Trees; snapshot poem

The shade of the road, the border of the lane;

birches stand straight and proud

with leafless branches reaching

for the blue of the sky

catching birds,

housing insects.

Borderline snapshot poem

On the edge of two countries
where both try their best
in parks, water and culture,
is where many walk and stroll
under rapid clouds...

Clouds that chase so fast
and never catch each other
but merge in one white sky
that bleaches the light
into various colors.

Into various shades and darks
as contrast where the two unite
in need of each other
because there would not be a border
if one of them not exists.

Farmland in yellows and greens
shapes the horizon of trees,
of a waterway that glides into towns
where ships never know
on which side they are.

To which party they belong; 
just where their home is,
is not here in borderland
at this unrecognizable borderline,
there where two countries merge.

Climbing that hill snapshot poem

In a distance, still on the road, a chimney smokes;

the little house all alone as a home

for a hermit with just a cat on his lap

wrapped in a blanket he stares outside

from his rocking chair.

The path slowly goes up, rises in soil

with trees as damaged wood, hit by lightning

stroked by thunder, and now...

a little paradise for shelter

the tiniest on the hill.

Far down in the valley, the town,

just a collection of buildings

that do not belong here, or do

An arrogant over-painting of the green

that always was...

Buildings; a farm, but the farmer has moved

to an apartment, a condo in luxury

bought from what his old housing brought;

too much or too little for them

who live there now, or do business.

Caves in the slopes, holes forbidden to enter

since men harvested blocks to build

and marl to grind.

In danger now, today it can collapse

on those who hide inside...

The valley, the fields from above

colors as a painting in the sun

Still farmland, but for how long?

Will it stay this empty, this loneliness

just for eyes to see and mouths to fill.

The cattle on the hill is gone,

back to the stables

afraid for Winter that does not come

that just Spring stays all year long

and no snow or summer sun...

There is still hope as long as rainbows form

and draw its colorful dome above the valley

and above the hill, in weed-brown autumn shades

catch the grass and trees by the light of the sun

but darkness too soon, too quick

At the top it is only going down;

the only way that is left

back into the next valley

and the village where I live…

Snapshot poem: Bends the river

Just outside the river whirls around trees,

bushes in the meadows, as a place to drink

for cattle: the cows and sheep

and wildlife from the hills surrounding the valley.

A castle overlooking

and believes it is older,

but the river just smiles:

As old as I am, nothing is; 

not even the hills I created.

And it bends, whirls around another bush

and takes all within to her larger sister

and to the sea where she sweetens into salt

and a big pond where she cannot find

her own drops no more…

Snapshot poem: Village in the valley

Rich mansions and fences, large dogs to protect

and small men as tourists snapshotting the little church

but just from the outside; the door locked

because of thieves steeling its statues

Farmers on their land gardening their crops

for food; looking sheep numb like cows

and hope for a bit of sunshine to color their wool

Along the river the banks of grass; so many want

to live here, more then a village can have

Or shelter, but they do not see the smell

when summer sun burns the water

and the rats out of their holes...

They only see the picture when the level is low,

before the drowning of heavy rainfall in the south

Farms cascading along shore at both sides

Water that floods land pleasures in the right season

But delivery is not always like it should;

running high above the thresholds; sink the kitchen

and washes TV, radio, everyone's lives

And there are no boats for such a small river;

just trunks of fallen trees and isles of grass

pulled from the land, where there was no water

the day before; just a lovely stream

meant for tourists to watch a romance

of a small village embedded in water

Walking along the canal poetic snapshots

A long straight gap, filled with water;

float boats

sail ships

under bridges

to connect, harbour to harbour, town to town

and the banks pass...

High shores covered with weed and tiny trees

It is a hard life ashore,

grab the marl walls in wind and storm, and wave

Goodbye to the skipper, or Hello...

So long distance, white cloudy sky;

seems the world endless as it is.

Fierce woods walk over the ridge,

trees march upfront

Hurrah, I say, and lift my stick,

the mighty stick that walks me by

Dogs bark, a warning for me,

for the ships,

for all that passes

So you know where this town is waiting for

Not for me, not for its houses,

but for that what will be brought

and delivered…

Poetic snapshots of a hillside country

I climb from the village, steep uphill with three tops in front

and the weather is nice winter sun, some high clouds

white watching me as I go gasping for breath

in a breath taking landscape of fields and farms

A landscape that may disappear in future

Is it not even any more as it was.

