.
The white wolf
silently
the end of day
is climbing on the hill
a whisper
of the wind
catches his last breath
and carries it away
a light shiver
a sudden ray
another being gone
in life’s ballet
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
The Sunday Muse #252
The Sunday Muse #251
.
On the door
When you knock on the door
and still hold close
all you have ever known
nothing will open
as the closed mind
stays silent
of beauty and love.
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
Photography by
Dawn Gaye
.
The Sunday Muse #250
.
Let’s dance
.
Let’s dance
to the no linky circus
sea sand and sun
with a veil for more fun
catching broken dreams
with wrapped lost feathers
to show a love imagined
consumed in mind
never true begun
Let’s dance
to the no linky circus
float through the confetti
of a busy day
while almost kissing
in faded memory
like a fiddler without roof
plays softer and slower
and the world turns grey
Let’s dance
to the no linky circus
sea sand
the evening has just begun
a veil to become an etherical form
a whole evening to slowly transform
a longing into a reality to be.
Let’s dance
be poetically free
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
“the no linky circus”
used as an addtional prompt.
Thanks Carrie!
.
The Sunday Muse #249
.
For free
Ladies and gentlemen
come in
come in
enter for free
go the white tiles
enjoy the emptiness of being
the suction of disagreement
and lonely opposition
drown you feet
into the water of injustice
through the mudgate of financial desire
Ladies and gentlemen
come in
come in
enter for free
take the white tiles
and dance on the reflection
of the brightness of war
the light of explosions and ignitions
rape and torture
justified by lies
and the consent of a godforgotten
wannabee priest of the anti-christ
Ladies and gentlemen
ladies and gentlemen
come in
come in
enter for free
the underworld is waiting
the supremacy of mortality
look into the mirror of the karma
of your individuality
all for free
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
.
I’ll try to visit,
but I’m dealing with eye issues.
Reading is a real problem.
Blurred and sometimes double vision.
Sorry.
The Sunday Muse #248
.
The last man
.
too old to fight
too young to die
all are gone
war
storms
diseases
accidents
earthquakes
lack of shelter
hunger and thirst
environmental poisoning
advances age and deterioration
self harm and other psychiatric diseases
they said the Bible
needs to be interpreted
in the context
of time and culture
so the plagues
of this time
signal
extinction is near
one man left
one little flower
last bond with life
when even memories
disappear
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
The Sunday Muse #247
.
The Gate at Clare College
.
I heard the far cry
of unseen souls
through the gate
7 centuries of
centient beings
scrounging for science
feeding hunger to know
from oblivion
through curiosity
moving out of the haze
into knowledgeable glow
innocents waiting
they just have to grow
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
Photography:
Clare College, Cambridge UK
by
Chris Radburn
The Sunday Muse #246
.
I left so many houses
.
I left so many houses
so many faces
some I still know
others disappeared
into the thin air of time and place
Their smells, their laughs
and sometimes a sense of caution
The music and guitar
it all is left behind
I smile so often
like I had no problems
was told I looked stupid
there was none without a worry in the world
I danced and sang
longed for some love
and just got nothing
but the fake and phantasies
created with some beer
and when the sun sank
the clouds got golden
I dreamed abut a happy time
I wasn’t here.
.
©Syl2022-2025
I Dream of Reaching
by
Ivan Pili
The Sunday Muse #245
.
They housed in his robes
The robe of celibacy
dressed his urges and desires
that lured from promiss
into his church
and life
Like birds
they were
innocense invited
behind the scenes
caught in the outstretched hands
caressed
fed
and used
nothing to redeem
they housed in his robes
until their wings
took them to unknown countries
where they finally understood
the stings of bees and life
are less poignant
than the soft hands
of a white robed lustful priest
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
Vigil
by
Laura Makabresku
The Eternal Star
.
The Eternal Star
.
