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August 21 Tiny black feet...Tiny black feet…
the way they walk along lame lifelines leaving calenders like clotted little tears… round their few uncounted years round far too loosely fallen stillness the way they walk along lame lifelines… helpless children without water, food and shoes… the way their story ‘s being told in tenuous blues in blurry worldwide languages that slide off all their shadowtinted, unaccepted races while their stumbling tiny black feet print no traces on the mirror of today…
we seem to simply make their difference invisible, unbearable or just a humble mark of something misty, inaccessible and dark… children without turns to take existing for the smudging sake of illness, painful poverty and death…
they breathe an atmosphere that dims their timid angelvoices sooner than they talk… the way they walk along lame lifelines blindly limping round time’s stillness or an unavailing pause in something bad born to be the innocently sad…
Najade © Drs. Rikki Keller Sunday, 19 August 2007 Time...Time...
Time has flown by and so many things seem to have changed, but I am still writing poetry and painting aquarelles...
Even the poems I posted here look different, for the distance between their lines has somehow been made wider.
I don't really like this layout, but what the heck, let's see what new stuff will look like...
May you all be well and happy!
Love,
Rikki March 08 oh yes...oh yes…
oh yes, my Lord… I’m watching them not quite like You, but still…
my humble eyes can see them spill a million sacred lives… I see the beehives they call towns I see their fears, their pains, their frowns …
I see Your humans running wild the tiny shadow of each child… I see Your animals, Your rains Your limping forests, drying plains…
oh yes, my Lord…I see You cry and just like You I wonder why…?
I see the ailing birds and more… the rubbish brought to every shore I taste the poison in Your air I sense Your nature’s deep despair…
oh yes, my Lord…I see You cry and just like You I wonder why…?
Najade © drs. Rikki
mother earth...mother earth
the way our planet turns around with boundaries and all – the ones we made, the ones we found by any secret call – we never know which way to go we search, we whirl, we fly to get one place where we might grow although we don’t sense why…
the way our mother earth abides whichever storm will roar – the ones that kill both grooms and brides and children in a war – we never understand her pain we laugh, we love, we live to stay the lightlinks of the chain that used to hold and give…
Najade © drs. Rikki
for humanity to sing...for humanity to sing…
Lord, let me be a while, a little while: the river where she meets the smiling sea the silver albatros that travels on an ancient Liberty… the dodd’ring hand that picks a snow-drop in a snoozing Aprilpark the tiny candle that enlightens someones soundless, boundless dark…
Lord, let me be a while, a little while: the mother while she feeds her hungry child the swinging pendulum that swerves astray from Sunday to run wild the dancing feet that kiss a moorland in a dreaming Irish vale… the auburn sunset weighing nothing on Your heaven’s holy scale…
Lord, let me be a while, a little while Aurora when she paints a sailing cloud the baby prairie-wolf that’s learning to be fearless, swift and stout the fairy naiad guiding poets to her most inspiring spring the slender quill composing lyrics for humanity to sing…
Najade © Drs. Rikki 2006
glissando...glissando…
here we are dancing on the utter edge of time oblivion our shadow and tomorrow the reflection of our dreams…
we borrow sunbeams from above to help us bloom in blissful love we drink the rain, we kiss the wind we breathe the air…
where global oceans glide ashore we’re building castles in the sand amidst the dunlins and the plovers and the tides…like little children in God’s ever gracious hand…
here we are playing ‘long the waterline of life the ageless stave on which the muses draw the mystic notes of streams the blue oblivion our shadow and tomorrow the reflection of our dreams…
Najade © Drs. Rikki 2006
February 13th, 1861-1911-2006February 13th, 1861-1911-2006
these helpless hands caress the sacred thought of strings… life is a million, million million, million things: tempestuous symphonies of Mahler, Wagner, Brahms (an eagles wings…) a yellow Aprilbird that sings that sings, that sings… a simple bird near ever hidden springs…
my ancestors adream in bluish spheres: oblivion, a blistered vale of tears… a woman, once a girl, I see her face a timid servant to the higher bourgeoisie she had no place, she was she was, but not to be…
still she gave birth to those who’d mother gals like her, my silver granny and my mom so strong, so young… a line of ladies to whom’s spirits I belong…
these helpless hands create an everlasting song…
Najade © drs. Rikki Februari 13th, 2006 fleurs-de-lis...Fleurs-de-lis…
today at dawn I watched a marv’lous fleet of geese against the porcelain of the frosty winterskies they sketched a dozen of their magic freedomvees as if they flew there just for me, to please my eyes…
a gift of nature, this fantastic floating piece… like fleurs-de lis, immensely highcomposed the birds and I, we formed one prayer on the breeze the world below a lonely head that hung and dozed…
today at dawn I sensed creation’s endless light my humble figure felt embraced by heaven’s Hail God, how You blessed me with this grand and holy sight the birds and I, some of Your children, small and frail…
Najade Drs. Rikki © january 25th, 2006
Bethlehemstraat 22Bethlehemstraat 22
at grandma’s stately townhouse grandpa’d invariably beseem in frugal furniture and bourgeois drapes… he had so little selfesteem yet sat there on his solemn chair beside the muffled stove: two silent crooked shapes…
the brassy bracket waved away their winter’s light in such a lethargy that would soon leave them lieing still – from left to right from left to right…
tonight we saw the grizzly old façade: a lifeless tombstone pointing down into the blind and blank abyss of modern arbitrariness…
the nameless door did not reopen to the time that left them lieing still – from left to right left…right… left…
Najade © drs. Rikki 2006 Daddy's house...Daddy’s house…
The house was standing at the hush-end of the street: a closetongued book, in which someones words had overwritten ours… No punctuation mark pointed at me…
The dead passed me by in such an line that laces itself ‘round a reopened wound… I longed to ask them if they could see me, crawling back through our olden days, right along the once determined border of my daddy’s land…
And my eyes kept burning over their tired heads, untill they rested in my hand, so that I could send them away on the winterwind, one by one by one…
I found his footsteps at the hush-end of a sleeping labyrinth, still runnig wild…
They fitted me: his lonely lastborn child…
Drs. Rikki © 2006 Angin...Angin…
is she real…? or just a rumour, true or not…? her blue appearance like a hue of time and stillness, gently breathing through the winter’s subdued smile… one magic mile or millions unseen distances, a lonely silver tear…?
