Norwegian Independence Day.
And 200th anniversary.

After the Black Plague in 1349
We fell under Denmark.

1814 there were many enough of
Us to start anew.

The Constitution was written a
Fifteen minute drive from

Here. The heart of the country. And
Here I sit. Outside. Shirt on the

Ironing board. Sun in the face.
So much green it's an ocean of fields

And foliage. Under my bare feet I
Feel the strong, steady

Pulse of the Land. Like that of a
Mother's to an unborn.

Closest.
Closest.
Closest.
Closest.
Closest.  
Closest.  

Happy Birthday, Mother.  
I'm here.

Planet of Sphere. Ocean of Water.
Word of Mouth. Light of Day.
World of Why's.

Every other breath a question.
Every other gesture a fist
Shaken towards the skies, or palms
Tracing a hole of absence
Shaped as a closest one.

There are no parents
Treading this Globe of Ground.
All of us infant siblings, comparing
Perceptions in a vacuum of
Answers.

Sons and daughters all become
Not.
Fathers and mothers fall victim
To blood drawn from own blood
And remain as drained
Heart shaped shadows, if in any
Shape at all.

The only cure against loss
Is not being there to lose, or never
Having had any ones to.

World of Why's.
Men of War; each a Child of Mother,
Whether as living as childplay  
Or fallen as something that
Has.

I am strong enough to hold you
So hard you won't feel yourself.
Inside you, where you carry
All you love, though, is a universe
Away from my
Reach.

That is why they are safe.
Safe as statues, painfree as
Mountains.
And why
You never
Will be.

Ahh.
I believe
It is a sign
Of a healthy
  Relationship
    When the words
       She loves to hear
          The most no longer
           Are I Love You, but
           ****, girl. You crack me up!
                                 It means the love
                                  Can be taken for
                      As granted as it should.
Laughter
Never is.

Power line cutting a thick
Scar across the
Hillside of
Trees.
Signatures of Civilisation; straight
Lines and angles,
Perfect circles. All within
What has none.
Needs none.
Wants none.

Maimed and modified
By the cynical scalpel
Of laziness named Progress,
By incompetent
Surgeons.

Waterfalls tamed and forced
Through turbines.
This naked mountaintop
Was a mile stone
For pedestrian generations.
Now it holds that giant antenna
Like a spiteful eyesore
To those who love
The land.

Power and signals, to sit
In air conditioned comfort
And watch
Nature shows on TV.

the belt around her waist,
mimicked your pale hands
forming an "o,"
while your fingertips meet.
though I told myself
my curves are as gorgeous
though your fingers never graced
anything thinner than my wrists
or the neck of your guitar
i felt my cheeks drain of blush
and replace with the color
of the grass
i rather lay in
than jog through
because the only sweat
i'd like to break
tastes like yours
and mine
and ours in a kiss
while your fingertips meet
around each one
of my *******
and inside me