So the doctor said her foot
Was broken.
Yes, I like a woman tough,
But it's been two months
Since it started hurting.
Suppose few things are as
Subjective as pain.

I rub my right hand when it's
Cold. The one I crushed
Between two containers.
Crane driver was still
Drunk from breakfast;  
Suppose few things are as
Subjective as responsibility.

We're all scars. Broken bones
And bruised hearts.
Embarrasing memories and
Bitten bullets.
Walking on broken feet until
They heal.

Suppose few things are as
Subjective as
Growth.

Father Fire, make me ashes.
The widow Wind carries tears
With every rainfall,
Forever mourning
Brother Breeze.
Factory chimneys stole his
Soul.

Make me light enough for her
Arms.
Feathers, strands of hair,
Fog breath.
Carry me as these while you
Dance in sorrow.

I will dance with you
Until grandfather Time
Finally rests as
Forever.

Father Fire, make me ashes.
My heart belongs
With other things of lightness.
Fleeting thoughts, stolen
Looks between young lovers;
Warming remarks between
Strangers on a
Winter street
Smiling.

Let me be the string that holds
The kite of your
Deepest dreams.

Fever doesn't care.
She lands, tucks her wings
In and gently kisses
Beads onto the foreheads
Of children and soldiers
Alike.

I rest against a cool
Breeze, hard hat and hammer
On the concrete by my
Feet.
Back wet, muscles and joints
Ache.

I could feel sorry for
Myself, but find comfort in
The thought that somewhere
Out there,
A toddler's mother touches
Sleeping skin with a

Nervous wrist
And whispers
Into the room
Relieved.
*It's gone
Down.

Yesterdays have no rights.
Not a single moment
Ever as lucid as the
Now.  

Elusive memories, thin,
Transparent sheets of
Recollection.
How did

Last Wednesday feel?
How much love is left from
My first tingling teenage kiss?
Wind, fallen leaves

From a long forgotten
Decade, torn; crumpled
Numbers in a kitchen
Bin.

Idle spectator.
Day by day as worthless
As calendar paper.

Handshakes cold through a
Sterile window,
How can you

Expect to feel anything, when
Watching your life through
Glass?

Sunday afternoon, Oslo.
Pavements fit for ice skating
Rather than her high heels.

I am crutch.
Sun-goes-down red onto
The solid wetness.

As we reach the tram stop,
She throws a gaze directly into
My eyes, fingertip finding the outline

Of the fresh tattoo on my chest
Barely visible at the edge of the
White tank top under my

Alice in Chains tribute-style
Flannel shirt.
"I love the way it covers up her

Name," I know she
Thinks but doesn't
Say, and I

Agree. Sometimes the temple walls
Of a man's body's skin are no
More sacred than the

Bucket of paint sitting ready
Outside a basement bar's
Gentlemen's toilet cubicle, just

Waiting for
The
Janitor.

There is poetry in my blood.
Some blood in my poetry, like that
Fresh from a broken heart
On a band-aid lip kissing
Old pain into fresh pleasure,

And promising truth, comfort and
Loyalty within a blizzard of rose
Petals and cotton candy dandelion,
Being easier to believe than anything
Else ever.

There's poetry in my blood. Cells
Red as new love; white cell soldiers
Devouring infectious threats; poison
Lies and painful heartless behaviour
Such as infidelity or being broken

Up with, in a bed at night; in a
Blossoming garden, or worse,
With a pen in hand, mid-love,  
Mid-poem; mid-
Heartbeat.

Poetry written on cave walls
Of distant planets in other galaxies
Is still comprehensible to human
Hearts.

The stars look the same
From there.

They say the American flag planted
In moon dust is nothing but a
Sun bleached white piece of cloth
By now.

All things, it seems, given enough
Time and exposure

Become requests for
Peace
In the
End.

I know your every scent by now.
The way you turn, scratch and sigh when
You can't sleep while I very well could
Would be something I'd miss if

Tomorrow saw us apart.
Still, when hands soft as your innermost
Find my weather worn shoulders and
Pull my face to your chest

As if trying to drown me in woman,
I smile against your full softness with
The juvenile intensity of a new born poet;
I will write on you with my mouth's skin.

If you kiss my eyes out, I'll still read
Our joined memories with my concrete-
Torn fingers; the scars we've loved onto
Each other, braille of yesterlust.

Animal carvings; knives and chisels of the
Absence of moral illusion.
In the instant between painful pleasure
And pain, I'll be more home with you

Than in any. Your pulse is ours.
Your moan is mine.
The sweat on your back always marries
That of my chest,

And when you want me to stop,
I'm about to. I'll look at your closed eyes
And wonder again and again and again
How to get you to take this forever.

By the house where I
Lived my first two years
Stood a barn that a hundred years ago
Held pigs and horses.

The swallows sang me to sleep.
I can still smell the barnhouse that
Only held a Massey-F tractor by then.
All things change,

Some places more than people.
But the swallows don't care.
Neither they, nor the barn or
I are there. Anymore.