Fences hang loose before the meadows

Are they still in use or useless, no cattle behind,

just grass and weed, dry spots and wet pools,

trees and hedges bordering where maybe concrete,

houses will be build and strollers won’t be welcome anymore.

What is happening with too many,

overlooking the valley from the highest point of the first,

we are in fact; so many walk the same path,

but not today. I’m alone and not lonesome

as I like the way I go, the way my boots follow.

The wine-farm will be there, for always? I don’t know.

As long as there is money in grapes

As long as men fills Cristal glasses on high heels

it will survive, and grow and be green as an oasis

in men made world where wild is rare

More and more buildings as culture, are the ancients

like natural marks, and I ask myself:

Will this be the same for what we erect today?

Will cities of now survive as the Romans did?

Will what we leave be seen as heritage,

or will we be damned in a future that no-one can see?

Another winery in the valley before I cross the river,

and slowly up to the next hill

Do I wonder who will be waiting there for me,

or what?

Snapshots in Buckriders’ country

* source: Wikipedia

As the legend goes, the Buckriders were a gang of ruthless robbers who made the Overmaas region (the current South-Limburg and the Land of Herve) an unsafe place to live from the 1730s to the 1780s. It was said that the members had made a pact with Satan and rode through the sky on the backs of goats.

According to legends and superstition, the Buckriders were goat-riding spirits. This superstition was taken advantage of in the 18th century by a gang of thieves and burglars, so as to frighten the population; particularly in South Limburg. These "Buckriders" were a gang of robbers that terrorized the regions of Overmaas (now Dutch Limburg, Belgian border region and Land of Herve) and the region around Liège the areas just across the German border and roamed the Kempen. The raids were generally directed against farms and rectories.

The Buckriders were first mentioned in the book Oorzaeke, bewys en ondekkinge van een goddelooze, bezwoorne bende nagtdieven en knevelaers binnen de Landen van Overmaeze en aenpalende landstreeken (Causes, proof and discoveries of a godless, sworn gang of night-thieves and extortionists in Overmaas and bordering regions), written in 1779 by SJP Sleinada (a pseudonym of Father A. Daniels - read the name backwards). He was pastor of the parish of Schaesberg, now part of Landgraaf. He knew several gang members personally and was well aware of how their business went. Legend had it that the robbers had made a pact with the devil and moved around on goats at night. Allegedly, the goats would fly when they used this invocation: "Over house, over garden, over pole, and that to the wine-cellars of Cologne!" Once a year they rode to the Mookerheide (near Mook) to visit their master, the devil.

Later, all kinds of stories and mysticism surrounding the gang, gained the Buckriders a Robin-Hood-like status. Nowadays it is believed that there have been several gangs which committed burglaries and robberies. It is also thought that many of the 600 people arrested and convicted were in fact innocent, due to the fact that confessions were obtained by torture.

The Buckrides went to the cultural heritage of Limburg. The phenomenon occurred in the eighteenth century and especially in the Meuse shires: the old Duchy of Limburg, the Countries of Overmaas and the old county of Loon, what we now call the Euroregion.

The trials of the goats riders distinguished from an ordinary criminal procedure when a "wicked oath 'for came: I swear to god, and the devil ..." This "godless oath" in the tradition typical buck riders came in Overmaas (Henry Becx in Nieuwstadt 1743) and blew over to Loon. Here the name 'riders bucks "for the first time. By condemning people because of a godless oath or their alleged alliance with the devil, that one can speak of a late form of processes that resemble those of alleged witches appear. The prosecution was relentless, even by the standards of that time. More than 90% of those convicted received the death penalty. Most confessions were extracted under torture, or the fear of that.

Based on oath from the goats riders, there are seven distinct periods of persecution. The first dates from 1743 to 1745, the last from 1793 until 1794.

Apart from the processes in the process of 1774 in the Hesbaye Wellen, "buck riders' was first openly used. In 1774 John Muysen shoved letter under the door of farmer Wouters Ulbeek, saying his house was going to be burnt down. His house would be burned if he would get money. In that letter Muysen volunteered himself as a member of the goats riders, and three times he used the word devil. In Overmaase processes, the term "buck riders' very late for the influence of events in Wellen. Here emerges, however, the word 'goat' for the first time in the processes. Mathijs Smeets Beek claimed in 1773 that at night they agreed with 42 people to fly on a large goat through the air to Venlo, there to commit a crime.