While wandering around the Sculptur-Projecte 2017 in Muenster, Germany i stubble on the most amazing concrete poetry, called Tender Tender by Michael Dean.


love locks

It might be inspired by the many love-locks you find around in the city, but no explanation was given, which makes it even better.  Looking at it from one site or the other site, you see what you want to see, it plays with seeing and reading.

tender viewing holes

see through

What do you see while you are reading a poem, or a story, or just one line.
The poem is juxtaposed around all over and in the sculpture. At times shredded and than it is crumbled and even painted or hidden behind a wall on the top floor.

tender verscheurde woorden

hidden words

You can see it from above like organised chaos, but perhaps thats what love is, organised chaos.
Only to shred that idea when you see a printed danger tape with frecksake fucksake. Yet while on your knees you see love.

tender concrete

you can see that no need to say more

butte why than, yes why than, all the fists hmmmmm ok that one goes with the crossed fingers so why.
well one thing shows through it all the meaning of concrete, right there, everywhere, but don’t follow me just see it yourself and go on your knees to see every detail and than go up into the air to see it from that different angle.

tender fingers

maybe tomorrow yes perhaps tomorrow


OOOOOh and when you spy through that screen don’t be surprised to see love you should not see.


can you see it

however i just and i mean just LOVE it it made my day and even month finally creative writing a very creative love song butte it is not a love song


poetry printed and printed again and again everywhere

lots of love


and more





do you see that word a silent word
hanging from every stick, from every line, in every circle
it says noting that word of stilte
would it be something you know, something you said, something you saw, while you question your seeing

lijn en line

untrusting minds wander along the glister trail
shimmer movement, no wind, no rain over sunbeams entrance
one site, other site, underneath a drop rainbow arrange itself for your eyes


any footstep will make it disappear
unhurry for that tiny moment of seeing, listen to no words
don’t let me show you, don’t let me
be surprised with wandering words, under silent feet, conformation of nothing
the river flows, a drop bows, unpredictable show

goede morgen

als de betekenis van het gesproken woord weg is op het moment het wordt gehoord, laat staan als het wordt herinnerd
ik kan het niet zeggen als jij het hoort




read before you like *_*

silver eye
…………………  purple line
…………………………………………  yen yelp sky

purple line

purple line

nymph creates a
…………………………….  last myth
from an oyster one
……………………………….  ending posy
python tells us a
…………………………….  final Rye

sycamore shows
……………………………………  ultimate Syringa
typical variation of
…………………………………….  extreme Yuppie
gypsie reveals an other
…………………………………………..  supreme hysteria

silver eye

silver eye

purple line
…………………………silver eye
………………………………………………….yen yelp sign

i am sorry but wordpress is not much good to work with in making visual poetry therefor the dots…….
a question i played with some words, can you see what the word play is???

looking forwards to hear from you


sponges start
to crack underneath
in the lee of ice golden sparks
emerge on eyes



distant morning M6
roars on like a never
ending journey
lets go down and stand still

broken root

broken root

underneath frost from the past
lays the dew of the
not showing what
eyes see
appearing images of illusory stillness
expectation falling from
let the mind dream a broken



squaling frozen leaves
conceal tramping feet
when the sun hits the ground
it all falls in drops
curl the toes while hanging low



the bow churn the way
cast iron pointer
shivering realization
into the body
down the yellow rose
the oak grows out of the owl




while walking down the tow path on a early frosty morning
thoughts that wander


At the moment I am working on two small poetry books which will be sold along the canals.
The question came up: should poetry be self explanatory, so people will read and understand about what you are writing? Shall Poetry be made according to the rules and regulations of language – grammar and spelling  – or can the poet just play with words?
The discussion came about due to a line in one of my poems were it looked as if the word “leave” should have been “leaf”. My answer is: it can be both, both meanings, whatever you want. When you read it in the context of the poem it even can be both, but I spelled it as leave meaning departure.
Leave has several other meanings like holiday, farewell, exit, goodbye and leave as a verb has similar meanings; depart, go, retire, pull out, set sail, abandon and next to it you have ‘leave out’  which means exclude.
In the poem:  “Where the leave touches the stream” followed by “soft reflection drifting into a motion of no direction” So it cold be both a leaf from the tree just fallen in the canal, or a departure or even a holiday. That makes it, in my opinion, special; that makes it literary art created with words, being creative with words.
If text needs to explain something you should not be creative with words but weigh the meanings of the words and use them in a clear matter.


old text Cathach of St. Columba

The druid in Celtic society, as the wise people, memorised their knowledge in the form of verse and poetry. These poems are not self explanatory but a way to train your memory as the Celts didn’t use books or script to store their knowledge like the Romans did.
When we look at these old poems, specially those that were written down in Ireland, we will be puzzled as time changes language. A language is not static, so the text can’t be a true text and will always be interpreted. Even more so when a text is translated in an other language.
We use language mainly as a form of communication. Art can become a form of communication but also can be open to the imagination, poetry can be imaginable, being dream like – even unreal – that shows the beauty of poetry and language: using words in a dream like way to stimulate the readers imagination.
Language can be just like a picture we all see it in a different way, as Rene Magritte said: “this is not a pipe” under a picture of a pipe.

My poetry will be with a photo but the poem doesn’t explain the picture, both will show a way of seeing. The human imagination comes in many shapes and forms and we shouldn’t be afraid of it. Some of my poems show how I see the photo, or the moment the photo was taken this doesn’t mean that you should see it in the same way as me. The title of one book is; “the little book of drops” yet every drop shows a lot more than just a drop of water.


Dusky glimmer in the rain     
gives a dashing stroke without a brush,  
to avoid the flashing witty twinkle

The dropping becomes the prism without the cutting edge     
The colour palette holds the Rainbow against the light

The beast gets a revelation on her hair   
No more hiding away in the dark corner

She slowly wander to the glowing ball of water,    
hangs on while it falls from the movement of her legs,     
a lost tick


What do you think?

WATER under the bridge


the rain falls on drowned
it gave you nothing you can hold


the clouds of ribbons close like screams
nothing feels as it
between the pain and the gain stands the
weeping willow
floating to the top of the hill where a wild raspberry


the shivering popular calls your name
as you start to climb into the frame
when she came
she found you on a lost track
this woman is free she will not fall on your knee
something white shows her


the red light of the ferry
sees the
she is happy that you came
the curtain of curtsey


dance the flows

partly written on the road partly taken during the expo of water




Wave pushing the visible, transparent, seaweed 
Rocks holding the seaweed, in their dance 
the tunnel underwater, showing a time without a notion 
no making of an imitation,

cave in the under water mountain
quickly rocking over stones, with a smile to
Charlotte the queen, of the world,
caught by the tide,
of a turquoise motion,
tiny sparkles, in the air,
like tranquil, moving action 
leaving all despair 
as, a floating dedication
the water coming higher still
not withstanding, any deterioration,

 red animal

Bending of a Rock 
collaboration of every drop
purling around a corner 
every ripple rolling up, 
The must have of an inside shell
gleaming sensation, of the sanded glass 
Yellow Wagtail on the dash
 as i blend into a rock surface 
flight before the click, of a screen/button/shutter

written impression before the tide

it finally bounces on the surface
Read a book,
yet they walk away to, later perhaps 

The seagull watches the shiver on the sky,
nobody could have seen it but the camera,
the never ending flow of feet makes me say
time to go.

Dedicated to an impression of a rock of Georges Seurat
the words melt into the vagueness of an undefined reality
it does not allow different distances to be simultaneously in focus they just pass by