Do not ask why you are here,
Treading the waters of a
Planet leaving tears on the
Straight razor held
Firmly to her throat by her
Children.

You are here to dance your life
Out from birth to dust
On the floor between Satan and
Seraph, between kind and
Selfish. Between
Poet and predator.

Know that a light heart, love
For yourself and others; a
Whispered gratitude for the
Smallest of things, is the tallest
Tree in Paradise.
Anger is an axe.

And fear. Fear is a chainsaw.
See the flower; ignore the
Thorns.
Look past the hurtful comment;
More often than not, it was a tickle,
Not a slap.

Be the finger that begins the easing
Of the grip around the razor's
Handle. Form an open hand upon
The face of our blue mother.
Kiss her. Kiss her every sweet
Tear of relief.

I see tears before me.
Raindrops on a
Window.
Flowers
Drowning.

Eyes see what the
Heart allows.
I love you, and hand
You slivers of silver.
You curse me for
My needles.

Thunder echoes.  
Flashes through billions
Of hailstones smashing against
Trees, leaving clouds of

Crushed leaves hanging, slowly
Blending into the chaos of
Angry weather, then: Nothing.
I worry for my windows,

Pounded with ice and shaking
From relentless thunder.
Nature, now, is an angry
Woman,

Child, heirloom or love stolen.
Furious fire, skies dark with a
Thousand wings.
Drop your swords and run,

Men. Your homes are in
Flames. Your armours as
Useless as your wet pairs of
Long johns.

Toddler tears, infant despair.
The grown-ups adopt their
Panic, and lose control
Rendering their children
Orphant in the darkness that
Absent adult calmness
Creates.

Short beds, cribs, toys
Scattered around;
Superman bedding and
Uncemented concrete in
Piles where peace once
Played with the
Peaceful.

Take these demolished dreams
And newborn nightmares.
Breathe life back into each
Bombed home.
Rebuild young
Hearts with their
Rubble.

Ah, this meditative combination
Of balcony summer, drinks and
Poetry.
Oh, this carefree state of mindfull
Bliss; breathing tickles.
Poetry
Was never so absolute; park trees,

City summer, green lungs of
Oslo full of air.
Seeing the bushes by the railroad,
Pieces of nature
Peeping through
The cracks of civilization, taking
Control of city people's hearts.

Flowers dancing shamelessly
*******, swaying in breezes of the
Kind that picks up the heat from
Sunshine-warm streets and
Hugs you with it;
Rubs it all over you
Like a lap dancing angel.

Ah, to live is to meditate.
Late summer, August ablaze.
Weekend era; aeon of freedom.
As at home as any
Norwegian in
Norway. All I try to do ends
Up in laughter.