Let's stop putting the label Bad
On our delicate little planet.
Yes, she has ugly skin on parts of

Her continents. Some sour rain,
Some rash from her seven billion fleas.
But she deserves more.

Yes, so perhaps she's only one blue
Eye on the face of the solar system.
A shivering cyclops

Afraid to meet the gazes of duality,
Yet standing tall against
The Jupiters and Red Giants

Of the immediate Universe.
But there, in the black eclipse-dot
Of her iris,

A smoker quits
For the sake of his children,
And I see what it costs.

So I recline, eyes closed,  
In the warmth of a cigarette ****
Crushed under a heel

In its lastness; a little, empty
Crucifix -now a cross-
That reminds me that the sacrifice  

That any non-smoker (not an ex-
Smoker) would never understand,
Comes from the same place as

Those things that make us stop and
Wonder at the selflessness that
Makes Earth

Not a victim orb of crap, but a spaceship
Where angels hike on their time off
Just to experience

The factors of Humanity
That make us stop putting **** in
ourselves, and start loving.

There's not much out here.*
I only invite people who
Say just that

With a slight
Gasp of
Relief.

I want you to smile.
I see you trying; you know how
Frowning turns me off.

But you'll always slip back
Into old neuron habits,
Won't you?

You'll say this is who I am, and
You know where I come
From.

Yes, I know where you come from.
So let it go.
Every time you thought things were

Getting better, they were.
Every time you felt the world let you
Down again, it didn't.

You just
Fell
Back.

Start smiling more.
Grow from
There.

Things
Smile
Back.

So sweet now, my life.
My life.
Held by stronger foothold,
Rested warm with woman,
Goosebumped from kisses fresh
From lips tasting of
Love that longs to outlast itself.
Sweet. So sweet.

I have a shell of angels' wings to
Warm my infant human heart.
A cage of their swords' steel to keep
Any threat of real nature

Off my path. I fear not Sister Death.
Not even destructive criticism.
Leave me. Ridicule me.
Lie about me.

Nothing changes within me, I'll  
Only grow more undaunted.
For I have my eyes fixed on the
Above.

A dome. Of sky. An ever changing
Painting reminding me that rain, thunder,
Rainbow or clearest blue, sky remains
Sky;

I remain
*I.

At times I wonder if all
I ever wanted
Besides being a poet
Alone, was to have a
Beautiful face to touch.
That let me.
And liked it.
...and nothing more.

The last specks of snow on the
Fields disappeared with the parting
Of the clouds.

Now blue, the skies smile
Upon everything.
I spoke to a friend today.

The birds keep picking at the
Sunflower seeds I put out by
My window.

I spoke to a friend today.
Now my windows are eyes to my
Soul as I watch mud and dead

Grass kiss the sun back with nothing
But themselves. This spring, as every.
We are not beautiful yet.

But we love you for making us
That; green and alive. Spring is
Spring to everything.

Spring to everything, and not only  
The words of my friend's
Linger, but the feeling does too; that

When all is as beautiful as this,
I'm not the only one
Seeing it.

The Cumaean Sibyl was the priestess presiding over the Apollonian oracle at Cumae, a Greek colony located near Naples, Italy. The word sibyl comes (via Latin) from the ancient Greek word sibylla, meaning prophetess. (Wikipedia)


Songs of prophecy on oaken leaves
Unread; unclaimed; unrequested
Fly from out either of the many entrances
To her cave chambers.

She doesn't mind. Poet or prophet, the
Wind has hands greater than human;  
Words without willing ears wrestle away
Without struggle.

Only they and the wind see the beauty
Of it. She? She doesn't mind.
Guide to the Underworld, she has greater
Things to meditate on than

The Infants of the Universe
In their insignificant sandboxes.
Here; more poetry. Come who may,
To read.*

Who may.
Apollo's twisted payment for her
Pleasures: As many years of life as grains
Of sand in her hand.

But she forgot to ask for youth.
After a thousand years, only her voice is
Left, whispering: Children, all will
Be well. It already is.

It already is.

A spark escaped from my
Fireplace.
Flew for a while; went out
Midair and became this
Poem.

This to celebrate those who
Swallow pride and shed own
Honour in the name of
World Peace.

Enemy hands shaking each other.
This to celebrate each helping
Stranger preventing robbery or
**** in a dark alley.

Care is the strongest defence.
This to celebrate the people who
Know the value of smiles and a
Friendly touch.

Flames that warm an entire room.
The ones who calm us down. This
To celebrate the old souls of the world,
The ones who say

You before me. Those whose
Turn is an always voluntary last.
The uninsultables.
The unstubborn ones.

