shivering candles
on a yellow brick road,
silently taken,
one by one,
by a grasping darkness.

shallow life.

the weight
of pebbles
left still,
no depth into light.

the sky is
dark night blue.
in a goldenish crescent
moon way,
a Cheshire cat laughs
at the waltz.
one, two, one, two,
the ticking of time,
thin breaking ice.
starless sky.
one, for no more.
two, what trees
stand for.
one, two.
silence fall,
tightening.
could have danced
all night,
charmed
by a blue,
dark night.

the dead tree
roots
birds' songs.

witch crafted
branches,
freezing
a slow motion
of a curling.

who knows...

hearted old ones
also bear
light weighted
memories
of love,
in rooted wings.

you
won't be home
for christmas

nor you will
any other day.

a fireplace
on hold,

awaiting,

for a bard's song.

chords of a time
of horizons
of birds and trees standing
of walks and houses in ruins
of wishes offered away.

reminiscent.
lingering.

even if you will not.

dystopian land,
the kingdom
of selffullness service,

the place
to grow
heroic egos

or

cursings
on regrets.

service
by one's pleasure.

instantaneous and soluble,
for reality dissolution.

Dawn,
birthing the world.

Light and dark,
the color hue
- hills and plains,
trees and gardens
and roads and country roads
and old cored places
and not so old ones.

Breeze,
warmness,
cold,
shivers
and melancholy.

Just it all.
Inhaling it.
Figuring it
as a last sight,
exhaling.

night fell,

clouds
crowding
a tumultuous sky.

in the darkening far,
houses alight into homes.

near, top of the hill,
bells await
enrobed
in the lit silence
of the tower,
lighthouse
in a darkening dark.

time
will pass by,
hurrying,
carried by the
echoed ringing
into a dissipated horizon.

far, far,
the stroke,
the echo,

reverberations
cradling
some melody
on loneliness.

birds.

remember?,
drawing them
against white skies,
two lines
graffited,
an awe
to the kids we were...?

i really
love birds,
their chirping a
winged colourway.

early morning,
a robin,
dark orange chest,
dead,
laying there,
on the door step.

i never remember
that birds do die
and their flight.

words like

whispers,

wondering
hawlings
in the corners
of houses in ruins.

words
like whispers,
the turmoil
of an aphasia.

inner-body
experience.

slow motion.

whispers.

fireflies
blown out
by nightly fingertips.

knowing not
how to unknow.

words like
whispers.

words
silently shouting
in turmoil.

All is nothing,
we all come to know it,
hélas.

Truly hellish
when a nothing
becomes everything

in its senseless
wholeness,

the wave's,

splashing.

Emptiness,
though,
sandy like,
in and out.

for SVERRE G. HOLTER, min venn
[04.06.1979 - 08.08.2018]

the harsh crash
of ice,
mountain climber,

out of breath.

horizon:
the sky line,
rocked in a sea of still.

whole hearted
chant
of a viking:

thrive
and love.

a core.
forever.

slimy moldy time

in the slum,
the slumber seclusion

dusts at dusk

blind,
blind and bound

the dark pound
misledly paints

water lilies
stained pains

a palette,
diluted

sand castles
& autumn leaves,
bygones
on yester
& days never to come

- none of that.

but
to grow back
where to
you never belonged,

wordless,

'cause you see it
clearly, now,

- that forgettable,
erasable you.
deleteable,
not delectable.

oh terminators
of seek and hope...

Early light in gold,
fresh hay in the dew gloss:
teardrop aquarelle,
outlining our hands' depart
as, still, i watch your sleep, quiet.

the way you are
yourself

helplessly
definitely

self.made.fulness

although.­fulness.less

whatever.ish

a ghostly fog
wraps the night

- maybe spilled,
a full moon,
for the greyish light.

sometimes,
i wake up
and,
in the dark,
my body knows
- oh so exactly -
the place of
a once upon a time
home.

a hall way,
the switch,
each corner,
the places to everything.

umbilical chord
to a dead time.

The fall of the night.

A walk,
shades of fog,
scents of burning woods.