Then the day came
that the past
became the present
and stars
were merely drones
approaching
a church
turned into an instrument
of satan
and killing is called
an act of god
then present
became future
displaced people
barren earth
and pain
the main emotion
the reckoning will come
not with wise men
from the east
no worshipping of a child
as the child has gone
those who murdered
God’s creation
will be judged
the false prophets
and fake representatives
will fall
those who stepped
in His place
will be judged
those who have no heart
will die
forever
and the past will be future
a Star will shine
one Star…
The Star…
the only true star
in respect for The Child
“In the beginning
the word was with God
and was God”
In the end
there will be God
forever
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
The Sunday Muse #235
.
He remembers
they prayed for souls
sang long forgotten hymns
addressing a god
they could only sense
and often couldn’t find
they contemplated
gesturing to the kids
they should not play
but bow their heads
in respect for the unseen
one by one
they slipped away
forgot
caught up in life
caring for the elderly maybe
The bells stopped chiming
the priest left
or the vicar
or some other true believer
in “something more”
a window cracked
the dirt nested in the corners
and the pigeons found their way
because bringing peace
was of no use
once a year
a man came in
opened the book
and sang a hymn
unheard
unseen
“we will remember them”
he said
like he could redeem their images
by being there
revive them
find some peace
“we will remember them”
once again
But do we really?
They’re not in the hymns, the church,
not in the monuments around
they are where they were
on stable and firm ground
they’re in our hearts
not waiting to be revived
they want peace for all
for which they strived
.
©Syl2022-2025
Photography:
Jack Rogers
The Sunday Muse #228
.
.
Eternal stairs
.
deserted
negligenced
by the last of nature
destination failure
I can’t dream no more
can’t reach out
with barren hands
silence
appeases me
Last sounds
are angelwings
of true departure
unknown demise
crawling through existence
from within
.
©Syl2022-2025
Photography:
Gregory Colbert Click
Note:
negligenced
A conscious choice to create a verb of a noun.
To Queen Elizabeth II
.
To Queen Elizabeth II
.
May your journey
be soft and kind
May your tears
leave a veil of softness
around the sun
May your smile
linger in our minds
when we hear the birds
at sunset
or during an early
spring morning
when the haze floats
above the land
We will remember you
in the stars
and in the butterflies
that surround us
in everbeing presence
like you will forever
be with us
in spirit.
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
He remembers
they prayed for souls
sang long forgotten hymns
addressing a god
they could only sense
and often couldn’t find
they contemplated
gesturing to the kids
they should not play
but bow their heads
in respect for the unseen
one by one
they slipped away
forgot
caught up in life
caring for the elderly maybe
The bells stopped chiming
the priest left
or the vicar
or some other true believer
in “something more”
a window cracked
the dirt nested in the corners
and the pigeons found their way
because bringing peace
was of no use
once a year
a man came in
opened the book
and sang a hymn
unheard
unseen
“we will remember them”
he said
like he could redeem their images
by being there
revive them
find some peace
“we will remember them”
once again
But do we really?
They’re not in the hymns, the church,
not in the monuments around
they are where they were
on stable and firm ground
they’re in our hearts
not waiting to be revived
they want peace for all
for which they strived
.
©Syl2022-2025
Photo:
PRESS ASSOCIATION
Danny Lawson
.
The Sunday Muse #226
.
.
Light the light
.
when I can’t catch the sunlight
when the sunrises
bring as much darkness
as the sunsets
will you light a light for me?
When the sounds are
only rumble
and the hiss of bombs a’tumble
all around me
will you light a light for me?
For when I wake up at night
or even in the sharp and hot daylight
I can see no more
every fiber in me yearns
ever cell in me burns
but the dark took over
there’s no light in me
Will you light a candle?
3 or 7 maybe
Be the smile, the arm,
the shoulder for me
so I can see the mountains
and the sea
will you light a light for me?
Will you let me be?
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
Because of war we will
Because of war we will
.
