, and experimented with other amounts of syllables.
His abundant use of alcohol and other substances eased the creation of the most weird sentences, which were admired by Beat Generation wannabees.

It is said that he invented the “American Sentence” – a single sentence of 17 syllables – as a simplification of the Haiku.

Well, he sure got better and kinder reviews.

Many consider these 17 syllable sentences poetry, others ask if this is prose.
And others ask if written impressions in 17 syllables can be considered art.

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Allan Ginsberg’s American Sentence is genius or laziness

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Syl©2022-2025

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Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 9//The Sunday Muse #206

This saturday a combination of two prompts:
1. The image of The Sunday Muse # 206
2. The one of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 9:
Write in a specific form – the nonet!
A nonet has nine lines.
The first line has nine syllables,
the second has eight,
declining number of syllables,
so the last line has just one syllable.


War-Nonet

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we’ve been caged and hanging out to dry
killed without reason, unknown why
crimes against humanity
refuge, no destiny
rockets through the air
utter despair
all to dust
combust
war

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Syl©2022-2025.
Photo: RAlvGar

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Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 8

Prompt:
name your alter-ego,
and then describe her in detail.
Then write in your alter-ego’s voice. 


I don’t have an alter ego.
Left it behind.
In the past I used to change
into a balletdancer
when I put on my ballet gear.
Straight back, belly in, chin high,

stretching my leg from the hip.
I got the right feel,
could do anything,
later could teach anything.

It’s gone now.

I have my dreams.
A deep longing
for where I want to be.
So I’ll write about that.

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I don’t belong here.



My soul is roaming the mountains
the endless slopes
where hidden deer graze
or tower above
the fog or summer haze.

I belong to the sea
The waves, curly, curly,
in the returning tide
festive white,
droplets colouring in a spree
when breakers hit the stones
and birds shriek all their moans
to ships, like sirens do.

I am a crofter
it makes me more open and softer
feeling the polar winds of winter near
until my eyes from nature tear
mysteries in the storms circle
through purple heather squircle
When I spin my wool, knit,
wear the country on my shoulders
my animals quietly stare
over the gardenpath and lichened boulders

thick walls of white cottages embrace
with kindness, the fire and the dog,
keep summer out or autumnfog
stand firm when time takes more of me
than I want to give
But there I live!!

It’s not my alter ego living there,
it is my heart and soul, my future fair.
It’s my dream, desire, there to be,
In Scotland. To be free.

So when my bagpipes sound lament or song
the lady in me grows, becomes strong.

When life has reached the final stage
and my soul breaks out of its cage
when they drink whisky on my life
remember then my inner strife.

In spring, between ocean, hills and sky,
small flowers grow and bees will fly,
remember me, and hear my whisper far,
see the light in every star,
and know that was happiness for me
Sing me a Scottish song with glee.
This dream has set me free.

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Syl©2022-2025.

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Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 7

Prompt:
write a poem that argues against,

or somehow questions,
a proverb or saying. 

I went for a South African Proverb:
“Old age does not announce itself.”

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Old age

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Oh, yes,
old age does announce itself.
Just count the years
you’ll arrive there
Unless you’re counting back.

Just watch your hair
The first grey one can be pulled
but soon pigment takes over
First hides, then runs,
unless you paint your hair
at a regular basis
and cut yourself some slack.

Old age announces itself,
by stiff muscles,
backpain and other struggles
and by stairs that are twice as high
and take twice as long

You can try to escape
by hiding for mirrors,
by wearing bright colours
and staying awake
not to drink
but to think

Wisdom slips in forgetting to break
When age is at stake
knowledge does count
experiences mount
and stories are told
over and over again

but most of all
age doesn’t need a voice
it shows itself
in child’s eyes
when without any disguise
it looks at you
and asks her mom:
“Mom, please, may,
I ask her to play?”

And to me: please ma’am
You play the gram
and I play the elf.
Oh, yes,
old age does announce itself.

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Syl©2022-2025
(A special for Helen.)

