Well I guess I can be both because I'm the one
who chose to send our boys girls out there
to fight that war

Some one had to go it wasn't me, I stay at home
and ponder over my next words and lies
to feed the gullible minds out there

So your destitute and broke, well for me thats just a joke,
its not my fault that your kids will starve
Ive more important things to than to worry over you
I have to go and by anothef expensive car

Oh sorry I forgot it was me who hatched the plot to starve you
and send the kids to war

Do you think that I lose sleep about their torn and shattered
flesh? Or of the shattered minds that come back home

Define a full life.
I sleep four-five hours on
Weeknights.
In winter I work in darkness that
Only breaks during mid-day;

With snow blowing sideways,
Finding its stubborn way between
Garments to touch skin
With a thousand needles.
I have one deep scar for every

Week of work.
I've been more cold than warm,
More exhausted than rested,
I've been to death and back; have
Photos of my own heart from
Nearly unsuccessful surgery.

But staying dead was not for me.
With friends and interests like mine,
Heaven held no grounds to hurry.
There is too much music.
Too much wisdom in old eyes, too
Much beauty in brand new ones.  

I wake up in a warm bed
Beside a warm woman,
Eat warm food daily. Both my
Parents still live. My brother is
My best friend.
I meet challenge upon challenge
Upon challenge.
Some I win.

But more important than anything:
I laugh. I laugh and laugh
Until my stomach can't move,
And I smile to the skies
With my face still wet from tears
I wouldn't bother to hide
From anyone, saying
Well played, up there.
Love every scene; every joke; every
Set. The soundtrack is impeccable.  
Characters loveable.
Give my best to the scriptwriters.
They crack me up.

Can't wait to see how it ends.
Promise me a
Sequel.

I'd do it all again.
Define a full
Life.

Then live
It.

Maybe,
You and I are just sick people,
laughing at a sick joke,
and we'll only ever have
each other to love
so we hollow out the ground
to lay our bodies side by side
and replace the dirt
so we can feel
the weight of our choices.

Few can pronounce it
Unless Scandinavian.
The r's are all rolling,
And the letters all sound...
More or less not as
In English.
Just let it go, it's a 'twister,
I know.

My names are all old-norse,
Not modern Norwegian.
(Viking-speak sounded
More close to Icelandic).
Sverre means "spin like an arrow",
Expression for being untamed; un-
Controllable; wild-man.
G is for Guttorm: "Where Gods
Seek Shelter"; a fortress for those
One thought needed one least.
Holter means "edge of the woods";
The end of the forest (or where it
Begins).

The Wildman Where the
Gods Seek Shelter at the
Edge of the Woods.

My friends call me Sverre.
It is a name I've shared with
Swordbearing kings.
I am equally proud
When addressed.

Dear mr. Cole.
I allow myself
"Joe", with the deepest respect
For a man I barely know.
But I know...

You contain
Multitudes, no less than
Whitman. Supporting posting
Writers with the warmth
Of an all-loving Allfather; raining
And shining on seedlings sown
By poets of varying confidences.

Larger than any poet
Ever read
Is he who encourages writing.

Joe, yours is the hand that swats
The one that holds back the
Pen of the uncertain poet.

Your poetry reflects
Your garden, God's Creation,
The beauty within wild things
Growing...

And all that glory and grace
Of which you write,
My friend, our Joe.
Is all a mirror
Reflecting
Its beholder.

Today is the day,
where if I'd known nothing
of death and hell,
this day would be my last.

Today would be a good day,
to send away goodbyes in the mail,
and dig DEEP to find my soul,
and let it go.

Today would be good,
but tomorrow brings a better day,
full of hope.
Opportunities.

Today could be the end,
the end of it all.
Tomorrow could be the start
of a new way of life.

Today could,
but tomorrow can.

Sometimes, writing is just
Ink on a page, splashes
Of black
On white, shadows cast
On light, something that tripped
And fell
Just happening
To form patterns
We recognize.
Sometimes, writing is
Different,
The ink - which never changes -
Mind you -
Seems to shine,
To leap beyond
Its page,
Like the sempiternal clouds
At the root of
The waterfall,
Tactile
Everywhere at once,
Obscuring your vision,
Causing your skin to
Bump,
And Prickle,
All the while
Filling your ears
With the white noise
Of water.
It's when writing is like that,
When it seems to breathe,
Where you might read it once,
Twice,
And between readings,
The meaning changes,
Somehow.
The writer's pen
Has been left behind,
Still the story lives on,
Like it should,
Like it deserves,
And sometimes it's a vast novel,
Sometimes
It's a poem,
With three lines,
Five
Seven
Five
And yet, for all their differences,
They are the same: Two
Living, breathing, scintilla
Sharing
Ink-and-paper
Heritage.

The cry
of the barrel screams
Screams resound across the earth's
Great Expanse
Expands from the lowlands of Vail to
the valleys of Los Angeles to
the depths of Oceania to
the oceans of death and,
after incessantly increasing,
incredulously stops.

Except not really.

Really, to most Valians,
he was just a name in passing,
fluttering past consciousness just long enough
to get a "poor thing" or a "shame."
Really, his body hit the cement a full
7 hours, 6 minutes before his parents came work
from home, not the other way round,
Saw the alien body of their offspring, then the corpse,
and threw themselves
at lawyers, counselors, and more lawyers
as each professional debated which lover
he wanted as his teammate in the opening of
The Blame Games.
Really, the cessation of Adam's heart
didn't open the gates in exuberant expectation of
The true savior.
His beats stopped when
the world began
The lost change in between his seat cushions
never had just one meaning.
Really, he never thought he would
ever amount to more than a dollar.
Really, the only question that matters,
the only entreatment with gravity,
is, Was he right?

"It didn't mean anything"
I said the first time.
Rubbing the hickeys that battered my skin
(I refused to call them 'love bites')

"It didn't mean anything"
The second time round.
But the fumble this time was heated.
(I refused to **** in a shower block)

"It didn't mean anything"
I said once again
When you raised your eyebrows and sighed.
(You refused to accept my claim)

But the bite on my lip
I can feel it still now
And the trace of your hands can burn
"It didn't mean anything."

Common *** for common man
Leave passion for the poet

~

Unlike you

Hovering like a gnat that finds a face irresistible
Swatting frantically does no good as
insects will be insects and annoying is part of their plan

As it seems each day I find a new offering unfolding its wings,
buzzing about with all of its ***** laundry,
as if poetry has become merely a tool to harass

Finding little folders to slide into…highlighting
each word of bin fodder, old but new
hoping for accolades in lemonade fashion

Funny how that works as bitter becomes the norm,
never letting go of that scent that attracts you…
whatever it is about the human aroma you find so pleasing

Perhaps it is that it will never be you…insect,
oh little gnat of warm summer zephyrs failing to flutter by
lost within the deep confines of a posies’ petals

To ruin our summer faire, our picnic in the sun
can not happen for you see we are happy
in our own skin, with its wondrous fragrance…unlike you