Clouds as black as a dead
Display embrace the ash grey
Eternity of overhead
Evening heaven-space.

Thunders like legions of Harley-
Davidsons roaring through the
Nearby woods, making
Windows tremble like

Nervous alcoholics under the
Weight of their own empty
Bottles of loved ones' patience
And own dead pride.

The gods are angry tonight.
But so am I.
I open my mouth to the deluge.
I open my soul to the storm.

I get drunk on tsunamis. I fill
Up on snacks of tectonic plate
Movements; pass earthquakes,
Waving vulcano clouds away

From my face, then inhale.
My breath is atmosphere.
My pulse is symphony.
Earth is the rest of me.

I'm as shy as a god.
As humble as the devil.
Marillion tunes; seaside
Stones shaped by brainwaves

Form an absence of need.
All I want is change.
These are my thoughts.
Now show me my penny.

I pulled the curtains aside.
Laser sunset.
Clouds crimson through
Orange peel lit mists.  

Some city-in-the-clouds-
Sci-fi-scenery. Phiew.
Then, my focus shifted
To the crown of the much closer

Cherry tree;
Insects swirling in dance.
One score of Tinkerbells dancing
With one miniscule Peter Pan each.

One loving one
Loving another.
I smiled into the detailed sunset.
I smiled at the whirlwind

Of insects.
I smiled out of
My own everyday
Window.

How silly is the
Poet... Feasting from eyes
To heart. Tears, trembling hands
And all. At "nothing."

I visit the old mill by the creek.  
It hasn't ground a grain in a century.
A ghost of wood and steel and history.
How it still stands is a local mystery.

I want to buy that old mill by the creek.
Rebuild it with glass walls facing the waterfall.
Use the water for electricity.
In the summer, when you visit me,

We'll swim in the pond, it'll be my own pool.
Sip beer on the rooftop, be rockstar cool.
In winter, we'll ice skate my frozen backyard
Before fireplace, whisky, snacks and cards.

I'll build you a guestroom on all three floors.
And secret rooms behind hidden doors.
The automn rains will pound at the wall  
And sing with the sound of the waterfall,

And the song will be that of the miller's ghost.
The house might be mine, but he's still the host.
He loves that his workplace has now become home.
For a hundred years, he's been there alone.  

He'll laugh with the kids of my visiting friends.
He'll dance with the women, and when the fun ends
He'll sit on the rooftop with a ghost cup of tea,
Walk by the willows and thank God for he

Who took the mill ruins and rendered them "home";  
A palace by water of wood, glass and stone.
I thinks of these things, when I visit that mill.
And thanks to my dreaming, it's standing there still.

I believe that every tree; every swallow;
Every breath of clean air that I draw

Accepts the love I feel towards it,
And responds in my everyday life,

The way any "god" would. 
Thank you for your love. This is for you.

That smile from a stranger; that money
I found, that favourite song of mine on

The radio, was a hug from the trees
(**** human-huggers) of my

Home farm dirt road
Alley, where I walked today

Asking myself how at home a man
Can feel, kissing it all with my eyes.

My everyday life...
That insignificant, poor place

Where my every amazing treasure lies
Unhidden.

We fed the sparrows.
They were the size of their eggs.

She traced the muscles of my
Arm with a nail painted

Satanic black, then rested her river
Of hair of equal tone against my shoulder.  

Didn't need to whisper
Anything. We were both there.

Two minutes to midnight.
All my windows open to the gentle
Scents of Summer, and the invation
Of winged insects drawn

Towards the single candle
On my living room glass table.
It's as if a pine stripper is dancing
On my lawn,

All perfume and movements that
Sound like breeze and innocent
Lust.
I want to make love to the outside.

Be inside it. Give something back to
These two magical months between
Winters, and at the same time
Worship; move with tears in my eyes

Within optimal actual love.
I smell green; hear dark blue; look
Into the sunset iris of night time
Posing as evening,

And pull words like aces out of my
Worn poetic sleeves, but this is my
Winter coat, and all I can think of is
Snow creaking like doomed souls under

The heel of Anti-Summer Herself.
Meanwhile, Odin and Buddah swing
From a tree in my garden.
All battle muscle and fat carelessness,

And I look out at them chatting
Like little kids on a playground, about
Everything and nothing, and how that's
All there is.

Their words sing to my ears like the
Up-beat hummingbird pulse
Of a newborn's heart, to a young mother's
Own.

Up here it is more temporary; the
Sun has already turned.
In six months, the only light will be
That of the snow piercing through the
Darkness of a
23 hour night.

Words such as swimming and
Barbecue have the same taste as the
Cardboard of the box you are provided
With when being told to
Clear out your desk immediately.
And the winds pick up from

Closer to north with promises of
Ice cold rain in them.
Then just ice.
I fear not bullet nor blade, but look
Down and shiver at the thought of having
A brief, bad summer

Such as this.
I spent a week on Helene's parents'
Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating
Cod still wet with salt water, but yet;
The skies were grey; the breezes
Ungentle; unsoothing.

But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites
Where the ground still
Smells of sacrificial blood and
Mead, and there
I shrugged the disappointment off as I
Closed my eyes and imagined paddle

Sounds and Norse grunts from a
Thousand years ago; rugged
Travellers returning after months at sea
Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home.
Thinking nothing at all
Of the weather.