Lord, is she near…? is she an angel wearing wings that warm the wind? a hint of faded golden cultures lost conventions, or a name that no one mentions, or a plea…? her silent screaming sounds like poetry and ever whirling snow…
oh… is she real…? or is she someone’s secret dreaming someone’s origine or just a flying child…?
I sense she’s wild, I sense she’s free she might be me…
Najade © drs. Rikki 2006 evening mystique...evening mystique...
a slate-grey evening slides across the sleepy town… an ageold habit, sowing moods from house to house (by silent softthrows of a nameless hand…)
beyond each window seasons come to pass predictably, oh yes…they measure lifelengths ‘long no line…look: one arrives and one departs… one leaves a teartrack, hushing some forsaken candleflame but leading to no warmer, younger place…
slate-grey dusk aslides ‘round stiffened shapes: dark trunks and hagues and remnants of a ‘sleeperdyke’ that has to carry nothing but a speechless sheep a clump of knotwort and a sluggish shadow on a rusty bike…
something puzzling encompasses circumscribes, concerns and flows again flows out… without a sound and sensed but by the one who is allowed to know how someone, once alive here sought his last support…
a hue of snowwhite mist breaths from the chilly soil… Najade © Drs. Rikki 2006
January 19 Zeb...My silent spirit hides a dream in ageless blue: oh I would love to dance on ultra-tender toes, where ‘long the flanks of mount Parnassus music flows and I would wish to mail this fantasy to you…
Your words are jewels, sparkling talent shining through… They lift me higher than the breath of winter goes, upon the wind, by which sweet inspiration glows, a blush to share: Apollo’s truly blissful hue…
You are a poet on the threshold of his times and I receive the soft reflection of your chimes: this distant melody that moves my motherheart…
I know the way within the Eden of your rhymes… I read your youthfulness, your wisdom, free and smart, for you, my friend, I’ll always have a warm regard…
Rikki A sonnet for ZEB January 09 Even bijpraten...Lieve vrienden...
Er ligt alweer een nieuw jaar voor ons en ik hoop dat de komende tijd voor jullie allemaal heel gelukkig zal zijn! De kerstdagen en de jaarwisseling zijn hier kalmpjes voorbijgegleden. Inmiddels hebben mijn lieve kleinkindjes hun eerste verjaardag gevierd... En dat niet alleen: ze beleefden ook hun eerste Sinterklaasfeest en Kerstmis. Op hun verjaardag kregen ze een grote slagroomtaart van pappa Freek en mamma Sandra. Aarzelend staken ze er een vingertje naar uit, maar aan hun verwonderde gezichtjes te zien, vonden ze het wel een vreemd ding... Brittje proefde er voorzichtig van en nam meteen nog een handje vol taart! Nick begon te huilen en om hem te troosten, besloot vader Freek hem te tonen wat hij met die berg slagroom kon doen: hij stopte zijn hele gezicht in de taart!!! Tja, toen huilde Nick nog harder... Al met al was het feest zeer geslaagd!
Van het Sinterklaasfestijn heb ik leuke foto's. Je kunt ze bekijken door de volgende link aan te klikken:
http://www.ringo.com Onder 'my photos' vind je ook enkele van mijn tekeningen.
Zojuist heb ik enkele nieuwe gedichten in mijn weblog gezet. Tot een volgende keer!