The ones who shield the weakest,
Who place themselves on top of
Grenades or dive between bullets
And innocent hearts.

This to celebrate their brush strokes of
True colour on the bleak canvas
Of these dark and selfish
Times.

You are my gods.
I lay my whole person before you.
I bow unto you, prophets of the
Potential Paradise of Planet Earth.

Coward sun
Hiding from a
Little
Rain

Who cares if the sun will
Rise again

Night has its charm
It hides

Covers
Soothes

Fear not Lady Death's slender hand
Upon yours

I've been unalive before
Do not worry;

There's
Nothing

There
But Her

As if crying itself
Is not enough
She turns soft and
Yielding
As if becoming
Her every own
Tear

Politeness. Common decency.
Giving more than two *****
About how others may
Feel.

Some carry a torch until their
Hands blister scolded in
Futility.
Most of us pull our pants

Down laughing and
Put it out. But above the sink,
Between magic marker genitalia
And profanities,

Someone has written
Something that might just
Fuel a fire
That's dying today.

*You don't need
A mirror;
You are
Beautiful.

Sober weekends last
Longer.

We go to bed early
To read.

She's lit a scented candle
On her bedside table.

Shadows dance on print.
I lean without moving,

Against her tempered softness.
All is *pillow.

I put my hands in the air
And surrender all my money
To a heart that
Begs with one hand
And robs with the other.

I don't judge you, little girl.
I just want you to know
That there are more comfortable
Ways to
Joy.

Change is healthy. Change can be
Growth. A smile is like a kiss; it feels
Good to both.
So here, take all my
Change.

There is no way of getting
Out of here. So we
May as well enjoy
The act of
Staying.

(n) the pleasant, earthy
smell after rain.*

I run the palms of my soul over
Spring's yawning breeze.
It leaves its scent on everything.

Pavement dark with drops of what
Would have been snow
Only weeks ago.

I breathe until my lungs hurt,
And exhale smiling.
Clouds black as midnight withdraw

To reveal a crimson sundown
Forcing orange upon foliage;
Warming every leaf cradled drop

Until they're vapour.
Now that the ice
And snow are gone,

I giggle, and step on every
****** crack I
Can find.

This dirt under my
Fingernails is from crawling out
Of holes that Life
Threw me into.

Well... at times I jumped in
Without help.
The point is
I know how to get out.

I'll teach you; here, take
My hand. I might even let
You have the whole arm.
But know:

The moment you try to
Pull me down for a quick fix
Of company and comfort, I'm
Letting go.

Life is more than holes.
More than self-pity.
The sun never searches for
A cold face to kiss.

Thoughts walk.
Feelings dance.
Separate the two.

Cry wolf in sheep's
Clothing, or whisper your hands
Through warm wool.

Thoughts speak.
Feelings sing an e
Before the -motion.

Don't let your mind
Make a mess on your heart's
Dance floor.

I never saw the value in
Getting back together.

Gone is gone.
Dead is dead.

The world is just too huge an
Adventure

To give up a new one to
Go back.

Back.
Life is too short to

Embrace anything that begins with
*Yester.

Kiel, Germany.*

I know it's not even lunch yet,
But I'm a poet, so this huge
Beer has no bad feelings

Attached to its coldness.
All ice, hugs and barley.
I love Germany this time

Of the year. Guess I should
Get back on the boat and wake up
The woman,

But there is something about
Cold drops running down
Glass to kiss a coaster that

Makes me want to read what
The cardboard says. So I expose it
With the intentions of a literary

Drunkard: Noch ein Bier Bitte.
I guess there's poetry
Everywhere

To a writing man
Who loves
Beer enough

To write about just
One. Even in
Germany.

If I could string my every thought of
Selflessness together, they wouldn't even
Reach from one cell of mine to
The other.

All I do is for me.
I have abandoned the thought that
Hate pulls the Universe apart.
Fear does.

Fear that someone will see us
As the selfish little souls we are.
All the good you do is for yourself.
So do it.

Feeling good about  
Smiling at a stranger or leaving
Change in that ******'s cup
(Mostly because it's Christmas, or

Spring, or whatever),
Does not make the act worthless.
Embrace your humanity.
It's ok to be selfish.

So what if you'll never be
Mother Teresa?
You know; she might have been
No better than you.

She just did it all anyway.
Eat, drink, breathe, serve.
A saint feeling good about being
A saint, is no less one than another.