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Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 6

Prompt:
Write a variation of an acrostic poem:
a poem that reproduces a phrase
with the first words of each line. 

I took an African proverb:
“Birds sing not because they have answers
but because they have songs.”

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Birds

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Birds came flying in the evening sun to
sing and praise the sky which was still blue
not like those days it can’t be seen or is grey
because of rainclouds or birds of prey
they landed on my gardenhouse, where some
have their nest and every mom
answers the call of nature
but you know enough about that adventure
because the eggs and chicks crowd the place
they need warmth and care and some space
have plenty of time develop and then fly
songs sounding a goodbye in the almost dark evening sky.

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 5

The gnome of Rome

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A gnome in Rome
left his cozy home
he was hungry and cold
which has put his wellbeing on hold

But in the country usually nice, touristic and warm
the people suffered in a sahara sand storm
The gnome he shivered and went on internet
on his tiny phone, under three blankets, in his bed

He asked advice from a Dutch man who offered him cheese
but he didn’t accept this as the taste would make him freeze
He asked a German who adviced sauerkraut and beer
but that too was impossible as the man said “eat here’

A Belgian girl offered him fries and some waffles
and from the African community in Brussels falafels.
But even that didn’t charm the Italian gnome,
who lived in that cold house in beautiful Rome.

Then a Scot told him about cup a soup
and kept him about the whereabouts in the loop
which was quite a problem after Brexit,
you know when the English did a European exit.

They all had to go completely underground
until they knew where those little bags could be found.
They contemplated a secret flight
with the RAF, that seemed to be right.

So under cover of the stars they crawled into a plane,
they were not heard, because of lots of rain,
They crossed the border, yes, unseen,
and waved above the palace to the Queen.

After a bumpy landing sneaked away
and got the bags after honest pay.
Quickly they got back, managed to board a Ryan Air,
well, call them smugglers, to be fair.

Unlike the people around them on the plane
they escaped customs. They deserve some fame.
He was happy, this tiny gnome,
When after all this he entered his home.

A mug, some water and a bag of cup a soup,
he needed and a gnome sized scoop,
and then he sat down in the bitter cold
drinking his soup, I am told.

This is how far NaPoWriMo for this day goes,
maybe the soup was too hot and he still blows
but this gnome in Rome, as mythical as he might be,
did something unusual, recorded for history.

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

She was

She was

In years
no hands have touched you
no smile
no words of comfort
in your pain

staying alone
brought calm
and contemplation
the joy of winter
and of spring
a bout of joyous elation
when you heard
the birdies sing

you had a mind
none understood you
but you managed
on your own

then bombs came
the school shot
to the hospital
happened the same

you trembled in the basement
the others too
they got hit
It was you who
with tears and trembles
their names on paper crosses writ

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Then your body broke
by a man unheard of
the devil in him
made him loose his human heart
he sold it, you paid it
you were just there
and took no part

left in a corner in the basement
your breathing sounds and sobs
slowly ebbed away
like the sea leaving the land
the angels took your sea away

a few days later
sun was shining
they found you
In your decaying hand
still in firm grasp
found of his battalion
the badge on a dirty clasp

without a word
they were understanding
what happened to you
and they cried
respectfully you were covered
in a blanket colourful and bright

Later that day
soft hands washed you
curled your hairs
and dressed you
in soft lace
It was like you finally could smile
in a far away place

soft fingers stroked you
wished you were still alive
a photo taken of your beauty
for that enormous war archive

You were one
of women that were taken
by the devil’s army
in their war
I will remember you
with golden flowers
we were sisters from afar

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 4b

Prompt:
write a poem in the form of a poetry prompt,
like Mathias Svalina.
I wrote one earlier,
but forgot the surrealistic aspect. 

Written after seeing the latest news from Ukraine.
Not written to offend.

