i’ve been thinking a lot
about your hand in mine
the way that our fingers
and palms intertwine

but i think about death
about loss, about worth
i admit that i fear
to return to the earth

where our bodies dissolve
into roots of a tree
and will grow into trunk
then limb, then leaf

but i've heard from a bird
that death will reverse
and your heart will beat hard
like it did at your birth

so hold on for dear life
with your hand in mine
if death makes us let go
it is only for time



© Mike Mortensen

Fighting for the right
or the left, praising
heroes and heroines,
They scorn all villains.

Time for a breath of air,
weighing their own ways.
Are they being honest with
their harmonies of opposites.

All I could see was blue,
a barrier of confusion,
or some kind of illusion.
Unbelievable. Unreal. Untrue.

Was this my final scene?
An unfamiliar stage.
No one to help my dream.
No gentleness, just rage.

Words lie in wait. Ready
to spring, invade our minds,
ambush our thoughts. They fight
each other for the prize.

Born of grisly grief, lasting love,
excitements, incitements, enticements,
realities plurality of life,
imagined hope ungrasped,
surrendered souls downcast.

Treasuring pleasing phrases,
blessed by serendipity,
and so must shout their praises,
gorge ephemerality,
soon returning to the feast.

I don't know when or
who bought it, old worn,
battered, richly patinated,
ill-fitting our modern room.

Addressed with reverence
dur to age and tradition,
setting for many meals,
seances and squeals.

I was the noble Arthur
for a time, with a kingdom
to protect, a faith to defend
and my comrades to command.

Their backs to cold wet weather. Summer again.
Another pair of feet joins the queue.
The shelter won't house half a bus load.
Puffs of breath wind whisked away.

Secretly seeking sun in others' smiles,
that star has left their universe.
Stony stares keep their queue places.
Vital signs of stamping feet,
and fingers twitching keyboards.

One shy solitary smiles, a contact,
no contract needed. Granting her
his daily nod, his thoughts return to bed.

feel the muscles tensing there
softly hear my praises sing
raise my pulse, and pull my hair--
my body is a loving thing.

touch my neck: its hairs will raise
feel my goosebumps spread;
if your lips on mine should graze
i shall never join the dead.

but to you i'm only skin
and all my tears are not enough
to baptize me from how you've sinned
and how you took advantage, love.

Grief is not art
Not a statement
It doesn’t pile like ground shattering bricks
It is a trickling of small moments gradually building a wall
To block out the sun on the other side
Grief is the darkness when you feel most alone
Because it knows you are weak
It preys on on you like the small graze of a finger
So light you barely notice until the whole hand clamps down on your arm and you’re losing blood
Grief is the man who pours one cup of tea instead of two
Grief is the dress you picked out for her being the last you’ll ever see her wear
Grief is the tears hidden behind hands at the kitchen table
Grief is shopping for three black dresses because she wouldn’t like the first
Grief is the collection of pictures on the wall
Grief is anger in his shaking fists
Grief is knowing she’s not there
But you don’t feel it rush at you all at once
It’s a slow build of boulders on your shoulder
Until you’re crying alone in your room wishing you could see them once more