I read once the biography of a Canadian woman who’d emigrated from Holland. She loved her new life but missed her “paradisaical Maarn.” I pass this lost garden on the train. Sometimes you can see far into it. Sometimes you can’t.
Tag Archives: poetry
The face you show the street
Pent up, fastidious.
Why so guarded?
There are long lanes
and country valleys.
They would have you
if you let them.
Searing sincerity
“He’s a really old guy.
Do you know him
of your time,
Dad?”
Gene’s jouncing
Phineas’ fall
Crumpled cellophane
What to think
of the stories you hear,
of knowns
now unknown,
lies and truth
alike in the pack.
What can you do?
You pick one.
You light it.
You suck it in
and blow it out.
The problem with the prophets
They’ve got their own issues.
Let ‘er fly
As though you took that lock
and busted it with a hammer,
and the lock went spinning
and the door blew wide
Apostles pop up
like the suspects in Clue:
Paul with the wrench
in the library
now descending
to where
Peter grills cheese.
You want one?
Really,
there’s enough.
If the Spirit has a direction
It’s diagonal
and quivering
and blue
What we pass on the way (Utrecht to Nijmegen)
The graveyard. You’d think it would be last, but it isn’t.
The highway. The one they call the ring.
Little towns. It would be nice to have a bigger yard.
The city. Where the bridge was too far.
The river. Not the Rubicon, but the Waal.
Utrecht Journal 