Would I die a happy man
If I heard my name
Rumble across the Norwegian plains
And forest hills tomorrow?

Would I turn my back on all
That's mine; leave it untouched
And walk into arms
Of loving light and not look over

My shoulder?
Did I love?
Did I lose?
Did I laugh?

Did I scream?
I fought.
I sat at times and thanked.
For everything.

My hand never left my sword.
The other held glass, held pen,
Held breast.
My mouth held some of the rest.

I put pride and disappointment
In the eyes of my parents.
Put praise and curse on the lips
Of my brother,

Had many a friend, lost old,
Made new.
Did things I hoped I never would do.
Regrets like mine, are for the few.

I've seen shadows I cannot explain
Dance between trees in the
Morning hours. I've slept by a
Bonfire, face tickled by silken

Showers of morning dew, and
Knew that I didn't sit alone.
I've seen trolls hit by sunlight
Scream and turn into stone.

I've let myself down.
Put my name to shame.
My head has hurt many a girl...
But my heart has conquered worlds.

So I'll stand when I'm called
With my back straight as trees.
I've written my poetry,
Many a piece

That might live forever, unlike
My own coil.  
Buried deep within
Internet soil.

Some time in the future
When all that I know
Has vanished and died like
Last winter's snow,

And the sword that they bury
My bones with is less
Than rust coloured dust on the
Dust of my chest,

Some poem I wrote might
Oblivion resist.
...I hope to the gods it is
Better than this.

Sun shining on the white shells
Of pearls cradled in mid-day warm
Sands will not excuse herself

For making them sparkle hot
Under her invisible hands.
Snow landing on the faces of

The battleground fallen
Rests as easily as on the forehead
Of a fever ridden child now soothed.

Tides rise and withdraw, rains
Drench even the drowning.
This is why you must feel the pain

You do. Finish this bad day.
Meet tomorrow
Older.

No matter how dark the bedroom,
I can always see your eyes
Seeing mine.

Sometimes your hands follow;
Find my face or other
Skin.

Mine may reply, reach to
Feel, draw to kiss.
And there is fire in this.

No matter how dark the day.
Clouds heavy with rain promising
Thunder:  

A child with a toy on the floor,
Undaunted; preoccupied,
Leaving worry to us grown-ups

Gathering pillows from balconies;
Seeing a storm as more than it is.
There is fire in this.

I've held shaking hands over a
Keyboard wet with tears, trying,
Trying to put words

On the burning within; the
Heart broken and rebroken
Until it needed

Stitches and staples
To hold together, finally
Finding faint flickering flames

Deep within the darkest darkness
Of that abyss. Whispering relieved:

*There is fire in this...

Walk with me through winter darkness.
Snow creaking under soles of shoes,
Stars like dust on window glass.
I gave you my glove

So you wouldn't feel cold on the hand
Holding mine.
You smile from heart to soul,
Walking with me through winter darkness.

Who needs daylight?
Any ghost would recognize love
And leave us to our sweetest selves,
Walking together through winter darkness.

Walk with me.
We have years to match
Our
Paces.

I play blind.
Take you in with other
Senses.

Read your every line with my
Fingers, taste your
Sweet salt,

Smell the cotton and sleep
That held you, before I
Woke you up with

Hands and whispered kisses,
Craving to hold you
Myself.

I love you in
Moonlight. I love
You.

Your scents and flavours.
Your heartbeat escapes like
Poetry from your ribcage.

Sometimes it's good
To be sad.
To not chase away,
But embrace the heaviness
That weighs down your

Heart and feet.

Sometimes it's good
To be sad.
To rest your head in a
Warm lap, allowing tears to flow,
And loving fingers to

Find them.

This heart has been
The smallest boy in the
Schoolyard.

Picked on, punched.
Called names, pointed at
With raw laughter of the

Cruel, cruel kind.
Grew skin as solid as its
Ability to draw

Lines, and stand for them.
I will not accept.
Sometimes pulse

Is the heart
Beating
Back.

She's getting tattooed by
My brother. He locked us in to
His studio just to give her
Her Christmas present
In ink.

Now she's tipsy with French
Red bottled painkillers,
And my brother keeps telling her
To sit still every thirty odd
Seconds.

He's about to cut it down to
Every tenth.
Outside, people try the studio
Door, thinking it's open, but
No.

This is the time for the special.
Oslo day turns into night,
Neon dances, beggars get more
Intense, and in the middle of it
All, I glance over my

Carlsberg at her long, long black
Hair dyed red at the tips,
And think something to myself
That rhymes with home, but
Not alone.

There's something about drinking
A little beer on a Monday.
The moon and stars look down at
Us; their slightly lost,
Most beloved children, and

Dream Theater sing Pull
Me Under, as I think that
She might have done so by
Just about *******
Now.

She looks up at me from the
Stroller, eyes wide open as
If she's never seen a shaved
Head before.
I'm guessing it's the head.