Winter is coming,
yes.

In my heart,
not a single line.

My singularity,
why have you deserted it?

Brushes of red goldness
devoured by a sky of dark.

my whole life
i lived here:

this shallow wind,
folding,
unfolding
wavy dunes,

an elusive
bloom
of sandy
swirls.

nights'dark
always drowns
in the silver
of glowing moons.

the warmth of days?

i do keep
saving it,

in bottles,

lost to
no longer
known address,

with its fireflies inside.

windless,
the night
roars,
slithering
in the dark,

brush strokes
of light
ripping
the world -


like an anguish
wipping your heart,
a tremor in your hands
unveiling a fear
unnamed.

planted
some seeds
- sunflowers.

watch them now
in the morning:
bright yellow,
blue skies.

don't know why
i turn to darkness.

found a word,
down the road:

dandelion.

and, in a snowy way,
the  autumnal spring

- delusionnally -

took the girl
in a sway,
blowing away

her last match,
a blur of orange
in the smoking grey.

clouds
like waves
in the stormy sky.

worn out,
the silence
- it sounds
rusty.

time
ticking you away

and you don't know
what it means

like that tree in a
slow motion death.

how could you tell it,
listening to the birds
in the still light?

treasures of bygones,
endless morrows,
lullabies, a
longitude for

mendicant and
eery hearts.

a 3d ink,
the mere thought
of your touch:

a magnolia blossom,
shivering
in the ******
of a winter light.

vortex, inward.
the self-made envision.
ah, the coherence
of this dystopia...

outward, drafting
the latter.
outsiders' crayons.
ah, not a bid, the least.

the randomness of intersection.

what to do, what to do?

accept.


i am tangential.

and so what?

words
by millions,
collected them,
a life time,
constellations
pinned,
hanged,
winged,
butterfly like.

pick
one by one,
their weight,
their taste.

empty,
every one.
heavy
like round pebbles
on dried creeks.

summoned the night
upon, laid my wings.

rainbows
gave me up.

lit a candle,
a star to wish upon.

the night draws
the torment of the sea,
waves crashing
on distant shores.

my wish, this tiny twinkle,
rides in fire, flame shaped,

a cry in front of Solomon's
slaughtering sword:

let him live, for his heart is love
and his love shapes the world.

isla magica,
schizogonic.

acidity
in purple orange

- passion fruit.

or it breaks you,
life,
so they say,
this or that,
not both.

life?

it makes you
breakable,
grindeable,
unmaked
in maked up,
washable,
faded faces.

it makes you
unbreakable
broken-born ones,
blended
into crepuscules,
bent rainbows
to the absence of light.

Flawless,
seamless,
the uselessness.

Boomeranging.
Rummaging
the fossilisation.

Static.

Willingness?

half way there
- half a wing,
a colour by half.

sat for a while,
halved the moon,
half of an orange,

yummy!

what ever half there
- way, wing and colour -
met me halfway,
in total eclipse.

beauty.
the dark oneness.

slithered
harangue,

crow's nest's
caveat:

quo warranto,
Echo,
obliquity weaver...

he laughs at me,

old, edentulous, wrinkled.

excruciating, the smile,
excrescent.

ecs, ecs, ecs
- the laugh,
cacophonous,
cacographical.

the ruff of an eddy,
abysses of exasperation,

the laughter of time,
voraciously lustful.

hilarious,
when you try
to ink it
being a foreigner
to a language...

you search
for the round spell
of a word
and to your mind
comes, oh my,
only one
- squash!

but oh!,
the buttery sound of it,
the reddish orangeness of it,
the elyptic splashes in wood
scented fields, november cold
mornings, that yearn
of a smoking cheminy,
home, others' home, there.

what was there to be inked?
i don't recall it.
i got squashed.

a willow
however
stands

shallow waters

pebble stones
scattered

all the words

a cadency
of rusty hinges
hanged doors

sour, the dam

my shadow
unfolded,
captive
of a blind night.

dazed,
straying,
time feeds on days,
unanchored.

blank ink

hiccup

split
        slip
flee

no flight

nor fight

built a dam
****** the flow
to rock me
in a nebula
of aphasia

damask and silk
amniotic velvet
all five senses
spelling your smile
the touch of your voice

Now is
what
never is.
Can't you see it?