We all will cry
one day
and more
We all will mourn
those we love most
as there are killers in the dark
and those blinding our sight in the sun
They sneak up from behind
steal the ground on which we walk
and take the innocence of the children
We all will cry
for one person
and more
disconnect from ourselves
we will scream in the night
when no one is there
shrink at sudden sounds
and drown in our own thoughts
we all will cry
for our lost lives
and more
the individual
succumbing
in the deterioration
of its species
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
.
Been too busy with family issues,
friends who have to deal with the bare realities of life,
and a lot more.
Will be back on a regular basis soon.
The Sunday Muse #225
.
.
A smile
.
I’m no ones child
I am the mother now
the world turned upside down
no game
the evening red
the sunset of my life
a smile
burns deep into the lonely soul
I hear the tears
drip on the barren ground
they catch the sun
and all the world has become
war, drought, floods,
disappearing glaciers,
wildfires, famine,
pandemic
and still somewhere
in pain and tears
a child is born
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
The Sunday Muse #222
.
.
The violist I knew
.
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
.
Bit of background
>>> here <<<
The Sunday Muse #220
.
.
Painting of Time
.
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
.
The Sunday Muse #218
.
.
Swimming in time
.
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
.
Image found at Iglew
The Sunday Muse #217
.
.
Keeper of the Light
.
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.
.
The Sunday Muse #215
.
.
Tired undertaker
.
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
.
Art:
Unforgettable memories
by SV-Blackart on DeviantArt
The Sunday Muse #213
.
.
The cogs
.
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”
.
.
The Sunday Muse #212
.
.
Hide?
.
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.
.
.
The Sunday Muse #211
.
.
Twins
.
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
.
The Sunday Muse #210 – 2
.
.
Waiting in the mist
.
The quay
empty space
the mist
waiting
the seagulls
They’re silent now
maybe
they know
.
.
Photo:
Mist by Ton Heijnen
.
The Sunday Muse #210 – 1
.
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
.
Photo: HYPATIASJOURNEY
The Sunday Muse #209
.
Nested
.
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
.
Artistic image by Sarah Treanor
.
Remembrance Day 2022
.
Remembrance Day 2022
.
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.
.
.
The Sunday Muse #208
.
.
We have the keys
.
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.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 23
Prompt:
Write a poem in the style of Kay Ryan.
.
.
Resistance
.
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
.
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.
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.
.
Market Garden
.
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
.
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.
.
.
Did she?
.
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?
.
.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 20
Prompt:
write a poem that
anthropomorphizes
a kind of food.
.
Flour
.
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!”
.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 19
Prompt:
write a poem
that starts with a command.
.
.
Create peace!
.
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!
.
.
.
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
.
Easter 2022
.
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?
.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 17
Prompt:
dogs you have known, seen, or heard about
.
.
Boris
.
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
.
.
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
.
00.01 hours
.
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.
.
.
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
.
Another era?
.
Someone has altered the sun.
Maybe the moonlight reflects
on the rainy willows
and the dreary sloughs
Or has another era begun?
.
.
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.
..
.
Words and more
.
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
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
.
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.
.
.
Room 23
.
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
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
.
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
.
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
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 12
Prompt:
Write a poem about a very small thing
.
.
Grow
.
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
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
.
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.
.
Of course you are
.
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!!
.
.
©Syl2022-2025
.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 10
prompt:
a love poem
.
Remembering our love
.
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
.
Syl©2022-2025
.
.
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.
.
.
Allan Ginsberg’s American Sentence is genius or laziness
.
Syl©2022-2025
.
.
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
.
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
.
Syl©2022-2025.
Photo: RAlvGar
.
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.
.
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.
.
Syl©2022-2025.
.
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.”
.
Old age
.
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.
.
Syl©2022-2025
(A special for Helen.)
.
.
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.”
.
Birds
.
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.
.
Syl©2022-2025
.
Na/GloPoWriMo 2022 – 5
The gnome of Rome
.
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.
.
Syl©2022-2025
.
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
.
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
.
Syl©2022-2025
.
Soulfluff 