This little light will
guide this boy through
troubles and crashed airplanes.
Amongst these trees,
one will stand out.
Catch attention with
her beautiful red hair and
slim bark, the roots
subside, do not allow
to follow this green boy.
How can she survive
without her roots, to live for
this young boy that is
He walks in silence, within delicate air,
and holds his clouds in his fist, afraid
of letting them go.
He won’t notice as he bares thousands
of knives in his
back and walks with empty pockets.
It is grim to not find an escape, a little
room where all blades vanish
and no pockets exist.
published 2001 in The Pacific Review (vol 19). A magazine of Art & Literature, by the Department of English at California State University, San Bernardino.
I will gently pick up my tea,
and he will tell my fortune
from the leaves.
Trust your heart I’ll say
don’t dance on the lines,
throw away the cards.

Listen to my heart beat,
not the beats!
You need not predict
to find your way here.
Don’t count the stars
to anticipate an answer,
ask me…

Your sign is not your path
these veins are.
Your charms will never
substitute me
as prolific as it might sound.
Hold on to my hand
not my pasts…
Kiss my lips of jewels
and you will need no guidance.
Scribbling that old rhyme on her metasoma,
she doesn’t command the piano anymore,
lost in those gusts that carry the clouds across distant soils

To figure out just how to back track,
forming a new set
of aspiring lungs.

Pale on the horizon, standing tall
she whispers now, continuously
hoping to never become a mother.
20 minuter av frihet känns det
den härliga, kyliga brisen är renande.
Små fåglar delar glädjen av en ny dag.
Solen småtittar genom träden som släpper
små löv som liknar snö.
Trädens vaggnade och vinden påminner mig
om havet. Det känns fridsamt,
Jag vill stanna kvar.

10 minuter kvar av frisk vind som blåser
genom mig, känns helande. Alla tankar
Jag vill stanna kvar.

5 minuter kvar av otrolig harmoni av
öppet sinne for skönhet och inget annat.
Av känslor som flödar genom mig, av att
vara en del av det hela, av att vara
älskad och uppleva detta med all sinnen öppna.

Tiden är ute men jag vill stanna kvar. Nostalgi
“A Fall Moment”

20 minutes of freedom it feels
the wonderful chilly breeze feels cleansing.
Small birds share the joy of a new day.
The sun peeps through the trees that let go
of small leaves that  remind me of snow.
The waddling of the trees and the wind reminds me
of the ocean. It feels peaceful,
I want to remain here

10 minutes of fresh wind that blows
through me, feels mending. All thoughts
I want to remain here

5 minutes left of unimaginable harmony of
an open mind for beauty and nothing else.
Of feelings that flow through me, to be
a part of the whole, to be
loved and experience it with all senses open.

Time is up but I want to remain here. Nostalgia
She crossed herself at the beach,
tied black veil over her
face, these eyes shine, never questioning
the waves, comforting once.
Dips the toes half way then
escapes, this fair mermaid
of moan.

Her hands bare wear the marks
of stones which cast upon
unfaithful skin, innocent
the elders said yet
youth prevails, **** along
with strung fist upon
this fair widow to be.

So she stares out over the
heavens, her oceans, this sea
of doubt where water meets land and
she can still feel the
quiver inside, the embrace,
saliva on her neck.
Never will she let go of her
king of waters and she will yet again
return here.

So the last steps she took, so
far away, yearning for that
never ending path, the
truth, perhaps even the sand.

When either realize
perhaps one day, this wandering
youth will come to sense,
the legacy behind
the sands, the waters
and all those sins…
Let them go, him and her,
the trees will allow them to follow
with their green veils,
just like the fairies and their sons.
Let go, the fingers numb
it is certain that the ache, shall be for sought
in the gardens where their ambitions will rest.
Please do not ask “Why here?”
I shall not grant you this sphere.

In the gardens you will follow them in search of woe,
trying to find the missing works of Poe.

Decide whether the flowers will bloom,
will you stomp on them when the showers
detest this morbid couple?
The clouds are not white anymore,
they are but the water in your eyes,
as you weep, as we weep.
There is time, to weep, to mourn
there will be time to laugh.

Another rain will follow,
caress your skin in comforting
manners and you will slowly forget;
the times you cried, the times you laughed,
and all that time you had the power
to ask questions but never awaited the answers.

In the gardens you will follow them in search of woe,
trying to find the missing works of Poe.

You shall drown, my fair Ophelia
if you do not ask, ask if it was all worth while.
You cannot wait, you must pluck those flowers,
until you remember no more her long brown hair
and the way he’d hold her as his own.
I say, do not rest your eyes within illusions
for they will stay forever upon an oasis in his deserts.

Do not hesitate to look, for they kiss in
solemn ways you’ll never understand.
To say, “Do I pray?” and “Do I stare?”
It will never seem eternal until that one
look upon a finger of death.
To see the gleaming, the spark
should have been mine? Yours? Our?

In wondrous ways will he attain her love,
as she shall confess all her flora to him
and a week after that, a year perhaps
you shall wander and find,
yourself at peace perhaps,
as he shall walk once again
with a different flower in hand.

Only then shall we no longer weep,
for you, for her, for them.
We all walk within these skies
and as we fall we move the ground
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