in my hands

it used to be

that music or words or the wail of the wind

would speak to me

to the part of me who loved rhyme

and loved to spin a web of words

a story a tale a love poem

would nudge my mind

and push and grow

unwinding until there was no option

but to write

today she said

“it is in your hands”

“stop giving your power away”

and I listened and I heard

and the voice of words

which lives in my head

shuddered and shook and spoke

I believed my silence was permanent

my outpourings ended but no

I still have words to share

my hands crooked now

fingers bent like trees warped by wind

skin wrinkled and marked with age

but mine still mine

in my hands under my hands

hold my hand and walk with me

learn these hands map their lines

these hands have fed me washed me

caressed the ones I love

they have lived my life

they will cherish and protect

and they will write another chapter

eryll oellermann

31.01,2024

my lost self

I lie wide eyed, dismayed

that sleep again evades my eager desire

to fall in to that deep dark place

my familiar friend

but sleep has turned her back on me

and leaves me helpless

exposed to time and memory

while bits of me float off

into the far wherever

my sturdy self, exposed

as ethereal

as a dandelion clock

waiting for the first breath

or breeze

to send a thousand parts of her

flying off, spinning reckless

into dandelion future

the leaving of my bits

spin no happy future

they are merely the destruction

of my dreams

how can I have lived this long

most times delightful life

so wrapped in the comfort

of my own ignorance

until the day

I knew

Copyright (c) 2022 by Eryll Oellermann

today is tuesday

 

today is tuesday

friday I turn seventy five

properly grown up?

not really, still a mixed up mess

of questions without answers

dreams without reality

sometimes content and oft bereft

happiness and tears

like hot and cold taps

too much of one sometimes

and yet again not enough

but pain brings words

so write my friend

write while your brain churns

with thoughts and emotions

which would fit better

in an anxt filled teen

tomorrow is another day

and the words may be once more absent

lost in the calmness

of age and acceptance

eryll oellermann

12^th september 2023

never say

 

i suppose I should have known

she could never say “i love you”

it was as if the words welled up in her throat

and choked her

i have no doubt that she did love me

but speaking the words

out loud

were, for her

most times impossible

my heart ached in the silence of her declarations

in time I asked

why?

in her world I love you was saved

and sacred

for special occassions only

I learned to hold my words close inside me

seldom allowing them to escape

except occassionally

eryll oellermann

15^th september 2023

when the wild one howls

 when the wild one howls

how free are the wild ones

who roam forest and far field

mountain and valley

who follow the river

together, paired, eternal

no thought of tomorrow

of the death and living ahead

they hunt to eat

when hungry bellies shout insistent

of the need of the body

they kill to provide and protect

without malice of the mind and spirit

they run through wilderness of grass

spring green at summers start

and tramp the high trails

amidst the cold of winter’s long shadow

the present is their secret

existence in the now

their devotion beyond doubt

their love laid bare for all to know

together they shelter from the downpour

and find cool in the shade of mighty boughs

lying together as one

the young conceived in love are born

they grow strong and playful

churlish in the inbetween ages

and then full adult they depart

to make a world their own

the wild ones smile

and cherish still but from afar

their work is done, a little sadness

but soon,a glimpse, a spark of freedom

for they shall run and play again

together in their silver days

they learn to rest in the comfort

of themselves

in ways unknown in the restlessness of youth

until the autumn draws near

the leaves dry brown and gold

discarded by the forest trees

in preparation for the long cold

then bones grown old and stiff

and a heart worn from the joy of living

grows tired and stops

and only one remains, one wild one

howling for the moon

20/09/2022

Copyright © 2022 by Eryll Oellermann

the maker of jams

• 
  

• 
  

  what is love and how and why

  it is a question crying for an answer

  an answer waiting

  always waiting for the one

  to ask the question

  love is warmth and security

  and yet also

  pain and the icy cut of future disaster

  the fear which runs in the blood

  the torment of imagined future loss

  and yet we seek

  and long for the one

  who will take our breath away

  the one who will make us whole

  and therefore vulnerable

  in our need

  
  

  I am hers

  I doubt that she imagined me

  in her dreams of the future

  perhaps not quite the one she would have chosen

  we do not choose

  we tumble heart first into the chasm

  some reckless hellbound and determined

  following the ancient instinct

  knowing

  that love is worth the pain price

  we will someday be asked to pay

  while others tread more softly

  advance more slowly

  wary of opening their heart

  to the possibilities and futures unknown

  and yet love persists

  
  

  and so I am hers

  without question without doubt

  she is not who I would have expected

  to take my heart and make me hers

  but the fates decreed

  and so it is

  in some ways we are the same

  and yet at times

  as different as night from day

  for I exist in a world of impulse and impatience

  enchanted with the written word

  and the intricacies the intimacy of romance

  a dreamer howling wolf like at the moon

  for a togetherness seldom possible

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  and she is she mine

  our future set and safe

  my beloved girl so careful with her heart

  did she too tumble into the chasm of love

  does she find her joy in our togetherness

  her heart does it ache

  in our times of absense

  for she is far more sensible than I

  does she consider reality more often

  than she may weave dreams

  my maker of art through the camera lense

  who will wait with patience for perfection

  my baker of tarts and maker of jams

  my beloved french woman

  
  

  my last love

  
  

  Copyright © Eryll Oellermann August 2021 

 

the tree

I sat beneath this tree today

and leaned my back against her rough strength

I spoke to her of dreams I once had

which have vanished in the haze of time

of dreams I might still have if time allows

I spoke of life so precious so joy filled

of agony and pain of the body and the spirit

which I have learned to survive

I spoke of lost love and eternal love

I shared the truth of motherhood

the gift of love that only your children bring

I spoke to her of how I have lived my life

of death and loss and soulmates never forgotten

and as I spoke I remembered

the goodness of the souls who have shared my time

those who have walked with me and held my hand

offered strength when I am weak

laughed with me about things funny and tragic

fed me at their table and loved me

for who I am and not whom I might have been

a power arose in me of love and gratitude

like an overflowing spring

I thanked this tree for waiting there for me

to lend me the wisdom of being still

and the realisation that all things have their time

so often I have forgotten to appreciate

the sweet scent of an autumn breath

the delight of light shimmering through leaves

and at times neglected to be thankful

for the abundance of beauty our natural world offers

for clear streams and muddy puddles

for the abundance of life

and the mystery of death

Copyright © Eryll Oellermann 2020