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Drs. Rikki Keller: poetry
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poetry English
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Some of my English poems...
Steve Irvin…a Tribute
a smiling man, a blooming father, young and brave
his Love of Nature, widely spread around the Earth…
long shall we cherish and remember what he gave
our precious ‘Hunter’ and his endless, endless
Worth…
he swam the oceans, talked to mammals, fish and snakes
he hugged the wildlife, snuggled up to apes and deer
he knew no boundaries, no walls, no mental brakes
just pure Compassion and not ever any fear…
Steve, let me hug you from this humble place below
may life in Heaven grant you Peace and Joy and Light…
and may the ones you left behind be blessed and know
you’re up there guiding them, like always, strong and bright…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki keller
Tuesday, 05 September 2006
An Edensecond…
it is a golden
noon...
a noon
that allocates itself
twixt silver zigzags of old dogmas, customs, faith …
what has been named, leans
motionless
against the sundaylight and…
while awaiting you…close,
closer to the night
pristine presence tenderly
recounts me
in her shades of simple,
childish peace…
and as your wisdom re-involves
my dreamy silences
Love, Faith, Devotion and
Gods Time
mark, mark us out for life…
a glass train rides through
thoughts of our tomorrow…
and we’re standing
at this oh so placid platform
full of viewpoints, pure
and young and new…
it is a golden
noon
that
needs no hidingplace
and…as you’re
settling in my soul
you crown, you marry her,
oh just like that…
amidst a sweeter, sweetest
semblance
of carnations, fresh and
red
and red and calm…
I gladly lay you to my humble
havenheart
here…while we kiss
and kiss and cuddle…
such an ever golden noon
an Edensecond, grown into
a lasting start…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki Keller Sunday, 14 May 2006
Lingerie…
In the middle of
my village lives a mangled linden-tree…
She dares to wear
light lingerie,
alist’ning
to a deeply rooted instinct, female…free…
It slowly lets her
ancient soul bud out,
her timeless head
be gently crowned anew…
bees buzzing ‘round
her battered neck,
like fancy, bouncing
jewels, small but true…
and see: she muses,
muses, muses…
still refuses to
enchant them
with her sweetest
hidden honey, yet…
they blindly read
her dormant blushing bloom…
In confidence I tell
her, she is teaching me to please…
Yes, how to please
and to attract most honest eyes,
oh, solely by the
humble silent nature
we may warmly share…
Me, dreaming little
poet in the airy countrydormer
with the mystic,
magic windows, high and fair…
She, proudly smiling
linden in the lonely, tearful square…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki Keller 2006
Goj…
pink blossoms in sweet Easterlight…
the night has lifted her abiding shades
a churchbell’s calling while a mistveil fades
and April paints a lovely sight…
I watch your fingers when they play
their tunes of wonder on my silver strings
you give me weightlessness and tender wings
you make me dance and smile and pray…
this day of hope brings so much joy
we breath like children by a golden shore
and our horizon is an open door
you sooth my soul, you are my Goj…
Najade
Goj…’chassidei oemot ha-olam’…
© Drs. Rikki Keller, Sunday, 16 April
2006
Angin…
is she real…?
or just a rumour, true or not…?
her blue appearance like a hue
of time and stillness, gently breathing
through the winter’s subdued smile…
one magic mile or millions
unseen distances, a lonely silver tear…?
Lord, is she near…?
is she an angel wearing wings
that warm the wind?
a hint of faded golden cultures
lost conventions, or a name
that no one mentions, or a plea…?
her silent screaming sounds like poetry
and ever whirling snow…
oh… is she real…?
or is she someone’s secret dreaming
someone’s origine
or just a flying child…?
