I have been calling,
calling to you from silence
broken winged as if
I was the bird hit
the window that hard, stupid
now for the impact,
never to fly, not
anymore, sorry
for you locked away in that
house of gray gray pain.
September 12, 2010 4:09 AM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.
Some years ago my poetry took on a mythic flavor and I became a character in my own poems, a mage, "the man of the Northern Wall". This apellation is not completely fictional. My middle name is Noordwal, a Dutch term for north wall, though in current Dutch it mainly means north bank as in riverbank. I was told that an ancestor, a Portugese Jew escaping the Inquisition, settled in a small Dutch town and took this name from where he settled, near the north wall of the town. I have thought for a long time that -wal meant wall, think my mother told me that. A linguist might say that my usage is no longer common, is an older usage, but then the Inquisition happened in Portugal a few centuries ago, right around the time the Moors lost control of the Iberian Peninsula and the Jews lost the modest protection given them by Islam. Now I write as this mage, my poetry persona.
Mechanical designer for industry, now retired, once a Bay Area Hippie, went undercover in 1972, I've been writing poetry for years.
Contact: 3topper45@gmail.com
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.