Rikki
let him be...this is the page he yearns to study on today… his fingers linger on the first (forbidden) lines his mind is searching in it’s own peculiar way he knows he’ll find the hidden enigma’s, the signs…
the sea of ages rolls her strength upon his shore he sips her salt, her spring, her spirit and her Light he feels her timelessness just longs to give him more and in his soul her selfless Love adds to his might…
Lord, let him drink, oh, let him taste, yes, let him be… he’s young enough to play his part in this: His Time he’s smart enough to play his role in history… Lord, let him write, oh, let him think, yes, let him rhyme…
(or not…)
Drs. Rikki for Zeb, my Friend in Dublin
ribbons...my lines come whirling down from space like ribbons of transparent lace… I love to tie them into bows and hand them out where sorrow shows: a tender smile, a hug, a kiss a simple prayer for soothing bliss…
I wish to give my poetry to those who are in agony… soft ribbons ‘round their broken wings all sorts of warm and wholesome things: a word of hope, a spark of light to help them through their darkest night…
Drs. Rikki daddy's house...the house was standing at the hush-end of the street: a closetongued book in which someones words had overwritten ours… no punctuation mark pointed at me…
the dead passed me by in such an line that laces itself ‘round a reopened wound… I longed to ask them if they could see me crawling back through our olden days right along the once determined border of my daddy’s land…
and my eyes kept burning over their tired heads untill they rested in my hand so that I could send them away on the winterwind, one by one by one…
I found his footsteps at the hush-end of a sleeping labyrinth, still runnig wild… they fitted me: his lonely lastborn child…
Drs. Rikki
December 27 church...For all of you…
an ancient church in limelight from the sleeping park below… snow on its mediaeval roof: proof of oblivion, of Love, of Faith, of Hope… no place could be more sacred, I believe, than this, this Home of God on Christmaseve…
dark silhouets of maples, oaks and firs… no footstep stirs the ambience no breath the golden glow… one old arched window smiles with candletongues, so true…
this Night belongs to agelessness, this Night belongs to you…
Drs. Rikki Christmas Eve 2005
This is the church I can see from my window... It is a lovely mediaeval building standing in a small park. Behind it is a larger park at the riverside, with a mediaeval estate in the middle. My village is of great importance in literary history. During the nineteenth century famous authors have spend time at the estate and written about the beautiful environment. Frederik van Eedens: Van de koele meren des doods is situated here. December 07 cameoshe has a fair cameoface
an opaline fine oval midst
soft silv'ry hair...
she glows...
she is an artist
an Octoberrose, a birch
in search for dialects & babysmiles
sweet peppers and untravelled miles...
see, with a feather she writes lyrics
to be lifted by the wind...
the wind of ages, seconds, hours
serving flowers time to show
their golden hearts...
she never parts with her oblivion
yet yearns for more horizons
than the ones she knows...
she glows...
she has a fine cameoface
her grace is silent
and her hand
so small...
hear...
hear her call
in any, any place...
Drs. Rikki November 25 quaternair...The Dutch version of this quartette can be found in this blog under the title 'Les quatre saisons de l éternité...'
summer
July awakens global headlands lowlengths, shelters and a shy old holm: fields of mauvish mandrakeplants in placid rows - like magic: mellow earthscent, honeysongs…
and long… long before infinity declares her growth a summer she gives birth to all those beings spreading spores around life’s garden - giving voices to young titmice senior willows, children fishing in an seagreen ditch -
the clayground ripens from within a slanted tower’s clock tolls praise at halftime hours and duration of oblivion slides gently ‘cross flat acres to an autumnnight…
autumn
night… night dims the countrytune to yonder organmusic in a vaguer stop - oh lowly, slowly -
slowly, now that mist above it shades a human’s half hushed name… like arid birchleafskeletons lone years are snowing down from risen time… dazed villages stand staring into downdropped auburn dresses of dewdripping trees and not a soul knows who’ll divide a comprehension among man and beast
here, in the airythin peninsula of ages seeds are sleeping ‘long the borderline of consiousness and streams become the icy aqua arteries of winterworlds…
winter
winterworlds… frail fresco’s on the walls of Dawn - thus named the fragile woman who’s so glossy glassy womb abides the tides - breathlessly concealed amidst the gradients twixt pregnancy and death
she doesn’t ask for explanations as the essence of infinity matures in hasty chime with frosted hagues and daybreak cannot wait to make her guess:
where’s April hiding where are daffodils awobblin’ and which prehistoric wish awakens worth of repetition from her metaphore? hear… hear now how latent melodies fly forward to a newborn spring…
spring
spring… and no destination’s nobler to an early bird to sing for to a wagonwheel to leave its clearest traces to a source ataking but its only rise
still time has not dissolved itself see - seconds tremble - tremble under wisely startled water wardebris, forewritten pain
Aurora is the rose… rosefingered girl astriking murmuring vulcano’s dreaming sunbeams, children’s smiles and Only Loves - yes all of these through simply being and appearing right and on a schoolyard plays a toddler with its oh so little shadow - while one elsewhere raises far too tiny bodies from a mass-massgrave…
still time has not dissolved itself look, there’s a shrub abuddin’ and an angel passing by, a moment running over from the future’s air…
Drs. Rikki |
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