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SG Holter Mar 2017
New love.
New day.
Some strange sunrise in the
Eyes of the man she just
Possibly chose over
Many.

Not her preference at all, she
Thought, then closed her hand
Around her past, and with one
Last squeeze, let it go.
A man with issues and demons
Different than

The rest of them.
A soft touch -that new too-
And a habit of buying her lilies.
New love.
New day.
Some strange sun setting over

A lifetime of raised hands and
Voices.
Give me days, years, or more,
He whispers.
Love focused on feelings, not
Flesh.

And I will stand with
You. Lay
With you. Walk
Barefoot through
Meadows and minefields
With you.


Glove tossed in a challenge of
Love.
He braces his heart for her
To accept.
I'm bracing my heart for hers
To accept.
SG Holter Mar 2017
Zoom in. See your heart at its
Most spectacular through an
Electron microscope.

I've come to embrace our
Lack of foreverness, yet
Witness it through

Our faint touches hidden
Behind backs while passing.
No, there is nothing divine

Here. No shade of an angel's
Wing over our hearts as they
Stroke each other fleetingly,

Just two pieces of mud in a
World of dirt and
Water.

A broken man in a complete
Galaxy; I carry my pieces with  
My back straight.

This scarred heart is weak, but
My arms are well trained from
Taking its loads.

I'll carry yours when you need
Me to. Zoom out. See our joined
Hearts through a telescope.

Milky Way doorways.
The magical kissing of a neck
Across a threshold.
  Mar 2017 SG Holter
Bjørn O Holter
The little angel sits in silence
drops pebbles into the well.
Contemplating what state now
will befall both Heaven and Hell.

Little angel toes touch gently
water fresh and freezing
as a gentle southern breeze
brush her neck, kind and pleasing

The war is raging, she knows
a moment she knew would come.
She blesses in peace her sanctuary
where she can be alone.

Far away, the noise of battle
where fiends of carnage dwell.
Five jagged arrows she pulls from her body
then drops into the well.
Another fairy tale put into a poem. Wrote this with a future song in mind, but so far this is the only version.
SG Holter Mar 2017
Something like Mozart -only not-
Swinging from her
Speakers as her
Sofa gets barely wide enough
For two desert wandering souls
Approaching the same
Water.

Same pure,
Simple, simple water.
Something like perfume,
Only not, floating sweetly
On my hands, as as
Vivid a ghost as any of any
Living thing I've felt in ages.

The boys and Lennon sang
Truth. Sometimes, all you
Need is
Love. Any kind.
Any intensity.
Any sort of
Sensitivity.

Anything like Einaudi's piano
Will wake it up again;  
That tattoo on the face
Of Time and Space where
You took
Something you were given
With a steady hand.
SG Holter Mar 2017
One for sorrow, two for joy...
Black spots in waves over
Snow crusted
Fields and the jagged
Dark teeth of pine
Beyond.

Girl, boy, silver, gold.* I
I only know her well enough
To trace the place on my face
Where it last
Touched hers, with a
Pensive finger as

I gaze out at the
Winterness floating by.
Yes, I guess that feels like a
Smile. Eight for a wish, nine
For a kiss.

Something secret wonders if

It ever will want to be told,
And I hold the part of myself
That would rather soar than
Join feathers with another,
Tightly. I never seem to get my
Crows in a row.
  Dec 2016 SG Holter
Bjørn O Holter
There is a voice of comfort,
a poet of the truth
chords interwoven in every crack,
to lighten and to sooth.
Silken syllables singing
like distant thunders' clouds
to the lonely, humble ones
whose candles soon burn out.

A blessing from a being,
bestowed between the bad
who sat upon his whispered throne;
beaten, black and ironclad.
The boon from a saint of satin tongue
to those humanity fit;
humble thinkers, meek and strong
of kindest hearts and fathers' wit.

There is a voice of comfort,
for all who soon pass on.
When the darkness closes in
to where you thought you belonged.
It will pass you on with dignity,
mirror mentors of the Minoan
"Hineini, Hineini. Here I am,"
sings the ghost of Leonard Cohen
I was quite shattered the day I read Leonard Cohen had passed on, Only recently I'd aquired his latest album, released only weeks before his death. On this album, -as in most of his work, he was the comforting voice who was no less than the perfect friend on the late, dark nights when thoughts wander, grandfather clocks tick and cats purr. I owe him
B

"You want it darker, we **** the flame"
L.C.
SG Holter Dec 2016
"I know it's back. I can feel it;
The pressure behind the eyes..."*

He's sixty. Missing front teeth
Make his grins cartoonish

And contageous. Some days
Colleague, others

Father.
Now, hammer-steel

Eyes well up. Hands like
Shovels pretend to scratch the

Bridge of his nose.
Devil Cancer. Ugly, old *******.

When he passes on, Valhalla
Awaits.

Don't tell me there's no battle
In this.
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