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Mar 2017 · 378
Goddessness, pt. III
SG Holter Mar 2017
How I spell
"Love"?
I hide my every alphabet

Within you.
We learn to burn our old
Preferences.

Enough gentle winds turn
Puddles into
Cavities.

I thank the grounds for not
Being levelled out
For once.

Not scared of hights any
More; I grunt when your feathers
Tickle my nose.

Godlessness.
Church is my mouth upon
You.
SG Holter Mar 2017
She's rock 'n' roll as if it was an
Element.
She walks to the sound of

Cobblestones worshiping her
Heels like the desert its rare
Rains.

Nightclub beats slow
Down to
Match her pulse

As she passes.
Narcissus loving himself
Before her; she mirrors

Men's fragile egos in the
Tears she produces when
Passing them with me

On her mind.
She's rock 'n' roll
As if unsilence itself commanded

A goddess to choose a body
To possess; her
Back straight

Like time was of no such thing
As the essence.
She slows down to match

My humble
Mortal
Pace.

I die.
Then
Not.
SG Holter Mar 2017
I love the sound you make
In your sleep when the hair on
My chest tickles your nose.

It's the most beautiful grunt.
With your make-up on on a
Saturday night, I'm stunned;

Can't breathe, but without it,
Fresh from the shower, you are
More woman than any.

I've been in love before, I've
Taken in a girl's morning
Breath and thought the smell

More refreshing than that of a
New book or guitar strings, but
****, I love the scent of your

Self.
How do you spell "love"?
I don't know. I struggle with

My own name when your
Eyes look up from whatever
Wherever and

Punch mine right between
Themselves with the force of
A grateful supernova.

You rub your cheekbones from
Smiling so much,
And I have found a feature to

Worship like a deity they raised
Pyramids for back before
They knew beauty from

Goddessness.
I am a lover of moments.
You breathe, then I.
Mar 2017 · 410
Feather
SG Holter Mar 2017
Hearts and heads.
Hearts and heads.
Thoughts at daytime,
Tears in bed.

Fingers and skin.
Fingers and skin.
Stop by the church,
Or continue in sin?

Sky so high.
Sky so high.
So far up, and we can't
Fly.

Stone or feather.
Stone or feather.
Float or fall.
We'll find out together.
Mar 2017 · 478
Barefoot
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 · 437
Us, and our Hands
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.
Mar 2017 · 709
Puzzlegirl and the Crows
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 · 658
Devil Cancer
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.
SG Holter Dec 2016
I tell her that tomorrow
Slides slowly to meet my
Familiar night.

That the changes are few
And subtle. I am OK, I say,
Face still cold from last night's

Pavement.
Truth is I'm terrified.
Heartbroken and soaked in

Myself, clinging to the past with
One hand, fighting its demons
With the other. Terrified.

Embracing my inner
Earthling. Loathing it.
Terrified. Loving it.

I used to think I was only human.
Now I
Know.
Nov 2016 · 2.5k
Two Stones with One Bird
SG Holter Nov 2016
Writing in love, and then
Writing without.
Breaking two stones with
One bird.

I'm a poet, my darling.
I can **** with a feather,
Revive you with one written  
Word.
SG Holter Nov 2016
I

...she tip-toes in, sprinkling
Fairy-dust into the darkest
Corners of my mind's living room.   
Shuts the door behind her with
A smile of the kind that sees
Sobbing babies of all ages
Silent and asleep.

Skulls as candle-holders, knuckle
Duster paperweights, blades
["...there are so many
Weapons in here..."]
.
My taste in art and decor
Is dark and delightfully human.
Aesthetics so alien to an angel.

She sees right through it.
Warrior or shaman,  
All souls are children in  
Her eyes.


II

Having pried up puzzle pieces
That were hammer-****** into
Submission, she puts deep things
Into place
["Shh... just follow the sound of
My voice..."]
, has love enough for
Lifetimes, yet will always be

Her own.
How could any man not
Dream to harness as much as a
Single ray of her shine?
Comfort; healing; an element in
Human disguise. But her laughter  
Sparkles its give-away:

Us mortal men don't carry  
The strength to hold her as gently,
Lightly; unpossessively as one
Must.