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Message to God

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1. Stop paying attention to prayers in which people ask for money and other things they should care for themselves. You don’t need lazy followers. They won’t read the Bible and won’t listen to the preachings anyway. So why bother?
2. Look down and see what is happening in the world. Even though I agree it will make you sick and nauseated. But with all the diseases created by you I assume it doesn’t matter. And I have never seen images or stories of you being ill.
3. See with your heart and soul. Other ways of observing won’t work anyway. There is no logical explanation, no scientific one. And although I am not as supermighty as you are, I see no real cause for the atrocities at the moment than a single mind that is subject to emptiness and wrong connected wires and completely brainless subjects that can easily be threatened into submission.
4. Either give them a consciousness, which won’t help as they have no willpower and they are probably afraid to make choices, so they act like blind sheep following the herd that leads them to the abattoir, or create a new department in your heavenly house.
5. It should be in a deserted area, certainly not near Heaven, but also not near Hell, as the regular sinners and murderers are little chickens in the face of these giant criminals that have forsaken their ancestry’s lessons and have committed so many crimes that their DNA has changed forever.
6. Round them all up, which should be peanuts for you as you call them your sheep because they have been silent, nice kids in beautiful churches, which they bomb by the way, but I guess you don’t care for material wealth by now.
7. And lead them not into temptation. They’ve been there and they have traumatized so many people that it can’t be undone in 7 generations, not even by you, and that tells something, doesn’t it? Were you looking the other way? Or turning the other cheek?
8. Lead them to that other world where they can harm none, but keep them out of the way of Elon Musk, because he has great plans and he doesn’t seem to be a fool. He’s rather focussed, I have to say.
9. Erase their footsteps, one by one. They say you see everything, so take well care of it.
10. Heal this world and help those poor people with a true miracle. It doesn’t do the job when a Saint appears. They need a whole new country with everything in it.
11. And erase their memories and bring the innocent dead to live.
They have always told you would do everything for people, so it’s time you live up to the expectations.
12. Hear my “Thank you” when it’s all done.

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Syl©2022-2025


Psalm 121:7-8
The Lord will keep you from all evil;

he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep your going out
and your coming in
from this time forth and forevermore.

Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 4

Prompt:
write a poem in the form of a poetry prompt,
like Mathias Svalina.

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Hands

1. Put your hands before your eyes, so you can’t see anything.
Your brain is searching, just let it be.

2. Record in 6 words what you see, and stay that way 10 seconds without counting.

3. Hold you hands like a cup before your face, think of a gift as a thank you for care you gave, or think of a thank you gift you gave for care.

4.Blow in your cup and blow it full, then drink your gratitude.
So many times you cared and none even realized. So take sips, to value even the tiniest gestures. Or take sips realizing you accepted care from others like it was nothing

5. Then blow in your cup again, blow the contents away and let it fly. Your past needs and worries can become little flies and leave, to far away countries, to the seas, and later drift to the northpole, where they freeze tiny and at last just disappear.

6. Imagine a dove lands in your hands to give you peace of mind.
Breathe in…… breathe out….
breathe in………… breath out…
Smile to it and let it fly.

7. Fly with it…. and feel free.

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

The Sunday Muse #205 – 2



The diner


dissolved
they are
the dozen red roses
and the one white
of lost innocence

they begged me
to have dinner with you
“some food”, you said,

your hand caught mine
the other took the roses
and we smiled and laughed
like we would be forever
we danced
until the morning dew

crumbled to dust now
are the roses
the love has left
and life almost

I once looked back
at the lively diner
imagined music
smiles of the past

buildings
people
dreams and memories
I now know
they don’t last

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Syl©2022-2025
Photo: “The Whitehouse Diner”
by Aaron Segreaves

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Featured post

The Sunday Muse #205 – 1

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A miracle is needed


The Whitehouse Diner
was abandonned, even by time.
cocktail dresses, fake tan,
even sounds of swing
and rock and roll
just faded away

unlike the restaurants
named Noble, Amadeus, Vimarko,
which are missed and longed for.
not the music, not even the food,
but for the company
that has disappeared
in the chaos of war.