Now is just
a suspension,
the bend before
the wave,
not the flow
nor the wave
but
the suspended
breath
of a perpetual
motion.

Winter is here.
Its romantic
******,
frozen death,
nights that linger.
Yet,
arms crying
into windy skies,
trees carry
a pregnancy,
sprouts
like a plague
ripping
every branch.
Oh yes,
spring
is coming.

Now is never.

Quietly,
silently,
let us watch
as time bends,
unfolding
what was
and what
for sure
will be.
Quietly,
silently,
let us ride
that bend
and know
that
never
is now.

for every time
we fail to see
ourselves

and every time
we failed to see
the other selves

for every self paced
story the fool
believes to be true

and for every
thorn we pull
and again hatch

and for this
incompleteness
we drink

into drunkenness
by the fire
of red beard bards

day falling
slightly
scented
moss
and dew

quietness
of a garden
bursting
yellowish brown
a redful will

a bench
on the side

its emptiness
its vacancy

i see it

older.

(not elder)

still.

older.

my kingdom
for your kiss.

oh yes,
said the painter,
i've had
a bird phase,
but the pane
was a blur.
and the canvas,
one shade of white,
that's my drill
on blind wings.

here, silence echoes
the vibratos
of distant forests,
its longing.

sandbox.
for castles
to be washed away.
the heart needs
to be fed.
magic wand.
now you see it,
now you don't.
play with it,
jongleur,
the moon sand.

a sill & a window,
the frame.
silly hold!,
for a feather's halo,
for a hole's sake.

unpacked.
standing.
frozen threshold.
night has dawned
to feast on light.

silence reverberates.
autophagically.
circularly.
time over time.

there's nothing to life
that death knows not.

A bench, somewhere.
Autumnal sun falling.

Tripping.
Oh, the mumbling!

Restlessly, to envision.
Tirelessly, to believe.
Beyond, above.

Will dress myself up,
ballerina kind.

Can't dance,
so I am told.

But I can act
upon the music,
like in Bremerhaven.

There are horizons
to draw.

J'aime les ponts.
Ils m'obsèdent.
De tout âge, toutes formes.
Des eaux troublées
à en sécher les rivières,
la dérive de la mémoire
en l'hypnose de la pendule,
les branches des saules.
Et ce n'est même pas
la traversée du départ.
C'est plutôt l'arrivée.
L'idée d'arriver quelque part,
comme si c'était chez nous,
finalement.
La ville qui se réveille
comme le dessin pointillé
d'un ciel nocturne
dans une odeur de port,
à l'aube,
le navire emballé par la mer
qui se distancie.
Le contour du pont.
Suspension d'un mirage.
Comment ne pas en rêver,
des ponts?


~~~

I love bridges.
I am obsessed by them.
From all ages, all shapes.
Waters, so troubled
that rivers dried out,
the drifting of memory
in the hypnosis of a pendulum,
the willow branches.
And it is not about
the crossing to depart.
It is about arrival.
The idea of arriving somewhere,
like if it could be home,
finally.
The town, awakening,
esquisse in pointillage
of a nocturnal sky,
the scents of the harbour,
at dawn,
the ship, cradled by the sea,
lost in distance.
The outline of a bridge.
Suspended mirage.
How not to build upon?

splintered night,
the thorn tree
of stars,
all falling.

hours
of broken glass.

ma voix s'étrangle.

les eus toujours,
les crayons de couleurs,
maladroite
en matière de dessin.

carrefour.
quelle sortie prendre?

la mer.
le silence m'apprivoise.

les cris des oiseaux de mer.

mes crayons de couleurs,
maladroits.

~~~
(Translation...)

strangled voice, mine.

always had them,
the colouring pencils,
unskilful
in drawing.

crossroads.
wich way to follow?

the sea.
silence takes hold of me.

the seagulls cry.

my colouring pencils,
unskilful.