Ball of Crumbs


one by one he collected

his crumbs

yellow, orange, blue crumbs

coarse green crumbs

he looked at broken statue

let it crumble in his hands

little sparkling crumbs

mixing in with coloured crumbs

tiny last crumbs


fell inside the wooden box

covering the bottom  nothing more

 little coloured some sparkling crumbs

he closed the box

as a silent tear wrinkled down his cheek

he walked outside in misery

went down the garden path

with a trowel in hand

slowly but certainly he dug the last resting place

of crumbs nothing more then crumbs

he opened the box for the last time

to say some final words


when he picked up some crumbs to shape a ball

inside the ball of his hand

slowly turning shaping adding

more crumbs

the ball grew inside his hands

until no crumbs were left inside the wooden box

he stood up with the ball still rolling inside his hands


inside he placed the ball on the south facing windowsill

 looking at all them coloured tiny sparks 

table was moved in front of the ball of crumbs

took his typewriter sat down

with a white piece of paper winding down inside 

he stretched his long skinny fingers out to the sky

started writing letter by letter a changing letter

after Subject: came the relieving word


with closed lips he whispered towards the ball of crumbs

thank you

for my sparks and colours in my vision

letter by letter he wrote, patient polite words

left with his hand-written name and signature bigger than all letters

he left to start again

a ball of crumbs


PettiCoat shooting

run away go go go

what in name of what

past taking leave

all for name mention

fallen over rename

she dreams on

lost intention

you name it Yes you

taking away what should



inside your mind

do people mind

she left

decay undertone

she did get away from the bullets
running into a field away further away
into mist to hide from bullets
she made it
they came out not knowing
I cycled on laughing out really LOUD

Roos Boekjes


bold amber ways
trail string lane


bold amber ways
slow discovery
what lays underneath


hangover maroon
from yesterday fairy trail
whatever it has been it is no more


hangover maroon
shouts out
what you want to say


blues over grey
listening to crisper leafs
seeing linger foliole


blues over grey
shall we stay or should we go
do you know

Just a perfect day
discovering new tracks
cross country
never alone
perfectly still
to reload the battery
yes bighorn came across
with all the family

Roos Boekjes


they stood still for just one moment
looking at what seems to appear odd
one word just one word on
bark red bark with black letters


her eyes filled with question marks
his remark was little
absence of it said


what is the meaning of this she asked
well absence means not there
her mind went wandering


aha she said as question marks 
disappeared from her eyes
with a smile she said


ART she said its ART Johny
as art doesn’t need a meaning
art doesn’t need a reason
Yep she smiled


he said come on lets go now with an ignorance shred
she waited untill he was out of sight
smiled and gave the word a militair salute
no need for meaning

absence of, lays there where it was left
like all the other words froml
the Land Art Poem
which did play shadow on the Spiral
some words have hidden spots
others lays there where all can wonder


there were 54 visitors to the spiral “Red Dot”


it was once again one of them totally perfect days

riding into morning mist to find GOSSAMER without reason
going for red bark 
seeing red mist covering every small open field
small clearing in woods


leaving an amazing trail of subtle fine lines 
passing this vision would be squander
time will be time taking time makes time
line from a song comes by
having the time of my life


yet this time comes every year again and again
last year i wrote this one

knowingingly next year we see it again and again
first time was 2003 on my old field now
my eyes are open for Gossamer
time after time


autum ligth makes colours come out like nothing else
filtering through sligth green leafs hitting faded leafs on the edge
nobody else around to shout as human engines have not started
perfect time as silence makes you hear the wind wistle in your ears
while going down hills no music can rival it not even close


pure sadisfaction inside a landscape
words flow yet no pencil  
old time made words pass out like 
orange monster Gossamer in Looney Tunes
delicate lines of transient time


The Place

This is the place where we can leave noises from society behind us

Here we don’t need to run
Here are no bills
Here are no lies
Here is no money
Here is no achievement


Here you find beauty
Here you find survival
Survival we forget but can not ignore

that Place we all need
that Place we are looking for
We don’t know what it looks like
We will find it


We fight for it
We cry for it
We don’t know what it is
We all will find it all in our own Way

The poem was written in September 1986 and
one day it will be a part of a novel
no title yet

A book with proza, with memories, with forgotten stories

If you wonder yes, i found the Place several times in my life

Roos Zwart will have an open Gallery at her home/office
showing you some photo technics you can try yourself
make a date with her on
2 and 3 October
9 and 10 October

Roos Boekjes