Poetry

Crossroads

I could’ve gone the other way,
the one that didn’t lead to you
and all the tears that followed.
Could I?
I could’ve chosen another life,
where we never met
and all the pain didn’t come to be.
Could I?
I could’ve said no at any point,
at the beginning, but also the end,
and saved us both a lot of trouble.
Could I?
I could’ve vanished quietly,
or with a loud bang
and we could have been happy.
Could we?

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Mike Enerio.

Clock

With minute steps they slide into the room,
their hands slowly wrapping around my neck:
I had no chance to second-guess
which way to turn.
The nightmares course through my veins
like a needle scratching vinyl:
delicately, relentlessly until the end.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Jon Tyson.

In the distance, a small shape

I’ll have two scoops of night time
with a dash of midnight sun
in a cone made of the possibilities of dusk.
Let me blow soap bubbles filled with tomorrows,
bounce on a trampoline made of silly dreams
and lie in meadows formed of children’s laughter.
I may never make it
to the end of the rainbow
but I’ll make the journey worthwhile.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Cyrill Hänni.

Glitch

It was only a minor malfunction
in this universe
but it was enough
to wreak havoc
with planned events:
soulmates led astray,
connections missed,
treasures lost.
We will never know
the lives that didn’t come to be.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Mathew Schwartz.

Stranger than fiction

The keys move my hand,
draw in my fingertips,
guide me through the story,
introducing me to new friends
that will live
in my memory forevermore.
Like a sculptor freeing
statues from marble blocks,
like a painter uncovering
landscapes hidden in the canvas,
like a love joining
two souls together in the void.
This fiction is strange,
is indubitable, is intrinsic,
is no fiction at all.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Florian Krumm.

Mirror

I’ve been upside down for a while,
skewed like ripples in a pond,
haven’t known my left from right,
failed to recognise my own face.
But who’s to say this isn’t me
the way I was supposed to be?
I dread to think it was true
but the other version also
couldn’t be with you.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Kelly Sikkema.

Nightmare

This is not where we disembark,
it cannot be where we alight,
it must not be where we come ashore.
This chopping sea will not end
with an ebbing tide;
this vintage car will not go to pieces
wrapped around a tree.
This wraith will be vanquished
with all the might in my heart
and when I wake from this nightmare,
we will not be apart.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Kelly Sikkema.

Power

Life could be a force for good
but that is so hard in adulthood.
So instead we just pretend
and quietly lament our descent
into a betrayal of childhood.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Miguel Bruna.

Bird of paradise

This is my little ode
to the glossy-mantled manucode.
It is my favourite bird of paradise:
green, blue, purple black and medium size.
They move alone or in pairs:
I so wish the world was theirs.
They like to eat fruit and figs,
if only I could have one in my digs.
Oh, glossy-mantled manucode,
won’t you spend time in my abode?

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Simon Berger.

Planes/trains/automobiles

I build paper airplanes in my spare time
to throw my dreams a lifeline.
I play with toy cars on Sundays
to cure my malaise.
I drive model trains every night
to pretend that I’m alright.

Part of #escapril2021. Photo by Marjan Blan.