dinsdag 1 januari 1991

The search for ways to express what happens inside...

...expanded to words. The right words. Not to make anything clear. Far from it.

”The end of winter”

It’s cold and white
and the horizon dances around
in a wide, wide circle
and doesn’t seize to tease
From the dark, grey sky
come the white, white flakes
and my chill reaches the ground,
simultaneously and just as silent

If spring’s gonna start here
I swore I’d take it like a man
or like a flower
and drink the melting snow
And what I imagine to be
an arm around my shoulder
will be
gently falling rain

oil on canvas

”I touch, I stroke, I feel”

The deafening silence thunders,
has her wings spread over my wings and sings
She sings between my fingers,
her thoughts hang on my shoulders for now
I touch her briefly
stroke her kindly
I feel her warmth from within

The darkness on a horse is in here
It shouts no words
It screams no sounds
Invisible for the eye in daylight
Not to be mentioned in a motionless night
I touch her briefly
stroke her kindly
I feel her warmth from within

oil on plywood
(67 x 67)

”The thought”

One day one of the dices will explode
on a round table, making music disappear
I captured a thought in a bell below the ceiling
Could do nothing more than open a window
& hope it was all & would be forever
I know the feeling was mutual
The thought loved to leave me behind
and independently fill another sky

oil on something
(20 x 35)

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A warm wellmeant thank you for this sponteanious reaction. I estimate it to be about 37.3. Celsius, that is, for the foreign in origin. One can only go crazy so far...