I sense she’s wild, I sense she’s free
she
might be me…
Najade
© drs. Rikki 2006
for humanity to sing…
Lord, let me be a while, a little while:
the river where she meets the smiling sea
the silver albatros that travels
on an ancient Liberty…
the dodd’ring hand that picks a snow-drop
in a snoozing Aprilpark
the tiny candle that enlightens
someones soundless, boundless dark…
Lord, let me be a while, a little while:
the mother while she feeds her hungry child
the swinging pendulum that swerves astray
from Sunday to run wild
the dancing feet that kiss a moorland
in a dreaming Irish vale…
the auburn sunset weighing nothing
on Your heaven’s holy scale…
Lord, let me be a while, a little while
Aurora when she paints a sailing cloud
the baby prairie-wolf that’s learning
to be fearless, swift and stout
the fairy naiad guiding poets
to her most inspiring spring
the slender quill composing lyrics
for humanity to sing…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki 2006
mother earth
the
way our planet turns around
with
boundaries and all –
the
ones we made, the ones we found
by
any secret call –
we
never know which way to go
we
search, we whirl, we fly
to
get one place where we might grow
although
we don’t sense why…
the
way our mother earth abides
whichever
storm will roar –
the
ones that kill both grooms and brides
and
children in a war –
we
never understand her pain
we
laugh, we love, we live
to
stay the lightlinks of the chain
that
used to hold and give…
Najade
© drs. Rikki
Mama…
Her fragile figure in this sterile bed…
- a fallen angel, frozen in the snow -
My hand caressing her beloved head,
just one last breathing…and her soul will go…
She lived through wars and nearly hopeless fears,
she gave her youth, her faithfulness, her light,
she was my haven for so many years…
Now she is leaving, heaven’s glow in sight…
My darling mother, tiny, old and fair,
her silver hair so soft around her face…
Where will she fly? When shall I see her there?
Lord, guide her safely to Your holy space…
Take her to daddy, he’s been waiting long…
Let them be starlets in Your cosmic hall,
Lord, make them listen to my silent song,
untill I’m coming, as their spirits call…
Najade
© drs. Rikki
evening mystique…
a slate-grey
evening slides across the sleepy town…
an
ageold habit, sowing moods from house to house
(by
silent softthrows of a nameless hand…)
beyond
each window seasons come to pass
predictably,
oh yes…they measure lifelengths
‘long
no line…look: one arrives and one departs…
one
leaves a teartrack, hushing
some
forsaken candleflame
but
leading to no warmer, younger place…
slate-grey
dusk aslides ‘round stiffened shapes:
dark
trunks and hagues and remnants of a ‘sleeperdyke’
that
has to carry nothing but a speechless sheep
a clump
of knotwort and a sluggish shadow
on
a rusty bike…
something
puzzling encompasses
circumscribes,
concerns and flows again
flows
out… without a sound and sensed
but
by the one who is allowed to know
how
someone, once alive here
sought
his last support…
a hue
of snowwhite mist
breaths
from the chilly soil…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki 2006
Fleurs-de-lis…
today at dawn I watched a marv’lous fleet of geese
against the porcelain of the frosty winterskies
they sketched a dozen of their magic freedomvees
as if they flew there just for me, to please my eyes…
a gift of nature, this fantastic floating piece…
like fleurs-de lis, immensely highcomposed
the birds and I, we formed one prayer on the breeze
the world below a lonely head that hung and dozed…
today at dawn I sensed creation’s endless light
my humble figure felt embraced by heaven’s Hail
God, how You blessed me with this grand and holy sight
the birds and I, some of Your children, small and frail…
Najade
Drs. Rikki © january 25th, 2006
glissando…
here we are dancing on the utter edge of time
oblivion our shadow and tomorrow
the reflection of our dreams…
we borrow sunbeams from above
to help us bloom in blissful love
we drink the rain, we kiss the wind
we breathe the air…
where global oceans glide ashore
we’re building castles in the sand
amidst the dunlins and the plovers
and the tides…like little children
in God’s ever gracious hand…
here we are playing ‘long the waterline of life
the ageless stave on which the muses
draw the mystic notes of streams
the blue oblivion our shadow
and tomorrow the reflection
of
our dreams…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki 2006
Grandpa Paul…
he sets the table
with his silver thoughts
of how she used to do so…
there…the simple cloth
along the line of her perfection,
straight, without a frizz
as if he feels her blue eyes
watching from his blind, blind miss…
she is the angel,
waiting at the winter’s end,
although her long gone brilliant spring
still whispers in his brittle heart…
the languid triteness of his loss
confuses him and all he does
is rearrange his questions
in her dearest vase…
the clock turns hazy hours
as he kills his time
with less than silent tales…
around the emptiness
the warn out veils and dreary frays
of wasted summerdays…
Najade
Daddy’s
house…
The house was standing
at the hush-end of the street:
a closetongued book,
in which someones words
had overwritten ours…
No punctuation mark pointed at me…
The dead passed me by
in such an line that laces itself
‘round a reopened wound…
I longed to ask them if they could see me,