That a lover,
(Poets, prepare,)

Might reply to your
Heart's semantic blood,

As
Such:

Stop using the word
"Love" in your poems.

Just say what you
Mean.

Just say what you really
*..."mean.

What you mean.
When you

Write
"Love.""

I do believe my days withing these
Concrete ashram walls are
Coming to an end.

It might be a slow ending, but
It'll be a good one.
It began the day I saw the

Beautiful truth behind the ugly
Mask of everyday insignificance.
Beauty and meaning;

Soft hand in a mild one.
Water strength.
Cement frailty.

Thoughts are like air; find their
Way from A to another
A.

Looking at my friend fitting
A door, cursing at the promise of
Adjustments,

Or enjoying the way the Project Manager
Leaves us never knowing whether
He's joking or not with a face

As cold as his project's foundations.
I fall in love with Life every day.
Even when I hate it.

I've learned that I never stop learning.
I'll be a slightly different man tomorrow,
Yet still myself.

Always still myself.
There is wisdom in flexibility; the
Holding on to nothing,

Even ones definition of oneself.
I was a construction worker.
Now, I'm a

Construction worker.
I take comfort in the fact
That the only comfort I'll

Ever really need, is the
One I give
Myself.

Pine trees free from snow
Stretching green branches
Towards a baby blue
Spring sky's
Sun now warm
Against faces and
Other exposed
Things,

As if worshiping, or
Asking something much,
Much larger
To be
Hugged and
Held. Just
Lifted, hugged and
Held.

So harsh is winter.
So not is
Spring when
Undeniable.

She loves to drive, but fears the
Station where the machine that
Loves her needs to
Fuel up in
Peace before the
Journey
Continues.

As if the ignition is off
Forever.

Evening raindrops gathering
Along the bottom of my
Bedroom window

Make me
Turn down the music
And listen with a heart

Filling up like the eyes of
An old woman; once mother,
Now not,

Beholding an infant so
Young, it'll remain one for
A very long

Time. Some tones
Form chords that hurt
Like caramel burns.

Sweet loves lost in bitter
Ways were still that
Sweet.

Still that
Sweet; now
Forever.

I lost not;
Gained
Lovely ghosts.

I've been a construction worker
My entire adult
Life.

Still, I cannot
Seem to rebuild
Her confidence.

I've been a poet for
As long as I can
Remember,

But my encouraging
Hollow-point-words shatter
Against her insecure kevlar.

Suppose all I can be is
Sunlight, water and
Soil.

I'll try that; I've been a
Farmer's boy since
Birth.

Teachers grow.
I love the way an
Adult now

Bends knees before
A speaking child
To

Look up
And
Listen.

Here I sit, fog-eyed from yesterday's
Wine; the last sounds made still in my
Ears; her laughing at my reply

When she asked why I was getting
Out of bed: "To go jogging," and when
She love-sarcastingly giggled, I

Laughed back: "I love you, but ****
You," and she laughed even more, and
I'll be ****** if that sentence itself

Isn't as much poetry as anything else.
Her, love and I; all three together at
All times, bruising and scratching

And moving in bed, or hand in hand
Asleep on the sofa, still fog-eyed from
Yesterday's wine and having

Had enough of everything the world
Has to offer lovers on a Sunday morning.
Sometimes poetry is the only

Remedy for Life. Sometimes poetry is
The only voice in the world.
The sound of the love between us.

The act of fingertip on touch screen
Etching a moment into cyberstone; quill
Of 2015, chisel of Today.

Sometimes poetry is our newborn;
Love manifested; product of our
Scratched, bruised morning hours.

Are you writing about me, she asks.
I lie.
*No.

As suggestive a ******* as the
Thought of ink kissing paper kissing
Eyes kissing

Ink back. Letters drawn describing
The sound of drip-dripping drops onto
Parchment to form

Circular inkless stains on it, or perhaps in
These days rendering a touch screen
Untouchable;

Do you really wish to delete this
Draft?
"No, idiot machine. I just cried on it."

So, yeah.
This would all have been a lot easier
If I didn't have the heart of a

Poet.
But I'll say this: Please love to learn,
So we can have *** with

Semicolons in as suggestive a
******* as they would imply. I know
I lost my innocence to an

Adjective, but didn't we all?
There's no room for jealousy in
Poetry,

We just rhyme and give the rhyme
Time to define, and aline with the
Rhythm to create a devine

Relaxationary artpiece to be consumed
By any reader who would find the
Time to entwine with a sentence

Or line, and use'em to maybe just
Describe the feeling of a hand
On the face of a man as myself, who

Has written so much of the things one
Can touch, that he looks at the world
As a man that a girl

Can tell: Look at me, and say all
You can see is the face of Eternity.
I am that man, with a pen in his hand,

And you could say it, but I surely  
Know it: My body's a worker's.
My soul is a poet's.

