Love Stolen Night

A pub full of people and you standing there
drinking your last glass of dark coloured beer
The music not louder than hollow hard laughter

Images fading in smokey thick air
somewhere in between, we were going somewhere
or was it after

An iron bed with torn and cold sheets
you opened the window to let go the white dove
it silently flew in the dark coloured night

Away from the people and away from the laughter
we shivered in a night stolen for love
we shivered in a love stolen night

poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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Home to Me

The tired houses leaning side by side
The rusty bicycle you always ride
The fisherman whose ship is work and pride
They all are home to me

The sand that’s blowing on the lonely beach
The waves that bring the shore a treasure each
The wrinkled hand that’s always there to reach
How that is home to me

The mother waiting on the windy pier
The cry of seagulls that are always here
The far away sons and the one who’s near
So much is home to me

The grandchild who’ll be born in fall
The silent men who’ve seen it all
The drunk man waiting for the final call
That all is home to me

poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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You Closed Your Eyes I Caressed You

you closed your eyes I caressed you
with this music not mine
this song not yours
the music
sung by this voice
you closed your eyes I caressed you
and all thoughts that came
with all that we felt
with this music not mine
all then was ours
together we were
you closed your eyes I caressed you
not just you not just me
in silence we bonded
with this music not mine
our tears were the same
when she sang
you closed your eyes I caressed you
with this music not yours and not mine

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poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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Death Is a Mockery of Life

Death is a mockery of life
They who have lived it through, are dead
So what about death can be said
It lingers in the living room after the funeral

They who have lived it through are dead
We do not speak of death too much
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
We try not to think about the lonely grave

We do not speak of deah too much
It is always raining in the grave yard
We try not to think about the lonely grave
Where no one seems to be, but only was

It is always raining in the grave yard
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
As nature doesn’t care about it, live or death
Just carry on as usual

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poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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