III

Goddess demanding her hugs
Received, or angel pulling pain
From something broken.
Hands that love the life in  
Everything touch also the
Spaces between things.
Find us lost ones there.

A warm river cutting through
Winter frost, ice cold slumber
And lonely fatigue.
*Tired? Here, I'll make
Time go away
For a
While.

You owe me nothing,
Little boy.
Our souls are always
Even.
Nov 2016 · 6.7k
"... ... ..."
SG Holter Nov 2016
This axe was made from
Oak and
Anger.
Forged in the fires that
Shaped my cardiac
Armour.

I'll never surrender to a
Woman
Who sees love as war
Ever again.
It's been a long,
Lonely time.

But I've seen peace.
Still sacrifice to the gods,
Praying for brief, cold
Winters; for all other
Seasons to be neither.
They all have room for a

Woman between them,
But my hatred for ego
Is a burning beacon of warning
Even I myself shun.
I just want the silence.
That deep, deep silence,

Whose last word will never be:  
"Me,"
But:
"... ... ..."
That, I can love.

This axe was made from
Oak and
Anger.
It beats paper; scissors; stone.
Sees me armed. And still
Alone.
Nov 2016 · 1.0k
Sjöfn
SG Holter Nov 2016
They wrote about you.
Named you Goddess and  
Lifted you high above the

Imagined boundaries of your
Spirit and ***.
No longer seeming as little as

You always felt. Well...
The rains came; you became
Umbrella.

Cinderella's indecisive cousin.
Wet now, and not in the
Good, hot way.

Workmen's sweat fresh from
Frustrated chests upon your ever
Forgiving back.

Heathens in the temple.
Berserkers in the
Cathedral.

Male pens, shovels and clamps
Made for grabbing and digging,
Holding up towards God's Skies

And proclaiming, not "Her,"
But: "Mine!"
I've seen it as it is.

Oh, I know. I've been a lifter.
Shoving goddesses into brick sized
Holes, praising the solid

Wall.
You deserve better. Take it from
Iron:

There is not enough
Gold in your
Life.
Oct 2016 · 1.3k
The Only Flower
SG Holter Oct 2016
All the ones I
Love the most have

Someone they love
More than me.

The truth of it is
Beautiful;

That lonely knowing
Sets me free.

The legless fly,
The voiceless sing.

There's love in every
Living thing.

And in that love
I bask and laugh,

Composing my own
Epitaph:

All gods are real, and
Therefore none,
and

Hell hath merely
Room for one.


All the ones I love
The most

May barely know a
Man from ghost.

I love their rains, their
Suns and soils,

Their loving others form
The spoils that go

To me right where I
Stand to see:

I need not even
Me.
SG Holter Oct 2016
Norwegian Autumn.
Black as voids.
Leafless trees.
Sunlessness. All
Slightly alien still,
After all these years in
A country you never
Grew up in.

My hand is a shield
Upon your Dark Season
Fatigue. Energy to spare.
Sharing fire. Here:
My coat is your blanket,
Scarf your pillow.
Sleep safe, little sister.
Summer is where the heart

Is.
I'll never lose you to
Winter, or his
Dark and windy sibling.
Ear to my chest, hear the
Ticking of time.
Ticking of time. Ticking of
Time until Love.
Oct 2016 · 410
Scalpel
SG Holter Oct 2016
People die.
Some young.

I recall my stolen
Moment. Soul's eyes

Opening; floating, cradled
In warmth -such

Contrast to the sterile
Chill of the table against

My back-
Beeps and pings fading

Like some sun setting
Somewhere behind.

That's right...
How could I forget...?


Seeing Day.
Sleep ending.

People die.
Some young,

But a few close their eyes
And return. I love this

Beautiful, terrifying
Dream.
Oct 2016 · 748
Hickory
SG Holter Oct 2016
You may be more beast than
Man in their eyes; bearded,
Scarred, too tattooed,
History of violence,

History of summoning tears.
But you'll dig a grave for our
Loved ones with your own
Two hands, bruised knuckles

Around hickory and hard
Plastic. So we can relax and
Cry.
You've wrestled huge, angry

Enemies, and won.
Your hugs are epic.
You have taken lives. You have
Arms to hold galaxies.
SG Holter Oct 2016
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
To remember how I tore my heart in
Two rendering a

Blood Eagle to stretch its wings and
Tickle our souls with its sticky feathers.
When I think of us, I see us as we were.