Maybe one of the women
is among the 5
found naked and dead
on the empty street
20 km from Kyiv

Maybe one of the girls
is among the women
delivering warbabies
in a strange bed in Poland
without her husband,
without her family.

Or maybe one of the girls
that used to wear cocktail dresses
hurried down the stairs in a basement
hiding herself with hands
for the bombs

or might the man
on the street to Bucha
dead
still on his bike
as a statue of war
be the man who was dressed
in a tuxido,
slowly going on one knee
asking his beloved to wed

Too many maybe’s of life
among the civilian-targetted rockets
and the derelict buildings

A miracle is needed

If The Pope
is a true
representative of God
he should walk
into Marioepol
and lead the survivors
to freedom and peace

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Syl©2022-2025
Photo: “The Whitehouse Diner”
by Aaron Segreaves

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Russian Orthodox Church Patriarch Kirill gave P.tin his support to invade Ukraine.
This was a political decision, and not a religious one. His religion states: ¨Thou shalt not kill.¨

In The Netherlands there is a sharp division between state and church.
The clerics of the Russian Orthodox Church of the Holy Nicholas the Myra asked Patriarch Kirill to reconsider his decision. Soon after (sunday March 6) they got a visit of Archbishop Elisey of The Hague (in a diplomat car) very shortly before/during a service. He wanted the name of the Patriarch of Moscow to be commemorated. After a clear refusal this was done by a deacon who does not belong to the parish.
The clergy also received the threat they were watched by the russian government.
After the service threats continued and the letter Z was painted on the doors.
The clergy announced a unanimous decision to ask the local bishop of the Russian Church, Archbishop Elisey, to grant them canonical dismissal, because it is no longer possible for them to function within the Moscow Patriarchate and provide a spiritually safe environment for their faithful.
At the same time, they have sent a request to the Metropolitan of Belgium Athenagoras (of the Ecumenical Patriarchate) to be received into his Diocese.
The Metropolitan Athenagoras, according to the announcement of the parish of St Nicholas, expressed his willingness to consider the request and will request a canonical release from Archbishop Elisey.
This is how far political arms reach.
Something about history: Click here.


Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 2

Prompt:
write a poem based on a word
featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks.

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Winter Passing

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Songs of praise
for greening trees and flowers colouring
A single minority I felt
t’was like in time I dwelt

I mussitated within
“without winter no spring’

Storms that almost made the tree tumble
the rains swept over roads, swiped away the rubble,
winter flanels, leaking noses
and now suddenly growing roses?

I mussitated within
“without winter no spring’

Then hesitant, a bit shy maybe,
something white fell on a tree.
Another snowflake fell,
and then it stopped, the bagatelle.

I mussitated within
“without winter no spring’

The next morning the afterwinter showed her glorious face,
lots of snow, a harsh wind, the cold in embrace,
cars collided, and snowmen emerged,
the amount of snowphotos quickly upsurged.

I mussitated within
“without winter no spring’

Soon we were ready for spring to come,
and make this poem into a song,
or create a chrysography with my mussitating.
Now let’s welcome the fairy of spring
and wave goodbye to the winterking.
I can stop mussitating
“without winter no spring’.

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Syl©2022-2025

Used:
31 mrt.
MUSSITATE (v.) to mutter, to speak softly
31 mrt.
An AFTERWINTER is a period of unseasonably cold or bad weather when spring is expected.
28 mrt.
The omission of one of two neighbouring vowels split across two neighbouring words

—as in ‘th’other’ instead of ‘the other’—is called SYNALOEPHA. Used the form, not the word.
26 mrt.
CHRYSOGRAPHY is the art of writing in golden letters.

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Featured post

Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 1

Prompt:
prose poem about the body.

should contain an encounter between two people,
some spoken language,
and at least one crisp visual image.
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Of course I gave the prompt a twist.

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Fake?

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I’m living in a fake world.