crawling back through our olden days,
right along the once determined border
of my daddy’s land…
And my eyes kept burning
over their tired heads,
untill they rested in my hand,
so that I could send them away
on the winterwind, one by one by one…
I found his footsteps at the hush-end
of a sleeping labyrinth, still runnig wild…
They fitted me: his lonely lastborn child…
Drs. Rikki
©
2006
A
poet’s life…
an ancient smile returned itself
to ageless suns and moons –
a still, evaporated pool
mauve water-thyme and -violets
in agony on muddy beds
blank remnants of blind rooting
and blurred pinkish bloom
a blistered book-filled room…
his silent pollination –
selfcreation of his worldly wonder’s works…
from this – his lonely pride-tried zeal
twixt turtle-doves and timothy
slim Juncus articulatus and white Parnassiae
amassed and so surreal…
Apollo’s lucid lyre…
she sang and rustled – rustled, sang
no figure stayed untrapped
none hung from longcrooked willowheads
in agony on muddy beds –
the caves of Hades gapped…
evaporated spring…
a wrinkled smile returned itself
to ageold stars and moons
twixt water-thyme, Parnassiae
and marks of hidden strife
left here: a poets life…
Najade
©
Drs. Rikki
Bethlehemstraat
22
at
grandma’s stately townhouse
grandpa’d
invariably beseem
in
frugal furniture and bourgeois drapes…
he
had so little selfesteem
yet
sat there on his solemn chair
beside
the muffled stove:
two
silent crooked shapes…
the
brassy bracket
waved
away their winter’s light
in
such a lethargy that would
soon
leave them lieing still –
from
left to right
from
left to right…
tonight
we saw
the
grizzly old façade:
a lifeless
tombstone
pointing
down into the blind
and
blank abyss
of
modern arbitrariness…
the
nameless door
did
not reopen to the time
that
left them lieing still –
from
left to right
left…right…
left…
Najade
© drs. Rikki 2006
Ode to Sappho…
(and Sappho sighs…
her crescent eyes cry aquamarin tears
see how they’re raining on the pages of her years…)
could she have sensed her purple poetry
would travel on the wond’rous wings of time…?
could she have known her luscious rhyme
would sail through ages, ages, ages
as she wrote her wishful words on vellum sheets?
(and Sappho pleads…
she sent her lover out to Lesbos
and her spirit screams a million silent ‘whys’…)
could she have sensed the fragile ties
between his libido and hers would be like
cobwebs twixt the twiglets of young trees?
could she have known her Grecian seed
would sprout and bloom…?
(her shaded room is still and sweet
her precious quill adancing shyly
highly moved…)
oh, Sappho proved her golden talent
to Apollo and the stars…
her scars are shining midst the letters of today
she is our mistress in an everlasting way…
Najade
© Drs. Rikki Keller, Tuesday, 07 March 2006
The following quartette is the translation of Quaternair,
which has been written in Dutch originally.
You might want to click the URL below to read this version. It can be found under
the tab 'poetry' at:
summer
July awakens global headlands
lowlengths, shelters
and a shy old holm:
fields of mauvish mandrakeplants
in placid rows - like magis:
mellow earthscent, honeysongs...
and long...
long before infinity
declares her growth a summer
she gives birth to all those beings
spreading spores around life's garden -
serving voices to young titmice
senior willows, children fishing
in a seagreen ditch -
the clayground ripens from within
a slanted tower's clock tolls praise
at halftime hours and duration of oblivion
slides gently 'cross flat acres
to an autumnnight...
autumn
night...
night dims the countrytune
to yonder organmusic in a vaguer
stop - oh lowly. slowly
slowly now that mist above it shades
a human's half hushed name...
like arid birchleafskeletons
lone years are snowing down
from risen time...
dazed villages stand staring
into downdropped auburn dresses
of dewdripping trees
and not a soul knows who'll divide
a comprehension among
man and beast...
here, in the airythin peninsula of ages
seeds are sleeping 'long the borderline
of conciousness and streams
become the icy aqua arteries of
winterworlds...
winter
winterworlds...
frail frescos on the walls of Dawn -
thus named the fragile woman
who's so glossy glassy womb
abides the tides -
breathlessly concealed
amidst the gradients twixt
pregnancy and death...
she doesn't ask for explanations
as the essence of infinity matures
in hasty chime with frosted hagues
and daybreak cannot wait
to make her guess:
where's April hiding
where are daffodils awobblin'
and which prehistoric wish awakens worth
of repetition from her metaphor?
hear...
hear now how latent melodies
fly forward to a newborn spring...
spring
spring...
and no destination's nobler
to an early bird to sing for
to a wagonwheel to leave its clearest traces
to a source ataking but its only rise
still time has not dissolved itself
see - seconds tremble - tremble
under wisely startled water
war debris, forewritten pain
Aurora is the rose... rosefingered girl
astriking murmuring vulcanos
dreaming sunbeams, Children's Smiles
and Only Loves - yes all of these
through simply being and appearing right
and on a schoolyard plays a toddler
with its oh so little shadow -
while one elsewhere raises
far too tiny bodies from a mass-massgrave...
still time has not dissolved itself
look, there's a shrub abuddin'
and an angel passing by, a moment
running over from the future's
air...