Other people than now.
Memories framing themselves like a
Fantastic painting the artist

Stepped back to admire, then died.
Hang me. Hang me before i hang
Myself.


Dramatically opposed to drama.
Uninterested infatuation.
Broke billionaire.

Mortal gods shaking divine hands
With decomposing composers,
Thanking them for the silence.

We were lovers and enemies, and
I'd still give my life and afterlife to
See you worship another as if I

Never left a fingerprint on this
Planet; resting as safely in arms that
Love you unendingly,

As we all lie sleeping; dreaming
In our own, stronger arms,  
Forgetting that even our loving

Is imaginary.
Death is awakening.
Rubbing the

Eyes of our souls and yawning,
We look up and smile at that which
All of this is a bleak and fleeting

Shadow of.
Plato knew.
When I wish to die, I do too.

This love is not Love.
It's all mud and air.
You owe me nothing but to breathe.
Oct 2016 · 1.2k
Seaweed; Feel its Calmness
SG Holter Oct 2016
A fish in flight; a queen diving
Free, slender and one with the
Streaming hands that caress

While she slides through the
Ocean's nerves and lips and fingertips,
Being the truth; that

This mother of two gentle kings
Is water-based and carries tears
Enough to drown the world

For them. Has cried her pillows
Warm for them,
A mama bear to any fear that

Might wish any harm on them.
She swims in seas in Neverland,
And dreams of feeling strong

Again.
I recognize that song, my friend.
So be where you belong, my friend:

Keep the ocean in your heart,
And when the skies within are
Dark, just

Close your eyes and jump right in,
Feel the salt against your skin.
Taste the water, stroke the

Seaweed; feel its
Calmness seep
Within.
For M., my sweet, strong friend since forever.
Oct 2016 · 431
The Giver
SG Holter Oct 2016
Appreciation in the
Beggar's eyes when your
Coins sing against the others
In his cup.

You look around to see
If anyone saw you,
Then walk on,
Proud of your

Charitable heart.
Oh, so proud.
Well, I thank you on
Behalf of my broke brother,

Sad, though, that your ego
Speaks so loudly no-one
Can hear what your soul is
Trying to say.
Oct 2016 · 395
No Wing
SG Holter Oct 2016
Getting down on one of
Two bruised knees

Asking for the hand of some
Angel too good for a

Mortal man.
One step closer to the

Beginning of the journey.
Fingers charred from holding

His heart too close to the
Midsummer sun.

Atheist prayers to gods as
Deaf as stones.

Well, illusions wither and break.
Falling stars are the size of

Grains of sand.
I sometimes hate knowing.
SG Holter Oct 2016
"Oh, yes. That hurt.
That hurt like a thousand slaps from a
Thousand teachers each. Like

Dragon claws dripping with bile and
Venom into male ego exposed. Ego
And pride and the nature of the bottles

Of labelled **** that you threw back,
Chickening out on cold, hard reality.
Once again.

Friends and lovers lost, some long,
Some not. All gone with the wine. You
Could have written volumes by now.

Recorded legendary albums, created
Art like few others.
Yet, every millidrop of your

Blood screams for someone, or
Something rather, to take you
Away from all that's everyday.

Be it even war." Well,
I want peace, now.
Battleworn and

Empty from facing all the same
Demons. Chainmail shredded,
Body worn on the inside from

Aqua Vitae and ale.
It hurts. It hurts like a thousand
Freshly sharpened pencils carving

Into the exposed areas of my love
For bad nostalgic habits and
Days after days with drink, laughter

And inhaling
The air of temporary excitement,
Picking at scabs and naming myself

Surgeon, letting the hearts of others
Pick up my tab when one of us
Inevetably leaves;  

Those freshly sharpened pencils
Carving mantras to keep me alive
And wake me the Hell up, like:

"The people I
Need do not
Need me like

This,"
and
*"I have
Pride."
SG Holter Sep 2016
Burn.
Step onto the embers of my
Secret weaknesses and
Impersonate the
Sword of Michael.

This longing for Valhalla
Won't see me alive much
Longer.
Take me to the nearest battle.
Let me die slaying a terrorist

Or intending ******.

Or should I pray to gods of a more
Peaceful nature than
Odin?
Love and let live.

Nah, this is in my Norwegian
Bones.
I'll die wielding blade.
I'll die laughing, opened up and
Spilling.

I'll "not go gentle into that good
Night."
So burn.
Be bonfire to my innermost of
Darknesses.

There are shadows there that
Demand chasing.
Make me proud to be
Midgardian.
Burst into flames and remind me:

Sticks and stones are feathers.
Buddha and Baldr.
Enlightenment and love. Well,
I'd rather be a warrior in a church
Than a priest in a battle.

Odin's one good eye
Is mine.
The other weeps for the weak.
May they find
Comfort in the daylight,

While us
Others sharpen our
Weathered hearts
In the cold, uncertain night we
Belong to, like water to snow.
Sep 2016 · 1.2k
Skuggsjá
SG Holter Sep 2016
**** you for making me
Open my eyes to the
Outterness.

And for making me smile in my
Sleep.
Hell, I don't even know if I

Could ever fall for someone as
Perfect as your first-to-fifth
Digital

Impressions have made you
Out to be.
I zen my shoulders back down

And breathe, embracing the
Adventure of having even so much
As whispered to your

Shadow. Tomorrow
Or a decade's time away
Or a swift aeon's,

You'll be gone from my life.
I'll still be grateful.
No flower disregards

Even a second of petal-stroking
Sunlight.
In a world as dumb

As this one, your very being
Is a drop of supernova in a very
Silent *** of cosmic wordlessness.

I hope you're not
Scared of
Poets.
For Đina.
SG Holter Sep 2016
I want to love
Right now.

Open up the refrigerator door of my
Heart and leave it open.
SG Holter Sep 2016
Though the days still carry our
Memories of Summer, nights
Now promise elseness.  

Inside, parts of my confused
Self long for icy blue skies,
Air so crisp you can

Crunch it between your
Teeth and your love
For Norway.

Other parts long for the
Midsummer sun of a body
Chasing anything arctic

Away with the swift brush
Of a slim hand finding
A face it loves

In the dark. Arctic. Ice blood.
Snow flesh. Wanting nothing;
None closer than

Outside.
I don't want to love right now.
Just to get snowed in alone,

Hoping for the sound of
A shovel, yet wishing it would
Miss my heart

By the breadth of a hairline
Fracture in
Something frozen

**** well
Nearly solid, yet
Breathing;

Basking in
Sub-zero
Solitude.
Aug 2016 · 709
Wings to its Crow
SG Holter Aug 2016
Push me in two hours.
Awakening means I
Live still.

Your voice reminds me:
It's worth getting up at
4am.

This Thing Called World
Awakens not; shifts.
I am animal to its

Soul; wings to its crow.
Never afraid, never uneasy.
Worlds turn.

Planets are never alone.
I can't wait to find the love
Of my

Life there. On other soil.
She hides well.
This universe ain't big enough

For the two of us,
Slim.
I am the only sad god I need.
Aug 2016 · 960
For Elena
SG Holter Aug 2016
...and there it is.
That smile I remember
The way one remembers green
Waves pounding
Wet rock
Outside Warrnambool, Australia.

Friend so beautiful and thoroughly
Good; angelic/demonically opposite.
I must have been equally good
And beautiful in some earlier life;
Surely not in this
One.

So you prove that kharma is real.
I dread to imagine who you were
Last lifetime, having
Blossomed like this in this one.
Diamond laughter.
Eyes that view the world the

Way a child witnesses its first
Circus; clowns, dancing elephants
And all.
Italian queen of Norway.
Born to conquer,  
Knowing nothing but love

And anything else worth
Knowing.
I bow unto no man,
Yet the dusts before your
Feet carry the print of my humble
Forehead.

Every tree you touched recalls.  
Even within the space between
The things you do and
Don't, there are graces and the breaths
Of Gods.
You mirror the unreflectable.

Never stop laughing.
That sound might very well be the
Glue that keeps this dimension
Attached to the heart and
Soul of
Itself.
My friend Elena.
May the love you truly deserve find you.
Aug 2016 · 794
The Elk and the Other
SG Holter Aug 2016
Mid-winter
Snow like white sand

Walking, listening to William
Fitzsimmons

An elk the size of a
Huge... elk

Approaches the paddock
Where horses stand unsuspecting

Suppose he just wanted to say
Hello to this antlerless creature

So much like
Him

Startled horse
Startles elk

And I watch tons of animal
Flee from

Itself
Disappointed

Having hoped to see interaction
So unlike that of us

Humans, but
No.
SG Holter Aug 2016
I

Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and

Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;

A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into

Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of

Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of

Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.

II

Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's

Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.

Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.

I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.

I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between

Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her

For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.

She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.
Aug 2016 · 1.0k
Love is Dental
SG Holter Aug 2016
My mind travels towards that
Vein on her neck my
Mouth once found

The way your tongue inevetably
Returns to the sharp edges of a
Chipped tooth

Despite your efforts
To keep it from cutting itself on
Something sharp, yours and

Broken.
Jul 2016 · 691
Disney Devil
SG Holter Jul 2016
I have no idea, really.
I am a Northman; my blood is
Used to leaders

Of a different kind.
My heart and efforts placed
Before strong wills and

Absent egos.
All for the best of the tribe.
A fan of no human,

No single lie forgiven.
No hidden agenda  
Either.

When the longest spear of
Ridicule is thrown, make sure
No one raises

A shield strong enough to
Give Donald time to
Duck.

I ask myself, observing the
Battles of the infants, are there any
Grown-ups here

At all?
We're dealing with the fate of our
Children.

So much more our flesh and
Blood than anything
Animated.
Jul 2016 · 730
Toddlers
SG Holter Jul 2016
I adore the way the
Presence of a toddler; little

Diaper steps from something to
Something else

Softens the eyes of grandmothers
Smiling between themselves

Remembering their grown
Children

As not.
Paper-skin hands

Veins of deepest ancient blue
Holding love so old

For small things.
New things.

Fresh, little human being
Royalty in our eyes.

Commanding
Without knowing.

Heart itself on two
Tiny legs.
Jul 2016 · 505
...Than Thou
SG Holter Jul 2016
Fashionably
Against.  

Loudly.
Blood on blood.

Lie for a lie.
Truth for a truth.

Theory of Subjectivity.
Nothing I do is

-When it comes down to it-
For anyone but me.  

My warmest deeds were done
To feel good and uncold.

I find peace in it.
Reassurance.

Comfort even, when catching
Myself feeling good about hating

The haters, having completely
Forgotten the point of it all.

To not
Hate.
May 2016 · 572
Something Whispered
SG Holter May 2016
Tractor humming happily
In the dim daylight
Seeping through heavy clouds.

The soil out here needs water,
Rains are welcome for now.
I kiss fresh coffee by the

Window, listening to the drizzle
And swallows whistling past.
Yes, she's on my mind.

I breathe in the humid scents of
Early country Summer,
Feeling soft arms reach around

Me from behind; her forehead
Against the back of my neck.
Something whispered.

Soon. You'll see me soon.
Hear my voice. Soon. You'll
Meet me. Soon.


I shrug off the fantasies and
Walk my cup back to the
Table.

I know who she is.
She has no idea I exist.
For now.

****, I love this juvenile
Feeling of infatuation with a
Stranger,

Stealing glanzes at her Facebook
Pictures, grinning to myself about
Acting like a stalker,

Not even feeling guilty;
I stand for my innocent intentions.
She'll never hear a word from

Me. No friend request or desperate
Attempts at contact.
She has a room in my Palace of

Imagination-
Where she sometimes comes out
To wander around and

Bless me with her presence.
So impossibly beautiful.
Supernova smile,

Elegant tattoos.  
Eyes full of kindness, like two
Soothing suns. Night sky hair.  

Real, yet invisible until I
Close my eyes and taste the skin
Of her temple as she leans her

Head against mine and points
Towards the horizon.
Look how green everything has

Become...

I know.
It's so breathtaking I even

Imagine sharing it with someone
I love.
Then she's gone again,

And I am alone with the rain and
The nestbound swallows. And the  
Purring of a distant John Deere

Outside an open window where
We stood in love, as vividly
As within a really real dream.
May 2016 · 1.5k
Norwegian Psycho
SG Holter May 2016
It's almost June.
Still got a fire going.

I don't see myself as one of those
Scandinavian poets who write

Almost only about the weather
Without reason.

The weather is a woman.
As angry as she is breathtaking

Around here.
Turned on and scared,

We brace for impact before
Every forecast.

Will there be a summer at
All, or dull, lightless skies of

Unblue until the rain comes
Down solid again?


I dip my pen in warm memories.
Sad that they are mostly

From abroad, I surrender the idea
Of truth in poetry.

Well, we drink around fires.
Cling to the military standard long

Underwear we stole when we were
In.

See too much as potential
Firewood.

We notice that the sun never
Really sets these months,

But there's room for cold in
The light.

We pray for summer. Hoping
This year it falls

On a
Weekend.
Mar 2016 · 1.0k
The Heart of Sky
SG Holter Mar 2016
An Ode to the Sun


The Mark of Cain upon my every
Detail as I gaze across
The plains, and in the pain beneath
The snow I know the spring

That was -but died again- is waiting
Still, until the winter loses will
To stay, and eases grip to let the
Little things come out and play.

The Mark of Cain, the Curse of Cold,
This winter's getting far too old,
And frozen things all long for heat;  
To feel that heart above them beat.

But see, the clouds are parting now,
The Heart of Sky is high, and how
Its beams, it seems, are rays of gold;
A force to melt, and even scold

That old, tenacious ghost of white
And chase it off into a night that has
Been dark as Death for months,
But now is light with Life for once.

The Mark of Cain I shed like skin,
I too have leaves that rest within.  
Spring, so faint a sigh, now calls:   
Heart of Sky, I feel thy pulse!
Mar 2016 · 670
Neutrogena
SG Holter Mar 2016
Infatuation. Deep devotion.
Skin on skin, fingers on lips
Find teeth, find tongue.
Scent of perfumed lotion,

Whisper woman, cry more,
Hands refusing to untangle
Hands on neck, but not to strangle
More than just a little.

Infatuation. Deep devotion.
Nails in skin. Mouth to shoulder.
An emotional explosion in
Slow motion.
SG Holter Mar 2016
Yes, I still feel her breath against
My ear, as asleep as my
Arm that I
Will not need to move until she
Turns in a dream,

And I sink into my own.
Never again will that passing
Train throw
Blue light shadows on the
Ceiling above

My head where her smoke
Detector
Blinks its little, red light of
Reassurance.
Whiffs of lilac as I cross the

Street to her place
Where she is waiting.
All yesterdays, now.
The right songs still summon
Recap videos of our year-and-a-

Half in
Love behind my eyes.
Not choosing suffering,
I curl up underneath a warm
Blanket of what

Was; what can never
Truly be taken
Away.
And rest.
Sometimes something flowers

With such
Grace that its passing away
Simply cannot unfold as  
Any less graceful.
Ghandi shot in the chest, meeting

The Void whispering:
Ram, Ram, God's
Name, as if saying: "I'm coming,
Look, ma': No hands!"
No attachments.

Lovers no more, friends for life, 
Once sharers of
Intimacy and
Laughter, tears and everyday
Moments; little

Grains of gold.
Our own buried treasure
Where ex marks the spot, and the
Map is riding on
Kisses blowing with the

Scent of lilac and the sound of
Magpies chattering against  
Trains as if saying: "Just try, I'll
Take ya!"
Our attitude

In the nutshell they
Peck at with hungry
Beaks, leaving little traces like
Runes in powder snow.
To be nothing but grateful, even

For the days that could have been
Better. To miss her with a
Warm heart, content.
Wish her more happiness and
Security than I did even on

The days of
Our most intense affections.
Parting is part of Life, and
I'll remain at peace with
The parts both

Before and
After, until
My arm is
Forever asleep with the
Rest of me, resting.
SG Holter Mar 2016
I put on socks knitted by a
Grandmother long gone
And open my windows to winter.