People complaining about imprisonment when all they had to do was stay away from a virus.
People paying with credits cards and numbers instead of searching in their pockets to hear and find that last coin needed to pay.
Doctors voiceless reached by a machine that sends a signal that something in the body is not right.
Governments asking to care for the vulnerable, who get vaccines in the storm in a tent.

And then my day of glory came.
Visiting a shop with fake new clothes and almost thrown away items, including paintings that were never meant to be sold again.
They were clearly not a long term investment, I thought, when the guy beside me, at 2 meters distance, asked me: “Do you want to buy it”?
“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed, “but I have seen enough other things”, and so I stretched my arm and my hand reached to him, hoping he would also enter the 2 meter no man’s land between us. He did, and looked intensely happy.

I walked to a special corner and saw an embroidered skirt, reached and fell like a real bag of sand from sky high to the earth below. The thud was in my ears before the words reached my mind. (I did not curse). For the first time in two years a caring voice asked how I was doing. Character fallen with me, replied I: “I am OK”, before the pain in my hand pierced through my nerves and hit me hard. Thinking a few minutes sitting there would help me, so I said. She left.
After those minutes I praised my other hand, for giving the man his painting, for helping me stand up, and supporting my broken wrist.

I had fallen through a fake window in a fake wall, and gained something real.

When my pain now reaches my face and a small sound echos against the walls of my room the family looks at me to see if I am fake. My skin looks good, but underneath the pain creeps through my body, creating fake nerve impulses.
Will I ever heal?

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Syl©2022-2025
Image: a gift

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Featured post

The Sunday Muse #204

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The scream of the sunflowers


While air raid sirens
break the night
dust and smoke
crawl in the city
haunted by the wind

while gaping eyes of windows
burn
a stopsign
however symbolic
seems in an empty dust plain pinned

while children long for old friends
not knowing they are gone or killed
a Ukrainian beauty runs away.
a bride? a singer?
certainly strong-willed

the sunflowers bow
for her
then face the burning sky
no questions asked
no amazement uttered
not even the question ‘why’?

They move in wind and rain
witness lightning, bombs, despair,
they keep alive the inborn dream.

As everlasting statues of new life
they reach each Ukrainian with a scream:

We stand with you
whatever you endure
as love and freedom always are
the forces of life most pure.

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

The Sunday Muse #203 – b

Memories…
associations..

Footless glasses

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Do you remember those glasses?
They couldn’t stand on their own…

They were reflections
of the characters

You drank
and put it upside down
on the well used table

Miriam tried to make it stand
by itself
failed
always failed
she thought
and had us go to the roof
where she wanted to commit
suicide
she got us worried
she was the center
not the glass

John refilled
to fill himself
he was the great pretender
needed to have more
especially more of himself

Norbert took a sip
and put it in a hole
of the piano
boogie woogie was his style
the blues, jazz,
swinging around a sip

So many put their glasses
in the flower boxes
like we plant the poppies
in the grass…
to remember…

Theyŕe gone now
Left the country,
married
or simply died…

So I’m here
with my footless glass
still in my hand
no wine,
some ruby port
shining some warmth
on my pale skin..

I’m here
with my glass
moving on the mellow sounds
of memories
and dreams…
yes dreams…
while
I
almost silent
sing

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Syl©2022-2025

Something more about me
for the musers

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Featured post

The Sunday Muse #203

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Just playing around,
distracted by the war.
Sorry.

Reflection

the world
upside down
tilted

too many tears
spilling
we can’t catch
grief anymore

the mirror
surrealistic
like a vessel
of tank oil

the good
tumbling from the earth
gravity has many forms
or a hypersonic ping
will crush all dreams

war is a balancing act
on the tip of a finger
of universe’s superfibber

peace an adjusting act
on a middlefinger

we are just human
he forgot
he thinks he is a real god
we know: he is not!