Drs. Rikki
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woman...
this river - risen from Love's Sacred Spring -
forever flowing and fluorescing
supports her lightships, swans and lilysails
caresses sweetly with her autumnveils
each fragile figure living by her sides
while in her depths a golden soul abides...
this stream - ascended from an edge of time -
would mellow mountains by her mystic rhyme
a dream, a flame, a woman and a child
her faithful mildness never running wild
forever cherishing and mothering
this river - risen from Love's Sacred Spring...
Drs. Rikki
For Jaye
Kol nidrei
your beautiful hands and the way
they must have once played...
I'm calling forth their youth
their subtleness. their artless touch...
and much of what they move in me today
arises from a foreordained adagio...
a hush of virtuosity, a finely-strung
excerpt of augured love...
your nimble-fingered soul begets
an everlasting elegy in me...
my timid body is your secret violin...
securely sheltered and appeased
within the crown of your devotion
mildly veiled by every motion
of your hands...
your restless, reckless hands and
how they rush about our consonance today...
I do so love them in my winged
elusive way...
Drs. Rikki
For a beloved violinplayer...
Music by composer Max Bruch
aquarelle
twilight lines the fairy fields
as time yields to the West...
so blessed with peace asleep, this eve...
we sense the fall of every leave
and earth seems eager to receive
sheer snow...
so wrinklefree the autumnsea
of mango-orange, berryred
mauve winterskies aglow ahead
oh hush... no words need to be said...
with this, my angel, I thee wed...
this ageless flow of coloring
like painted by your wonderwing
your face refined in anything
abloom in nature's bed...
Drs. Rikki
a man...
a man, he is a man...
elusive like an eagle
on the highlights of November
notwithstanding this - his rarity -
he captures me and I...
I let him be...
I let him lift my tenuous figure
up the foreland of his silence
where he wings me to airworthy
womanhood and then...
he smiles...
he is a man...
his psychic pliancy so pleasing
every fibre of my body
as he shows its silver shadow
how to hover and explore
his freedom's range...
the bliss of lovin' changes
twilight into heaven, into Eden
and my God...
he is a man, he is a man...
within the unrestricted tropic
of our amity I'm tracing him
devoting time and talent
to his needs...
oh Lord, he heeds my hiding heart
in such an altruistic manner
while his danceflight thrills
the outmost of my mind...
he is a man, dear God
and there's but one
You made just one this kind...
Drs. Rikki
Accompanied by Saint Saens: Le Cygne
maroussia
I beg of you:
please look... see how
this dormant dawn right here
between your black & white
and my mere subtle stuff -
like whiffets of Maroussia
or sweet wild Musk -
see how it yawns up Eden
from my vale of tears
I beg of you:
behold this virgin dusk
my twirly years...
I think about your sheer
springtidal wheezes. these -
the sly ones you play off
within my bolted heart
as if it were yer spirit's prior
cause just to beget in me
love's rarest work of art...
dear friend... as soon as now
and never and the rest of ages
cuddl'up into a wowsiness
worth buyin' an agenda for
I yield myself...
I yield my woman's logic
to your jocose eye, would you
by any doggone chance
know why...?
Drs. Rikki
blue silence
blue silence...
in fluent motion flowing 'round
the golden nudity of mating souls...
a flame so subtle, so serene
the sheen translucent, true
and glowing from within...
we sense an overdue beginning
mystic origine refining us
in tenderest vibration...
viewing inversed future visions
from the Ever flashing backwards
to the dawn of birth...
blue sensation...
softly nudging by the blending
aural blush of mating souls...
erotic inspiration, so benevolent
so lustrous, so divine...
an ultimate idea, a Highest Sign...
Drs. Rikki
since He knows us so well...
a man by the shore...
he stands aloof
tracing the tidal flow
as his very own...
his back wonders why
his feet seek no more
his hand hugs an empty shell
and he's doggin' his shadow
since he knows it so well...
a man by the shore...
my eyes view his season's
still changeable waves
and I marvel no more...
my soul guards his reasons
while his minds my silence
and God keeps our word
since He knows us so well...
a man near the shoreline
alone on the beach...
he listens and hears...
hears my spirit's bespeakin'
in his very own speech...
my wings flee no more
I just follow his shadow
since God knows him so well...
Drs. Rikki
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