All the rivers i longed,
a moist slightly rehearsing
dawn's dew, a glitter yet to be;

every shade of crimson
i concealed, sinking
the horizon in cooled suns;

each word i teared apart,
the weight of emptiness
forbidding to dare

- all i've declined
willingly
resigning life,

i have taken, to draw
a shore, your outline,
and, clandestine,

i watch, as the rain
washes away the horizon,
in the other side of the mirror.

Oh, blessed wisdom
that led the sages' path,
for it was theirs the bliss
of reaching the living idea,
on flesh and bone human like.

Oh, how seldom
men are granted
such a prize!

So I wonder
whose hand led my path,
of wisdom so unlike,
so sinfully unbeliever
of what could be,

for I have seen
the love I dreamed of
and secretively drank
from the mead that was
not mine to take.

So I wonder
whose hand led my path
and keeps me here,
gazing from a distance,
imposing me to run away
if he said he loved me...

Counting blessings
for gratefulness.

Stumbling on zero.

Blinded by aching.

they come
filthy
cursing

a swarm
in a hailing grasp

fear stains
cripples
rapes

we learn
the dormancy
of the ripped

frozen flow in
walls of liquid ice

my hands
whose hands

time in tip toes
round and round

musical box
turned over

the tin soldier
sails his boat

steadfastly
for a danseuse

mirrors shed
who i see

- This feeling inside...
A sea sickness,
butterflies swirling
inside...
oh my...

- Hush hush,
my carving is almost done!

Today
a kid died.

No
noticeable
issues
what so ever.

Maybe
a silenced
unbearable
ache

laying
hidden
behind a most
beautiful smile.

None of us
could have
foretell it.

The kid
took his life.

let it go, the autumn
leaf, blown
by wintry winds.

let it go, this whirl,
its shivering
in the night.

ah, beyond,
there, where
there is nowhere.

mountains lay ahead
like dark seas, starless skies

the thickness of a blind fear

death's inviting hand,
its fullness of nothing

the gravel awaits the steps

no yellow brick road, no one
who'd join, for a bit, the journey

can an absence grow a heart?

A hasty hiss, roaring, engulfing all.

[10 w]

Without you,
would I fit
a rhyme
in spiraled rythm?

what is the matter,
he asks,

unable to see,
maybe unwilling,

that there is
no matter
to nothing.

An other day.

Walking.

Making the all planet spin.
To get there.
That moment.

And the one moment
I can not reach.

Walking.

Drowned in craving.
Forbidden wishes.
Time
washing away
the chance to be.

Hold me.
Hold me,
in the filled silence
of love.

To kiss you,
shivering,
liquefying.

Pain.

To sleep.
To reborn
as a child.
Lover man!
Would you choose
me?

The mercy
of love.

Walking.

To die
before sunset.

Edges.

This.

A glissando
on abyss.

spinning
spinning
round and round
the walls of a well
my centre
a round light
a crescent
a last quarter
a crescent
a round perfection
unreachable centre
spinning
spinning

not to drown

The shortest straw?! The sharpest sword!

Arid heat.
An ensemble
of colour,
the façades
in ruin,
running down,
on my left.
On my right,
a white mirage,
weighting in the light:
the long, rectangular
wall of a church,
running up the street.
Voices behind me,
some old tavern.
Passers-by, not men
nor women, a few,
now and then,
gazing, who's that?
Silhouettes of by-gone
ages, dark ages.
This is not my time.
This is not my place.
I take a deep breath,
lit another cigarette.
No coffee left in my cup.
No refilling is offered.
The tavern drunk
the men, muted.
Birds sing,
regular spaces between,
tree to tree.
The coffee tables are red,
spotting the side walk.
It is nice to be out,
in the ending summer,
soon this heat will
grow cold.
But the sun here
seldom hides.
That is nice.
Church bells.
Heard from so afar,
across the plane.
Time to go,
now.

crossed the hope
of hearted days,
dyed the lies
across the abyss,
was crossed in the fray
in crossroads far from hope.

cross heart, oh my, one
hope didn't cross,
so surely had to lie
these days, to my eyes
a life, your sight,
in my desire a hope to die.

all but mirages

every bridge
every reach

just as hopeless

cold sweaty confusion,
shallow breathing,
all details forward,
this pain,
the ambulance,
the doctor's hands,
in their faces my faith.

a brand new light,
a brand new drive,
once through it all,
if only, if only...

my eulogy....

[?]

it's okay.
we all grow
in their hearts
in their reconstructed stories.

such a waste.

should i live up
into that character,
if it's still time?

Friday night
And I am at Hello Poetry.

What else?

It was a time
of giants
with a fetiche
on rhymes.

When flowers
grew their colours
to turn dinosaurs
into birds,

a giant-she
asked a giant-he
for a rhyme to inspire
a mix of wings and sorrow.

Hard task this was,
even harder than inking
the petals palette!
Just snap out of it, said he,

the giant, *and let's make love.

I only live once

- only once,
unrepeatably
by a worldly me,

- only once,
in a delusional me.

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 unwise sigh in my eyes dyes the skies*

in your eyes
i dive

my prize
all the skies

in silky ties
i fly i rise

i improvise
unwise

and revise
that high

who cries
in the height
of that sigh?

not my i's

your eyes, aye,
without my dyes

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

mendicant and
eery hearts.

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

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

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

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.

days' crumble,
in blue-pencilled
idling.

the way you are
yourself

helplessly
definitely

self.made.fulness

although.­fulness.less

whatever.ish

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?

An horizon,
water coloured
by an impossibility;

the wish
i promised
not to wish;

a strength,
like a faith
in mankind;

my hands,
to shelter
broken wings:

nothing more
and all a nothing,
ethereal, like a heart.

isla magica,
schizogonic.

acidity
in purple orange

- passion fruit.

Discretely.
Seemingly distracted.
Just let it slide,
kind of in a "oops" way.
Get it over.
It will not matter.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.