Mountain, lean on me.
Let me comfort you,
Cry your creeks onto
My shoulder.

Oak tree; weeping willow
At heart. Here,
Find shelter from the rain
Beneath me.

Girl, grow strong enough
To carry the weight of
Your beauty.
Concrete cross; boulder burden

Of features and curves beheld
In craving by wide-eyed men.
A curse at times, to have
Your golden soul shine through

To the outside of your being.
Until then, lean on me.
Let me comfort you.
Cry your every drop of fatigue

Onto my shoulder.
Find shelter beneath me.
I can hide the sun from your eyes.
See: Love is sizeless.

...is the easiest one to answer.
Cry a little.
Love a lot.
Be a little angry,
Then make peace and move on.

Only look back
To enjoy or to learn.
Kick a little.
Hug a lot.
Look for the little things;

There's a god in every detail,
That never demanded your
Faith in it.
Frown a little.
Laugh a lot.

Remember lovers lost
With kindness and gratitude.
Be critical of your memories;
Choose your luggage
With care.

Some things are worth forgetting.
Let them go.
Look a lot. Taste a lot.
Smell a lot.
Close your eyes and

Listen a lot, to your breath
And that of the world.  
There's a wonderful lack of
Sense that makes perfect sense,
In everything.

There's meaning in it all.
There's meaning in us all.
The meaning of Life?
To never, ever think you need to
Find it.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

She looks up at me from the
Stroller, eyes wide open as
If she's never seen a shaved
Head before.
I'm guessing it's the head.

The tram is packed full of people,
And my country boy soul cringes
At the touch and smell of a
Hundred strangers.
So I focus on the little angel princess
Strapped gently to her

Throne on wheels, and in the
Vast space that our eyes meeting
Creates, I breathe pure, fresh air.
The tram is a hall we have to
Ourselves, and I'd trek to
The end of the universe

To find the last piece of candy
In existence, just to return,
Travel worn and outer space
Accustomed, just to place it
In her tiny hands
In gratitude.

She's getting tattooed by
My brother. He locked us in to
His studio just to give her
Her Christmas present
In ink.

Now she's tipsy with French
Red bottled painkillers,
And my brother keeps telling her
To sit still every thirty odd
Seconds.

He's about to cut it down to
Every tenth.
Outside, people try the studio
Door, thinking it's open, but
No.

This is the time for the special.
Oslo day turns into night,
Neon dances, beggars get more
Intense, and in the middle of it
All, I glance over my

Carlsberg at her long, long black
Hair dyed red at the tips,
And think something to myself
That rhymes with home, but
Not alone.

There's something about drinking
A little beer on a Monday.
The moon and stars look down at
Us; their slightly lost,
Most beloved children, and

Dream Theater sing Pull
Me Under, as I think that
She might have done so by
Just about *******
Now.

Sometimes it's good
To be sad.
To not chase away,
But embrace the heaviness
That weighs down your

Heart and feet.

Sometimes it's good
To be sad.
To rest your head in a
Warm lap, allowing tears to flow,
And loving fingers to

Find them.

I play blind.
Take you in with other
Senses.

Read your every line with my
Fingers, taste your
Sweet salt,

Smell the cotton and sleep
That held you, before I
Woke you up with

Hands and whispered kisses,
Craving to hold you
Myself.

I love you in
Moonlight. I love
You.

Your scents and flavours.
Your heartbeat escapes like
Poetry from your ribcage.