When the woman you love is a poet,
It is hard to tell the difference,
between a poem and a conversation,
When the woman you love is a poet,
She will never speak her thoughts,
I have to decipher the lines,
When the woman you love is a poet,
It's hard not to be ensnared by the words,
And remember that the notes she sings,
Were not all for you

Balanced on the grey razor skyline,
the sun is impetuous with licks of flame,
smoldering like old promises
on my paper, white as the bedroom walls.

The crow outside my window
watches me with eyes like ink.
A sparrow spirals against the glass window,
hits with a tiny thump
and falls. The crow barks a laugh.

The demarcations go down;
illusion and flight fuse.

Somewhere between pen and parchment,
I stall, stretch my wings
and find nothing beneath;
melted wax and
the gravity of truth -  
my pen will not bear that weight.

between the early morning
calls of waking birds
there is a calmness

as you lie in bed,
reveling,
in the potential of the coming day....
right now, with lover asleep
beside you....
all is right and good.....

Construction project
King's st. 6.
Oslo.
14.00.*

A few humble grains of snow
melt upon
impact.

pavement. concrete. the air
between everything. they all  
blend together. then rest.

darkest time of the year.
I love it.
depression. suicide. some

fall victim to this absence
of daylight. their world is
not mine.

self pity and other heavinesses
vanish when opening ones
eyes to the beauty that resides

within even darkness.
I have clothes.
I have fire.

I have
love.
I have

more than
enough
light.