They say we should be prepared in life
for those difficulties thrown our way
It's important to be ready for them
'change' is the only thing that stays the same

So what are the rules and guidelines?
This I really need to learn
There should be a detailed manual
to guide us through twists and turns

How do we really prepare?
Can't we just follow certain steps?
We do it all the time
but I haven't seen the manual yet!

I know this may sound so strange
but I like to get things right
I want to always be prepared
for those things, not yet in sight

So if anyone has a written plan
or steps numbered 'one' 'two' and 'three'
I'd really appreciate a copy
I'd be sure to carry it around with me

The snappy air has 'pinked my cheeks'
ruffled my dark curls
swept cobwebs away and so much more
from my mind

Going through the motions, I walk
My dogs, eager for adventure,
I, am keen to ponder
so I allow them to discover
all they can find

Meanwhile I roam a little
inside my head
while taking in how winter
is trying to take hold
and is redesigning nature

Bare and stark, gloomy at times
but I embrace the change
expectant and excited like a child still
at the thought of snow

Awaiting a blanket of white innocence
a welcome change from disorder
Layers of glittering calm
that will cause a ripple effect
in my mind

~

Final memory



When death
on darkened skies
through my window
flies

My wish
in pleading sighs
is that before my
eyes

Your face
is what I see
of this last breath I
breathe

So nothing
else shall be
my final
memory

~

I don't want it anymore (my heart)


This forest of black fern, scraping thorn’d tree trunks
It all looks the same
Tearing at my flesh…ripping wounds upon my chest
Severing slowly
Pain merely a dashed figment of my stoic imagination
Sharp blades twist
Wandering for nights on end as days no longer exist
Getting nowhere fast
Frowning moss grows on the east side of sorrow
Dying north spins
As I hold in my hand this thing that still bleeds
Two parts, gaping
Seeking the perfect hiding spot in charcoal stone ash
Shadows fade desires
This is of no use to me, take it, I don’t want it anymore
It is broken
Rains soften this hell as I dig deeper into the sadness
Buried in teardrop mud
And I sit, amongst bramble and thistle spun chains
Waiting for the end….

~

Choices



Shadows move on sheet rock barriers
framed in time of late
Spaces filled with unknown visions
dance about with feet of clay
Gowns of nightmare carpetbaggers
thunder on the floor
Drippings in a mist of nervous breath
blanket my safe haven
and the sounds scream
in voices of past mishaps
Lost in lonely corridors,
wailing on aching skylights
permitting barely a moon glow psalm
to echo of their meaning
in songs from a distance,
of pleading skeletal desire

“I fear for I have no choice”

Doorways yawn in weary ovations
Slanted photos dot the landscape
Windows prove little relief from the cold
as heat pierces my cavities
Gaping wounds of frail memories
clutch at my last ounce,
measuring the words I am reading
Taking a breath, sweet, stagnant
Clawing for an exit only to find
it has stood before me all along
Baby steps, I have been told
Find that trust, slowly…make sure,
reach out for the hand
offered on a dreamscape message

“I fear for I have no choice?”

Eyes, so tired, weeping pools
out of focus since that day, open
(As if sunflowers float on silken wings
and glorious becomes an understood word)
slowly and tentatively,
blinking sorrow’s pathway free
to lead me to you
The imprint of that butterfly
marks my palm in red lines of love,
mapping my skin with a long awaited
smile, dry lips curve as I take your hand
trusting, for the very first time
realizing the feeling
which hath finally…set me free

“I no longer fear, for I have a choice”

Staying awake tonight, I will render myself suffering
Poet with a house full of only myself
And my thoughts.

There's food and drink, but all I care for is keeping the
Fire going as I sit. And look. At nothing. Everything.
With my thoughts

Silent, for once. As if all shields up and all angels sword
Drawn circling me, like a wall of Soulhome.
Soulrest. My thoughts

Go out to the part of myself that will never find
His way. The Last Living Astronaut, the last shard of Earth,
The last thing the dying solar system thought before

The Nova turned Super and all eyes blind.
I am alone; an unfolded antenna to capture every frequency's
Every whisper that was ever thought into these ancient walls,

And I project the process onto my device, in blind belief that
I can play the Tetris of Words around the moment I am in;
Where I am God. Quiet. Thinking. *Telling.

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.

Up North, by the Russian border,
It gets so cold your breath
Freezes and floats to your
Feet in a fountain of
Sparkling microsmithereens.

Sibirians call it
Whispering Stars.
I swear on my name it's a
Sight beyond description, with

Northern Lights coiling like
Mating snakes
On a sky so full of moon and
Stars it's almost alien

Above you.
Easiest peace.
The sound of Gods
Meditating.

Silence itself opens its
Quiet eyes and looks into yours
Like a living abyss you look down,  
Looking back.

The purest of Existence's
Everythings.
The now cry in
Snow Crystals.

Zen in

Frozen.

Life is too short to waste
On insignificancies,* she says,
Waving carefree toes under socks
On my lap
-One green; one red-
When I call her my
Lantern-Lit
Vessel of
Wisdom.

He stood on her doorstep, flowers in hand.
In coat of his father's, resembling a man.
Still queenless a king, now he stands like a slave.
Flowers in hand, resembling a grave.