I don’t reflect
I try to reconnect

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Syl©2022-2025
“Reflection” by G-Crew

Something more about me
for the musers

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Featured post

Prayer for Ukraine – I lay you

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Prayer for Ukraine
I lay you

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I lay you
in the arms
of an angel

so your bombed body
doesn’t hurt anymore

I lay you
in the arms
of an angel

So your hunger
and thirst
will be gone

I lay you
in the arms
of an angel

You’ll need the warmth
now you’re fading away
under the ruins of beauty
while even rescuers
are shelled

I lay you
in the arms
of an angel

even though
you’re thrown
in a mass grave

I lay you
in the arms
of an angel

while I cry
large tears
in a silence
of grief
and pain

I lay you
in the arms
of an angel

The angel
gives your soul
rest and peace
and
everlasting
love

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

Burning

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Burning

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They’re marching
through your conscience
the deaths
both old and young
they died in bloody gunfire
under the ruins of your unaimed bombs

You are the man with
no light in your eyes
self hatred injected into the world
You couldn’t realize your dreams
so you take away life from others

you’re burning the earth
you’re burning your soul

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

The Sunday Muse #202

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The steps of individuality

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dancing the steps of individuality
on the shores of history
do we get wet or not
do we stay cold ‘r be hot

storing memories
on waves and breeze
a new one gently drips
reaching out to ships
sailing to the east or west
each day is a daunting quest

my friends, do dance with me
let’s write together some history
the black is creeping from the back
opinions breaking up the crack
or rain is sown to water
to hide the ongoing slaughter
like a zipper to close life down
lets merge on the shore of blue and brown

synchronize the steps of individuality
on the shores of history

Don’t ever let this world
get us
down

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

To Olena G.

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To Olena G.

words I can not say,
but need to be said
:

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patriotism
bravery
a word
making heroes
meaningless rituals

some soil
or
culture

you
important
for the country
hiding
in a cellar?

cannon fodder

your children
kept in utter danger
on the deathlist
of murderers
your face
doesn’t protect them

your death
does nothing
for your country

victory
of returning
of the winners
of the survivors
does

your children
need to see
the sunflowers
under a golden sun

not the death
of the people
around them
or black death
exploding
within them

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Syl©2022-2025

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Featured post

The boy and his whys

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The boy and his whys

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A man in a strange country
who doesn’t know me
never has seen me
wants to kill me

he wants to shoot my father
not knowing he’s a kind man
he wants to bomb my mother
kill by hunger
my granddad and nan.

A man in a strange country
without a smile on his face
talks with pain and anger
not a friendly trace
his words are vice
he doesn’t answer
my questions, nor my whys

Tell me why
he wants to hurt people
chase them
and hasten
to bomb them to dead

My school and hospital
are now rubble
my teacher and doctor
are among the dead
is it because I wanted that cookie
or didn’t go to sleep in my bed?


Now small feet
walk through the rubble
search a hold
but can not find
leave the love
of friends and family
in their flattened homes behind

a stranger bombed their country
showed he didn’t care
now the child’s feet are searching
a place to rest
but he doesn’t know where…

Peace will be his never-ending quest.

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Music

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Syl©2022-2025
Photo:
Alexandra

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Featured post

The Thread

What is happening in the world
doesn’t have an impact on one nation,
not on one generation.
Today I had a long talk with an eldery Jewish woman
who lost part of her family by targetted murder in WW2.
She said it is like witnessing the same all over again.
I’m not Jewish, but 6 of my family members
died at the same day by bombs in WW2.
Now I’m witnessing how….

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The Thread

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a thread
straight through the hearts
history dangling
like laundry in the wind
two of the same towels
maybe more

limited sight

black boots
sounding from the past
meeting those
of
now

closing in
psychopaths
yelling from
formless mouths
shouting
orders

mothers flee
children cry
then sudden silence


the gesture of peace 2022
is that of a cry to the heavens
begging
demanding
with closed fists

the next shot already fired.

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Syl©2022-2025
Photo:
IPC chief Andrew Parsons calls for ‘peace’
during opening ceremony plea of the Paralympics,
denounces Ukraine invasion. DD 4 march 2022

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