Narrenschiff
Tattooist by working hours and owner of Symbolic Ink Tattoo Studio in Oslo and Årnes. Lyricist and singer, board game designer, pinball player, red wine drinker with cat-like curiousness, dog-like faithfullness and polar bear-like agility. / Almost as fond of kittens as of Loreena McKennitt.
There is a shadow
over the world these days.
Maybe it's been there for a while,
it just took time to notice.
The flinching gazes of friends
nervous like grazing deer
in the open. Exposed,
like fraguile things
no longer confident.
Humanity seem to realize
how young we are.
The guns are loaded.
The blood is real
3
2
1
We are not ready.
And here it comes.
Oct 14, 2023
Oct 14, 2023 at 8:00 PM UTC
The little angel sits in silence
drops pebbles into the well.
Contemplating what state now
will befall both Heaven and Hell.
Little angel toes touch gently
water fresh and freezing
as a gentle southern breeze
brush her neck, kind and pleasing
The war is raging, she knows
a moment she knew would come.
She blesses in peace her sanctuary
where she can be alone.
Far away, the noise of battle
where fiends of carnage dwell.
Five jagged arrows she pulls from her body
then drops into the well.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
Silent strings are stronger still
than many, strong with each other.
True to itself, if true at all
or but the echo of a mother:
An echo, an echo but higher.
An echo, not embers but fire.
A thunderstorm in June at sea
to petrify and admire.
Single strings sing higher pitches
undestracted and unaccompanied.
Shining their own sun sincerely,
unfettered, let loose and freed:
Alone, alone but living.
Alone, unheard but singing.
A hidden diamond in the dirt;
competing not but winning.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
There is a voice of comfort,
a poet of the truth
chords interwoven in every crack,
to lighten and to sooth.
Silken syllables singing
like distant thunders' clouds
to the lonely, humble ones
whose candles soon burn out.
A blessing from a being,
bestowed between the bad
who sat upon his whispered throne;
beaten, black and ironclad.
The boon from a saint of satin tongue
to those humanity fit;
humble thinkers, meek and strong
of kindest hearts and fathers' wit.
There is a voice of comfort,
for all who soon pass on.
When the darkness closes in
to where you thought you belonged.
It will pass you on with dignity,
mirror mentors of the Minoan
"Hineini, Hineini. Here I am,"
sings the ghost of Leonard Cohen
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
After the battle
Flaming fragments fall like snow
Like glowflakes
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
They sought me at night when Sirius rose
like a prince on his canine steed.
Tugging my sleeve they led me outside
like a child in parental need.
Out in the garden, the grass wet with dew
still warm beneath my feet.
They pointed at the Moon and whispered:
"He thinks it's time you meet"
The Moon turned away from the sunset and mused
at little barefoot me:
Pyjamas on with stars and suns
rubbing my eyes to see.
"You've caught my eye trough the window at night
gazing at me and my stars.
No one else knows it yet, for you are too young,
but I know who you are"
The fairies let go of my sleeve and fled,
knowing their work was done.
The Lake of Tranquility suggested a smile
upon the face of the Moon.
"Son, let me tell you, I know it seems strange
but your life is about to begin.
A life down there on little Tellus,
with a universe to win.
"I will lend you an astral helping hand
on your road so winding and long
I'll give you fascination keen and searching
and a clever mind so strong.
For a life of difficult struggles is yours,
of endless rights and wrongs,
of painful challenges unknown to most,
yet of secrets, dreams and songs
"Why must my life contain all this pain,
why can't I just dance and sing?"
The Moon let go of it's tranquil smile
"There'll be little singing and dancing.
But you will stand in the Light of Knowledge
as undisputed king.
So be brave and clever and always remember:
You're a king, -a King, little Stephen Hawking.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Hoppy demon, happy wizard
Turning men into mice.
Rendering even the humblest man
a hero in disguise.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
You asked for a life
Full of beauty and music
The devil said no
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
There is a village in a land far away
where nobody talks and all words are saved
for books and for scrolls and lovers' sweet letters.
They all agree silently: this way is better.
Oh yes, they have music, -the wonderful kind!
That spreads like a fire from mind to mind
And poetry written but never read out
For the words within are stronger than without.
And love's in silence and beautifully true,
Lips need no movement to say 'I adore you'.
Voices are never to disturb or to pester
For in the Land of the Mute, the talking man is jester.
Eyes do the talking, and truthfully so
as lies are not possible so close to a soul.
There is a village in a land far away,
if I ever go there, there's a chance I'll stay.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
I refuse to die
Before my eyes have witnessed
A butterfly's birth
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC