Legs tired from running
On fumes, hands from the

Weight of band aids,
Blisters and splinters.

Busy bird building nests,
Chipped beak, fading feathers.

Angry at trees for asking me
To make

Them into
Houses.

Vicious Monday.
Bones ache.
Heart barely bothers to
Beat.

Leave the bedroom window
Open for us.
I'm coming home to
Retreat,

Let's just eat, and find
Comfort in not caring if
We nap the afternoon
Away.

I want passive dreams
Of daytime intensity.
Bed and woman of the same
Soft density.

Nap. Little
Night between nighttimes.
Little rest between
Responsibilities.

Sometimes there is just
Too much day
In a
Day.

She removed some clothes
So the hug would
Take.

The innocence was more intimate
Than ***.
Finally held, safe from enemies

On all fronts. I served my time
As a human shield,
If only

For seconds, as sharp claws
Let go and warm, caring hands
Didn't.

°

I'll be summer sandbox for you.
You be child for a while;
Rest as only kids can;

Lulled and safe, drifting away
To the sound of adults talking
Softly

So you'll sleep, despite the fever.
Warm with sofa, blanket,
And *little.

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.

I taught her how to handle a
Pellet gun tonight.
Now her eye is black from the
Scope, her fake fingernails chipped
From loading,
And the pine tree nearly stripped from
Cones outside my
Livingroom window, where our
Jägermeister
Cups made little rings on my
Brother's Longfellow hardback
Copy.

The night sky is bright blue this
Time of year in Norway.
Sun never really sets.
I looked up at the brightests spots
Beyond the moon, as she took aim
And fired with a subtle
Psstkh.

"So close," she whispered at the
Unwounded summer evening,
And I smelled her lavender hair
And all the warm outsides
As I thought of satellites and
Discoveries, and how moments
Such as this one would
Always matter
More.

My secrets are the size of
Planets. They smell of diesel
And magnolia, and
They fire at the inside of
My heart with nuclear arrows
The size of a toddler's
Intentions towards a
Crying mother, flowers in tiny
Hand and all.

Norwegian summer night.
She opens her guest room window and
Balcony door to

Give the scent of warm pine and
Sunstroked willow a free tour of her
Apartment on a welcome breeze.

I mute the TV, as she enters her bedroom  
Leaving me shirtless in shorts on her
Sofa, headphones nearly plugged into

My laptop when she requests a tuck-in,
Knowing that granting me the remains of
Her Saturday night sixpack means

She's going to bed alone.
I kiss her forehead goodnight. She steals
A bonus hug, wanting it to

Last until morning though it's
Futile. I bury my face in warm, soft
Neck. She

Releases hesitantly. Smiles.
She has bed. I have Johnny Cash and Chet
Baker, Alan Watts and Allen Ginsberg,

Beer, time, and a window of solitude.
"Silent" and "listen" are spelled with
The same letters.

My impairment is that I am a man.
I love her. And the aloneness that
A man can only obtain when

Even the loneliness has left him.
I can't feel my feet, unless she does what
She has learned to do;

Give me space. Space with the texture,
Colour and pattern of the
Blanket one tucks

Around
The legs of someone
In a wheelchair, gesturing by it:

*I love your
Every single
Circle.

They say no love is perfect.
How could anything be imperfect
When love is pulling even the frailest of
Strings attached?

Whether that be a lifeline, a noose, or the
Electrical cord to its own
Respirator, its final word would be
A smiled whisper of either

Hope or rememberance.
Gratitude is grace.
Even diamonds decompose.
Breath gives meaning to air.

Poetry like a raging river
Dividing and reuniting
Around rocks as if
Nothing.

Some sentences make me want
To touch each word, feeling  
The braille soul-matter
Beneath each pixel.

Norwegian sun on rooftopped
Reader; beads of sweat fall on
My touch screen
That I

Wipe off carefully in order
To read
Just one
More.

May the same sun warm the
Core of your poet's soul.
May none of the stars
On your night sky of

Creativity
Ever
Even
Fade.

I've been your crutches for
Way too long.
I'm ready to be
Wings
Now.

Raindrops raining rings
On coffee cup surface.
Too wet to care,
I remain seated on the slab
Of concrete

By the containers.
Oil and filth creep into fresh
Cuts and scratches.
I ignore my hands itching,
Drink and exhale.

I could be a millionaire
Throwing cash at the shadows of
My emptiness, or a holy man
Preparing for Tukdam with
Nothing but his robes to

His name. Anything but this
In-between existence devided
Between too much work and
Not enough free time or sleep.
What am I doing here, should

Be the last words they'd watch
Me think. The concrete won't
Answer. The coffee won't comfort
My restlessness.
But the rain replies:

You're living.
"And what are you doing here?"  
I counter.

*Raining.

Sunrise at 4 am.
Birdsong before my alarm.  
Outside an open
Bedroom window

I saw no reason to greet
Another day with other than
Gratitude.

A deer drinking dew from
Leaves, startled by a
Fox, then, seeing no threat,
Continued to make
My morning.

Colder inside this house
Than in the evening sun outside.
I suppose old buildings
Breathe, like all
Living things do.

Aloneness. Never lonely.
Why was I meant for
Solitude? The despair it
Provokes within those who
Wish to

Connect is as much my
Burden as theirs.
To belong to and own.
Spacelessness. Sharing
My whole self. No.

I wish them more warmth
Than anyone will ever find
With me,
Yet I hear the voices
Of mothers shielding

Daughterhearts with double
Edged shields;
Don't be afraid
Child. It's only the
Devil.

I suppose all I'll
Ever need is another odd
Soul like mine, waving from
Inside another freezing, distant
Dwelling.

My hands are winters.
My chest is a cave so cold
My tears well up
Like mounds of
Snowflakes, and fly.

Having tempered myself beyond
My limits, I withdraw to default;
The arctic within; home. Your
Fire is blinding. I only have
Ice for you.

My great uncle
Walking our fields
Found a bronse sword once.

Later, he stumbled upon
A stone age axe,
Both dutifully

Handed over to the local
Museum.
When that man lost his

Bronze sword (or died wielding it),
That stone axe
Was already an ancient

Treasure buried in the
Rich soil, awaiting a tractor's
Plow to toss it up into the

Sunlight, thousands
Of years
Later

Hearts of Time,
Ribcage free.
Seeing sun.

Does this hurt?*
Yes.

It hurts like seeing your
Childhood home for the last time.

Nothing stings like your skin catching
Sparks from a bridge burning,

Like resting scalpel on chest and
Sliding to access the heartful of

Thorns, then changing to tools of
Extraction.

What am I doing here, would be
The last words they'd watch me

Think. Now I remain with the
Question, eyes turned to where I'd

Like to see Heaven holding divine
Wisdom and offering it,

Getting nothing but rain in my eyes
And silence.

All homes are temporary.
The smell of lilac floating down

The street will always take me back
To when that bridge connected one heart

Set on forever to one set on for now.
I run the tips of my fingers across

The scar of scalpel; a map from Death to
Life; lying flatline;

Temporary, temporary rest.
I was never meant to stay, I whisper

Into what I know is coming.
Will this hurt?

Yes.
*Good.

Work gloves are for winter.
It's time to grow thick skin
In our palms;
Red drops on white wood

Are sure signs of summer.
Soon splinters reach no
Nerves, knees become insensitive
To gravel and roof tile roughness

As our bodies learn the annual
Lessons many hearts fail to
Learn in a
Lifetime.

I held her hair for her, and
Found poetry in the back of
Her head where more
Careful lovers
Have eyes.

I cursed the alcohol making
Her cheeks and heart wet with
Painful thoughts without
Root in reality,
But none of

My prayers could turn the
Wine to water, as grapes
Became teardrops in
Her blood.
So I carried

Her to my bed. On the
Side of my king sized
Compassion for old, old pain, I
Sat down and was
Silent until her

Heart followed my lead,
And my hand found the
Poetry, stroking it
Like a parent
Until

It no longer rhymed
Or made any sort of
Sad sense
At
All.

That house,
With the paint barely
There, windows so *****
They're no longer
Windows,

Was beautiful once.

Yes, I see her.
Street scars; concrete cuts,
Nothing in her eyes but
The ghosts of morning ******
And her father's endless
Sadness.

This was written in the dark.
Whispered in the night.

It was wished upon a rising sun,  
Released in morning light.

Less a poem than a prayer,
A whimper more than scream.

Born as naked hope and watered,  
Grown from faint idea to dream.

Now the sound of summer coming;
Breezes rustling greening leaves,

Leaves us knowing things as growing,
Be it flowers, crops or trees.

Painless birth from earth to air,
Summer; springtime's daughter

Laughs and sings to sunkissed things,
Wet with broken water.

My girlfriend's father turned
Sixty. The party was legendary.

I remember everything.
By the sea.

She was beautiful.
The microphone stang my

Lips as I read the
Worrior's Poem.

Her dress was the closest I came
To pyjamas this morning.  

Now her father won't stop
Laughing.

Bailey's and IPA for breakfast.
Sometimes eggs deserve to

Remain unbroken.
She's warm and naked in bed, and

I'm laughing all the way
To her.

Headlining monsters smiling at
News cameras; lacks of
Regret framed with
Blitzes and the
Disgusted attention
Of normal people.

Parents making each other's
Tears their own in
Disbelief, as children in
Hidden rooms
Search for the soft comfort of
Their inner

Teddy bears while pointing at
Dolls in the hands of
Patient professionals.
There? OK. And...
There? Caring strokes on
Innocent hair.

You're doing fine,
Darling. A wounded
Feather finally rested in a
Nest lap. *You're
Doing just
Fine.

Dad spoke of his father today.
I listened with Friday
Beer breath and keen
Ears, as he said:

I hope to God your brother
And you won't remember
Me as a ****
Fool when I'm gone,

Then coughed that gurgle-rasp
That promises significant
Changes in a son's
Life within

Not too distant a
Future.
Those **** cigarettes.
Half a lung gone, surgery

Scar a part of that back
That I remember I thought
Would carry me
Forever.

We never spoke too emotionally.
He does it more and
More, and all I can do is
Prepare,

And to speak such truths as:
Dad. You've impressed our
Friends, charmed our women,
Driven us through snow storms

And late nights
To get us to -or home from- either.
Fed us, chopped wood through
Summers to keep us warm through

Winters.
Taught us languages and carpentry,
History and poetry,
Classical wrestling and chivalry.

You've made us laugh since
Before we knew how to.
I think of you whenever I smell
Sawdust, new guitar strings, and smoke

(Only minutes old, his cough
Was the first sound I reacted to...)
Your memory is safe.
Whenever your time comes

To leave us to the strength of our
Own arms and souls,
Trust that your rest is well earned.
He laughed a little,  

Eyes wet from coughing
And whatever.
I could die content tomorrow,  
Having told him.

Some giants don't fall.
They just lie down.
Not to wither away and die.
But to retire,

The way oak trees,
Mountains, revolutionary ideas
And gods
Retire.

Take pride.
Pride in the way your eyes
Shine with the
Light of your natural
Selflessness.

I saw what you
Did. How you left your
Own needs for
Later; feeding, lifting,
Holding others.

Take pride.
Within you dwell the
Twinkles; sparks; starlike
Glimmers that render
Unimaginable the

Act of taking
Two legs from
A beast and
Name it
Human.

***** nightmares, words whispered;
Arrows dipped in ego's blood
Shot with bows whittled from
Weeping

Willows.
Waking up, red wine
Eyed,
Mouths

Dry from the opposite of
Kissing,
****, we almost broke up
There, didn't we?

Yes. Now, standing alone before
Mirrors, wiping them clean with hands
Wet from regret, unearthing our
Images and trying to

Find them reflected as in diamonds,
Nickle plated gun metal, or something
Else, like the Mona Lisa's glass case
(And as bullet proof,) but seeing

Only the screen of an
Old, dusty tube TV showing
Re-run specials of the
Itchy and Scratchy Show.

Her voice when she whispers
Brings me back to childhood
Christmases, when shaking a
Present revealed the gut-tingling
Sound of LEGO inside.

Cover your nerves.
Stop picking at scars to
Make them wounds again,

Healing is the super in
Superficial.
Dry your tears when looking

Back; you'll see yesterday more
Clearly.
Bitterness is darkness to

The blind, grenade shrapnel
In the body of a brave one now
Fallen.

Stand up and smile at the light;
There are many enough who bask in
The blackness of their history.  

You've fought.
Bled.
Cried rainstorms and tidal waves,

Run your hands across the view of Heaven
From the bellies of Hell shivering.
It takes courage to fall,

Grace to fly.
So fly.
It's as easy as trying.

Birch tree's thousand little fingers wet with
Early May rain, mist kissed and still.

I know you wish I'd miss you more when
I'm here, but I'm a man of focus mastered.

For now I'll keep my eyes drinking from out
My north wall window,

This view.
These trees and humble hills,

Not even shaking from the force of
A full day's rain.

I don't miss.
Sometimes my hand reminds me of

The weight and warmth of yours in it,
And I lean back knowing you're just as

Mine as when we're touching.
I trust love.

I trust love, the way the birch trees
Trust the skies with their thirst,

The grounds with their hunger,
And my eyes to behold their majestic,

Confident
Beauty.

Body hurts from last night's wine and
This morning's lifting.
Hands shake, sounds of construction
Like an insane symphony of
Unsilence.

My limbs are the fingers of a clenched
Fist around the hope that
The hours may grow wings.
The city, a snail outside
The construction site fence.

We're both prisoners under a
Sky that's waiting to downpour,
Giving each other nervous looks
Through iron bars, smiling
Unwillingly with tears in our eyes,

To immitate consolement.
Today, a line has been drawn between
The world and its enemy,
Of which I'm on the wrong side.
This is how I die;

A drowned flower.
A bleeding scar. An
Exposed nerve in the rain.
At least I have the wine.
Without it, I'd never get this thirsty.

Spring Morning.
Your sun is warm, but your
Breeze remembers winter;

Your touch is that of a young
Woman who thinks she might
Be in love.

One hand mild,
One cold, and your heart
Slightly off center.

I understand.
A long line of yesterdays
Lead you here.
So you compare,

And call upon
Rainy summers and fierce
Winters to stain
Today with the pain

Of last love lost.
Last fallen friend.
Pulling the fabric of hope apart
To fit your heart.

Place it among the new born
Lights of stars long since
Dead, instead. Learn
To shine, not burn.

The rays of sunrise
Are eight minutes old.
Arise. Be bright.
Give the morning its light.
All that awaits to glitter
Is gold.

How ****** it is,* is all
I ever hear about
Things.

So polish the ****.
Put make-up on the
Pig.

On every piece of space-junk
There is a thin film of
Astronaut's

Business,
They tell me.
So look past it.

We're all
Partly
Soil;  

There's crap in everything.
Focus on what isn't.
The Devil's in the

Details, so I suppose
God is in the
Rest.

Show me a sunset.
And don't point
Out

The
Dying
Light.

Or the lack of
Poetry on
A blank

Page. The paper had
Nothing to do with
It,

Nor the night skies with how
The sun came
And

Ruined
It
All.

Huge hands of happiness holding
Up the heavens.

I'll rest beneath
From now on.

Holy is all that
Relieves.

I'll never cry again from
Hopelessness.

I'm no Buddhist monk;  
I won't abandon much of
What 2015 has to offer.

But come commercial breaks
I rediscover the "mute"-
Button on my remote,

And snack on.
In
Silence.

It's a giant
Leap from
Not.

Outside night time winds
In birch monuments
And inside fire in
Its place

To their sounds
I doze and
Drift
Away

Time flies like a love fuelled poet
Leaping through multiple dimensions
Of the universe of heart and language,

Firing metaphors into the night;
Stabbing wildly at the dark world
Blind souls percieve, with

The intent of a god, angry, then
Un-angry, then furiously,  
Calmly creating,

Sleeping only to recharge-
Letting pen cool down from the
Friction.

For one year and a day, I have
Posted. Greeted poetry
Hello, and danced.

Feet in love with the floor, I
Sit down only to watch the
Others.

Some swirl with veteran steps,
Others try on moves in unsure rhythms
And new, uncomfortable shoes.

One leads the other; challenges,
Encourages. I lean back and take in
The words and lines of breathing poets

That all come together, as
One perfect
Poem.

Rest. You did well
Today.
Smiled when you didn't have
To. Worked when you
Didn't want to.
Rest. You

Left nothing for the next day  
That was truly
Critical.
You've earned

All the trust that tomorrow
Requests;  
The hopes you have for it seen as
Solid matter.

Listen to the wind moving
The branches of the Tree of Time.
It sings of you.
It sings of how good you are
At Life.

Listen.
Listen and
Rest. Rest
Knowing you can do it.  
You already are.

What was I saying?
I don't know.

Your kiss has the same effect
On me as the act of walking

Into another room just to forget
What for.

Don't worry, your mind is beautiful.
We all curse at the pulling of insecure
Splinters from the soft skin of our
Self-esteem.

We bark at what makes us feel
Weak; lesser. Under some sort of attack,
Though the attacks are far, far too often
Imagined.

I too fear at times the anger and unkind
Wishes I may instinctively draw upon others.
Hell, the ugliest things I've ever seen  
Were with my eyes closed.  

Don't worry, your mind is beautiful;
At its purest when you catch yourself.
And put a wrong thought
Right.