This to inform that all of Your
Troubles and worries
Will be handled by
Yours
Truly today.

They will not be of any
Concern to You whatsoever.
Consider this a reward for
Enduring the hardships of
Lesser
And greater nature

That have occupied Your
Mind as of lately.
Today will be Your day off.
Please trust that solutions to
Every
Issue shall present themselves

Under our most competent
Supervision.
If You succeed at relaxing Your
Heart and mind towards
Surrender
And ease to a

Satisfactory degree, the relief
Mentioned above will also be
In effect for tomorrow.
Lastly, we insist that You
Re-read
This notice upon awakening

Tomorrow morning.
All is under control. It is
-If one wishes it to be-
An entirely recreational
Universe.
With unconditonal love,


-C.E.O.,
Department of Human
Affairs,
The Universe.

I've stood wounded before
Gods and parents,  
Hand on my heart to keep the blood
Inside for as long as it took me to say:
It was me.

It was my responsibility.
It was me.  
At times the only meaning you
Find in a chapter of
Your life,

Is the peace you feel when
Realising that you -all in
All- have no one but
Yourself to blame.
So you don't.

It hurts.
It hurts like bones growing.
Like disengaging from the machine
And learning to breathe
On your own.

In the dust on the back
Of a passing car, the
Thin tip of a
Daughter's finger

Has drawn a
Heart. And
Meant
It.

Something feels small that
Isn't, as it watches
Sunrise pushing
Fog morning

Aside to make room for
Blue sky day over
A city that seems
To agree with

Winter
That spring is on
Its way:
Me.

There are those who will stand
Surrounded by friends,
Yet claim to be fighting alone.

There are those who sing songs
In a choir as most, but in
Disharmonious tones.

There are those who suspect
That the meaning of Life
Is survival alone, so they won't

See art as the gold
In the mines of the soul.
But this is for those ones that don't.

With godnames on sealed lips
I traverse midweek morning,
Leading the baby day
Through silent commands.

Shaping; raising it; preparing
For the excellent hours it'll
Become.
All I am is a result of

The choices I've made since
My first one.
Now here come more.
Every breath, every heartbeat,

Every sliver of your life;
An adventure, when you
Realize your powers.
Poet.

Today I crave something
Soft. Her warm skin against
My face. Softly whispered
Commands, such as

Come. Rest. Dream. Feel
Safe. Her warm hands; fingers
Whispering kisses on my back as I
Drift away,

But remain inside.
These concrete floors, brick walls,
Ice cold steel of tools, all
Unfriendly; unwelcoming.

I am a child unwilling to be
Born into it all.
Let me stay
Inside,

Where everything is soft.
Soft as strands of silken fog on  
Water. Soft as a grandmother's
Love, monastery choir song,

An infant's evening prayers,
Teddybears and doll's hair.
Zen poetry; fields of flowers.
Mountain dreaming itself unstone.

It is the emptiness; vastness of
Space between materials, that
Defines the size of a place,
Even within thin walls.

A half-long walk from my house stand
The ruins of a medieval church
Struck by lightning so many times
Over the last nine hundred years

-As if the Lord Himself kept saying
Stop building me this **** and
Just LIVE- that they finally let
Its 1100s stone walls remain

Open to the weathers of the skies.
Some Norwegian churches are so
Old, they still carry runes and
Engravings to honour Odin, Tor

And Balder. It's a difficult thing to
Let go. To just bless the tree and
Surrender it to the rains and suns
Of time.

I am a man against violence.
See my own blood spilled, rather
Than that of any other.

But I have a wall full of knives.
I've collected them my whole life.
Still do. Tools of war.

Tools of craftmanship.
I know the story behind every
Blade, Bowie or handmade

Russian letter opener.
I am not a man of religion.
I see God in every thing.

Worship all; therefore none.
But I collect rosaries.
The one on my desk, I bought in

Vatican City. The one above my
Bed was brought to me from
Transilvania.

I know the story behind each
One. I may seem confused at
Times; contradictory.

Construction working poet.
Heavy metal loving meditator.
iPad wielding viking.

I collect interacting opposites.
Wear snakeskin boots with my
Funeral suit.

Shave only my head at times.
Warrior monk. Knives and rosaries.
Stabbing at

Gods. Praying
For my
Enemies.

This is one of those days
That I'll never remember.

I've met people like that too,
But when and where is lost

To me. Thursday;
Anonymous.

There are strands of magic
In the seams of a day like this,

Just as in the souls of the people
We meet, and forget.

Gold in a mask of rags.
Life disguised as

Something less than
Magnificence.

The firmest handshake
I've ever felt
Was that of a woman with

Only three fingers left
On her
Hand.

The biggest person I know
Is about the same hight as
His wheelchair.

His life is a richer one
Than mine will ever be.
Because he makes it so.

What worries do I have?
Yet some days are heavy.
I suppose being born

Unimpaired and staying so
Is an impairment at times
In itself.

The building is coming together.
Some floors are already
Glass wall offices and water
Cooler rooms.

For one year, this concrete
Mansion has been my
Workplace.
I have scars from edges now

Invisible to the suits and secretaries
Of tomorrow.
Somewhere underneath this
Wooden flooring,

My blood drops still remain.
I stand on the glass roof,
Watching my friends in hi-vis
Eight floors beneath me.

This was sky once.
This was nothing.
This held seagulls and city crows
Fighting over bread like the

Two remaining pieces of a chess
Game. Overhead, morning clouds
Withdraw to let a rising sun
Lay its red on Oslo,

And other buildings
I built. Housing
Other drops of my
Blood.

We have a thousand poems for
Every one of your bombs.
With each act of bloodthirst
And slaughter, we respond with
The force of volumes on peace.

Heaven; a holier word than Hell.
One birth overshines a
Hundred deaths.
Cowards wound.
Heroes heal.

Poets create. You cause
A thousand tears with every bullet.
Well, we compose oceans of comfort
In your wake.
Our ink overpowers your lead.

We have a thousand poems
For every one of your bombs.
You are the bringers of death to
The flesh. We are the armour
Of the soul.

Edited.

My girlfriend has had trouble sleeping
For as long as she can remember.

None of us willing to worship the
Consumer's deity that Valentine's day

Has become, we dressed for February
And lit a bonfire behind the barn.  

She prepared gourmet hotdogs,
I provided beer, homemade wine

And carried firewood. She turned to
Me, eyes narrowing as the wind

Turned, and smoke caressed her
Fire-warm face.

This is the best Valentine's ever.*
Her face all smile.

All smile and embers.
Now, back in the house,

Her breathing and barely audible
Snores from the bedroom are pure

Music. Sometimes fresh air and
Fire is all

It takes to find silence
Enough

To
Rest.

By open fire
We celebrate Friday.

Arms heavy, as wine
Ascends mouthwards.

Pantera on vinyl.
Flames dancing on raindeer skins.

I rest within my
Confidence knowing

The dress and make-up she
Really didn't need to put on

Are for me; we're the only two
Clouds in the blue.

Window blackness caused by
Absence of sun, moon, and winter tree

Shadows combined.
She lights an IKEA candle

Wedged into a wine bottle
And turns to me from within a veil

Of black hair; blue Norwegian
Eyes piercing through strands of raven.

Whispers:
*This is Happy. This is how

They will find us diseased
In fifty years.

Cold, warm
Smiles.

Hand in dead
Hand;

Between empty
Bottles.

An ant before God.
I am a humble soul within
Humble flesh,
Yet at times ignorant, like a
Baby kissed by a president.

Sometimes you are the most
Womanly woman I have
Ever felt.
Pure feminine.
Venus mirrored.

I am snake to your swan.
Turtle to your cheetah.
When you ask me to hold you,
My arms embrace the
Universe.

I speak the language of
The gods;
Silence.

Years of practice, flexing
Soundlessness
Repeatedly

Until its grip around
My brain's mouth became
Inescapable.

Dead center of any
Construction site;
Loud meetings,

City streets.
I carry a flame of tranquility
Anywhere.

This morning I watched the
Sun rise over Oslo from
The roof of my

Workplace. Pink touching
Blue pushing February
Darkness gently away,

As if whispering a child
Back from sleep.
Seagulls and crows

Dancing. Silences matching
Inner with outer,  
I stood smiling.

Smiling so
Hard I
Cried.

I was one too.
Taking pleasure in pains of the
Past; addicted nearly, to the
Pity and attention
Of others.

Now I keep it locked away.
Private pearls of an adventure life,
Wounds long healed;
Faded scars. My smiles now deserved.
I wish the same contentment

To all those others, the
Happy unhappy. Who can only
Recognize themselves
In broken
Mirrors.