Fine snow like mist through a microscope
Enters and dies at the tempered hands of
Home.

I reach outside to stroke the crystal

Stream in the air,
Looking forward to sun, and the rain.
Always also the rain.
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
Lake Piers and Diving Boards
SG Holter Mar 2016
Fooled again by spring changing
Its mind and retreating.

Skies are waterfalls of snow above
The white veiled construction site.

I can barely see the crane, blowing
Grey slush from my walkie before

Telling the driver to lift these
Two-by-fours that just days ago

Reminded me of lake piers and
Diving boards under tomorrow's

Summer sun. Today they are
Firewood in these eyes blinking

Snowflakes into tears that I wipe
With padded gloves, leaving

Streaks of oil and concrete on
Cheeks pale with winter under an

Icicled full beard.
Fooled again.

This is Norway.
This is where giants come to shiver.
SG Holter Mar 2016
Losing physical weight as my
Mind expands.
I have been mouth for as long
As I can remember,

Now let me be hands. Hands, so
I may release you and hunger on.
Blessed be all things un-eternal.
I can only sleep in burning houses.
SG Holter Mar 2016
Good memories and others
Alike, move the waters
Of my innermost.
Tides of time cannot wash away
Our footprints.
I burn calories by making peace
With the beauty of even pain.
Looking back so hard my
Eyes are sweating.
SG Holter Feb 2016
For Helene.


Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.  
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand

And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies

We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.

I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.

Embers without a chance against rivers  
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full

To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,

We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force

Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.

I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.
Jan 2016 · 1.0k
Blackout
SG Holter Jan 2016
Winter introduced itself like a
Sudden death in the family.
A -28 degrees celsius day has fingers
Thin enough to reach through glass,
Leaving its ice on the inside of
Windows.

I find candles and carry firewood,
Preparing for a cold one.
Out here, blackouts can last for a day.
My iPad and portable modem have
Battery enough for one
Poem.

Such are my priorities.
I empty my fridge into the snow,
Thanking the gods
For my beer.
Don't try to reach me. I'm remembering
Life from centuries ago.
Jan 2016 · 1.8k
Paperless Poem
SG Holter Jan 2016
Throwing rocks into the winter river.
Ice as thin as a child's soul's skin
Carries not the weight
Of History's oldest weapon.

Like a paperless poem it shatters,
Floating away with the fleeing stream.
Water needs no windows.
Nothing is outside to its within.
Dec 2015 · 1.3k
Helene's Mother's Lullaby
SG Holter Dec 2015
A traditional western Norwegian lullaby, sung by my girlfriend's mother to her in her earliest years. Directly translated from Norwegian.*


It was a lovely, lovely day, and now
That day is over.
All the children that are good
Are sound asleep and dreaming.

The heavens that were happy blue,
With a thousand smiles within'em
Will only start to laugh again
Sometime tomorrow morning.
Dec 2015 · 780
Snowless
SG Holter Dec 2015
Few things are as black
As a snowless December morning

In Norway.
Some nights it's so

Dark I can't
Sleep.
SG Holter Nov 2015
Gods, gods, gods.
Let them fight their own battles,
Shed their godblood upon the
Space between the in-betweens
While us mere mortals play
In peace
On Terra Firma.

The crimson linings of the clouds
That shield Heaven from our
Prayers drip drops that leave
Stains in the shape of our children
On battleground surfaces.
The bullets they bite won't fill
Their bellies.

Winter trees in deep sleep under
A thin film of ice; the broken
Water of Winter.
Soon all is white; crystals floating
On the wind between the worlds;
Leaving this one prestine and
Pure, like infant prayer,

Only to arrive at another and be
Stained with war-steel and
The tears of the dying.
Gods with egos:
I fear them more than
A million
Angry men.
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