I sat (as I do when I don't need to stand)
By the river Vorma, a twenty minute forest walk
From my home farm.

Bukowski sat with me, speaking of how even
The best books in the world are
Merely sawdust.

I watched the sun via the water go from bright,
Innocent yellow to dark, sensual shades of
All sorts of blood,

Blushing with its whole self, then withdrawing
Beyond the rippled mirror image of its
Completely unjustified shame.

I lost my reading light, folded Charlie up and
Sat with my arms across my knees, watching
Fish jump on unsuspecting dinner insects,

Tossed the book in the water, and sighed.
The whole scene was just too perfect
Not to.

Summer is associated with social outings
Ice cream and heat
Yet winter holds all of the ice we would need
The warmth of our cuddled flesh
Is no match for July at mid-day
Many a life is created during long, blustery nights
Celebrated when the sun is at it's peak
I cannot help but despise February's numb
Although it is in that distance from feeling where I hurt the most
I thought living in a land without much change would cure
I was wrong
The last breath of your snow
*Follows wherever I go

Sonya posed
by the Eiffel Tower

I had my box
Brownie Cresta camera
I took a photo or two
trying to get her in focus
bring in the Tower
behind her

she smiled
and put her hands
on her hips
as dames do

her blonde hair
was bunched
behind her
in a ponytail
her face looked drawn

afterwards we went
for a coffee
at some bar
down by the Seine

and she sat there
with one leg
over the other
the foot dangling

I sat opposite
******* through
the French money
looking at the notes

you should read
Kierkegaard
she said
leave Nietzsche
to the Germans

I prefer Nietzsche
he's more realistic
I said

Kierkegaard
is more religious
and more positive
she said

the waiter came
and we ordered our coffees
and he went off

Kierkegaard
is Danish like me
she said

not so good looking though
I said
and he's been dead
sometime

she lit up a cigarette
and offered me one
I took and lit up
and inhaled

there's something
about Paris
I like
the atmosphere
the way these people
just live here
all this history
all the art
I said
as I exhaled smoke

cultural capital
of the world
she said

I listened
as she went on
about this artist
and that
and who did what
and when

as she spoke
the waiter returned
with our coffees
and went off again

I sipped mine
remembering her
coming out
of the bath
the night before
like some Venus
all stark and bare
shaking her head
letting loose
the water
from her long
blonde hair.

It's time for a break.
I bring my cup of coffee
Outside.

Drizzles of rain land in
The black fluid, stirring  
The steam that smells of

Warmer sensations than
Those of being drenched and
Rained upon outside a

Construction site. Sip and
Swallow. Repeat. I let the
Screensaver of my mind set

In; gazing at the space between
Things, thinking nothing.
Sip and swallow. The cup

Warms my hand. The coffee my
Throat. Then, a single thought
Warms my chest.

The way her bathroom smells
Of the products she uses.
The way she likes her showers

Hot -so I learn to enjoy them too.
I was always turning the heat
Down, until it got unbearable.

Then stayed a little longer.
Shocking myself awake.
Misconceiving pain as a tool.

I like it comfortable now.
Soft alarms in the morning.
Clothes with room rather than

Slim cuts and tight chests.
A woman that never once walked
A catwalk, but who likes to

Stroke my back softly until I
Fade away between winter covers
That smell of her skin and sleep.

Sip and swallow. I empty the cup
And listen to the rain -heavier
Now- hit my hard hat

Like a thousand fairy drummers.
The break is over. Workday isn't.
I have dry clothes in my office.

I'm having a
Very good
Day.

There's a purity about
falling snow, Yiska said.
She was standing by
the window of the locked

ward, snow was falling,
trees captured some in
their branches, fields
were blanketed. I stood

next to her, gazing out,
smelling soap, stale
perfume. She stood in
her dressing gown,

open at the neck, holding
a cigarette between two
fingers. See they have
allowed you to dress,

she said, looking at me.
Yes, but still no belt or
shoelaces, I said. Do you
blame them? After your

history of attempted hanging?
No, I guess not. She looked
back at the snow. I can't
even have a bath without

one of the nurses sitting in
there with me, she said, in
case I slit my wrists in the
bath again. Red water.

Something dramatic
about red water.  I sniffed
in her cigarette smoke.
Calming. I can't believe

he jilted me at the altar,
she said after a few moments.
Me standing there in my
white dress like some doll,

and he didn't show. I wouldn't
have jilted you, I said. It
wasn’t you I was going to
marry. But thanks anyway.

Undone. Undo-able. The past
like a locked door to a room
you want to go back to and
change the furniture around.

Her smoke entered my lungs.
I felt it ease me. If it wasn't
for the fact that the ward is
locked, I would be out there

in that whiteness, standing
there, arms outstretched,
mouth open, she said. If I
get low can I borrow the

belt of your dressing gown?
I asked. Only if you distract
the nurse when I bath next
time, she said, gazing at me

with her drugged up eyes.
Sure, each waits until the
other dies. There's a purity
about falling snow, she said,

gazing back at the scene
outside. I stared at her: the
thin white abandoned bride.

You have the chisel in hand
And the master sculpture
Chisel away the unnecessary
To sculpt a masterpiece
Heart shines
Through the beautiful facets

A carpet of grass deft underfoot,
like a huge grey blanket swathing the landscape,
cold and bleak, enticing a quickened pace,
Whistling wind wraps around me like a skeletons arms,
teasing and beguiling me onwards toward a destination unknown,
on its breath ride the whispers of forgotten lost souls.
The moon peers down through a silken scarf of blackened clouds,
Its knowing face smiling sinuously, as if luring ships to the rocks on a tempestuous sea,
from its mouth fall beams of light that illuminate the hills and troughs ahead, like a procession of flickering lanterns on a majestic parade,
Blackened gnarled trees seem to bow in respect as the coldness of the night permeates my core,
their dark shapes appearing on the horizon, like tomb stones in some ancient graveyard.
So among this swathing scene unfolding and with coat collar raised, I merge with the shapes and disappear into the folds of night.

He sat numbly
Guitar strings silent beneath still fingers
A sore heart nurtured in the solacial sound of solitude

(pull yourself together)

He edges his lap desk closer
Parchment, ink and quill
To most the page looks blank
Only he can see the clear stain of memory spreading
As it grows larger with each metronome tick

(tear yourself apart)

He ties laces without passion
Single knots for slow walks
The night damp sings softly
Not easing the turmoil
Merely giving it a voice he could not find

*(therapy can be found anywhere, even in the dark)

grant me my full share of sorrow
tempered with my share of your joy
bend me to your will willingly
accepting all as from your hand
so that I may bear my cross
united to your own to rise up
on the last day secure within your love