The tram is packed full of people,
And my country boy soul cringes
At the touch and smell of a
Hundred strangers.
So I focus on the little angel princess
Strapped gently to her

Throne on wheels, and in the
Vast space that our eyes meeting
Creates, I breathe pure, fresh air.
The tram is a hall we have to
Ourselves, and I'd trek to
The end of the universe

To find the last piece of candy
In existence, just to return,
Travel worn and outer space
Accustomed, just to place it
In her tiny hands
In gratitude.

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

Eyes, eyes, starry skies.
Look at me in that
Dreaming way again, girl.

Draw me
Northern
Lights.

I'll dance with them
Around your every gorgeous
Galaxy.

Today I've decided to work
Harder than I ever have.

First day of work
In the rest of my working life.

This good old job
Deserves as much.

...is the easiest one to answer.
Cry a little.
Love a lot.
Be a little angry,
Then make peace and move on.

Only look back
To enjoy or to learn.
Kick a little.
Hug a lot.
Look for the little things;

There's a god in every detail,
That never demanded your
Faith in it.
Frown a little.
Laugh a lot.

Remember lovers lost
With kindness and gratitude.
Be critical of your memories;
Choose your luggage
With care.

Some things are worth forgetting.
Let them go.
Look a lot. Taste a lot.
Smell a lot.
Close your eyes and

Listen a lot, to your breath
And that of the world.  
There's a wonderful lack of
Sense that makes perfect sense,
In everything.

There's meaning in it all.
There's meaning in us all.
The meaning of Life?
To never, ever think you need to
Find it.

In the space between
Your lips and your kisses
Are worlds unexplored.

Too tight for a quark to
Slide through.
A molecular mastodon

Universe of questions answered
With microscopic lies, such
As: Is it safe to lay my lips

Upon the warmth of this poet?
Yes.
Yes.

Yes, it is safe. He will never
Cheat. He will never
Lie, he will

Never hurt your
Feelings
Unintentionally.

Mountain, lean on me.
Let me comfort you,
Cry your creeks onto
My shoulder.

Oak tree; weeping willow
At heart. Here,
Find shelter from the rain
Beneath me.

Girl, grow strong enough
To carry the weight of
Your beauty.
Concrete cross; boulder burden

Of features and curves beheld
In craving by wide-eyed men.
A curse at times, to have
Your golden soul shine through

To the outside of your being.
Until then, lean on me.
Let me comfort you.
Cry your every drop of fatigue

Onto my shoulder.
Find shelter beneath me.
I can hide the sun from your eyes.
See: Love is sizeless.

I hear you saying
The games that they're playing
Are meant for the
Talented few.

But the power invested
In all of the best, is
The same one that rests
Within you.

Loves grow.  
Some like redwood trees,
Some like strands of grass.
Yet, the sun of
Touch and caring
Is welcomed with open leaves;
Petals unfolding in acceptance
And gratitude.

Loves grow.
Raging waterfalls of infatuation
Become deep, quiet ponds; even
Strong rivers of current
Union.
Your hands on my face used to
Give me shivers and goosebumps,
Now they warm me from
Skin to spine.
From bark to the innermost
Heart of the wood.

Loves grow.
Trees share branches over time;
Merge.
Centuries or seconds,
From afar enough
Even years tick tock when passing.
I'll count them with you,
Not caring for numbers as much
As movement.

Loves grow.
Roots and flowers,
Fruits from dirt.
One from more.
Your hands on my face are
Mine on yours, and our growth is
The opposite of the
Packing-up of things
And leaving.

Those tears forced to manifest
By poison thoughts of venom fears
Are old news to me.
I've cried them too, you see.

Those knuckles white around
Princess Paranoia and Marquis Mortality's
Slender wrists will not hold
Their punches back.

That pound of ice in your stomach
Is the worst our foe Fear can do.
I will share this with you.

You think back, back nearly broken by
The weight of grudges.
Bitter bag on your tired shoulder,
Barbed wire strap biting.

I've been to darker places
Than you will ever see.
Share your blackest burdens with me.

I fear no man, nor god.
I've paid my rent with sweat and blood,
The next payment is far from due.
I will share that time with you.

My hours on Earth are mine alone,
But no terms are written in stone.
I like it down here.
Liking I'll share.

That warmth on your face  
Is only my hand.
Your guardian angel is merely
A man.

Both scholar and warrior, and girl,
I have learned:
The skin has grown back on the hands
That I've burned.

You can choose to cry,
You can choose to smile.
I learned that truth, but it
Took me a while.

I have seen the Devil. He was pleasant,
He was kind.
I have seen the face of God,
It was yours and mine.

We have the power to create.
It's not in vain; not too late.
Let us face this storm together.
We'll be the gods of weather.

The choice is yours, it is true.
You are the foot, not the worn-out
Shoe.
You are not the sky; you're

The Blue.
You'll never need my comfort,
But until you stop believing that
You do,

I will play your game
Like a loving parent;
Having given you room
As you grew.

I will share this
With
You.
I will

Share
This poetry  
With
You.

Your life.
You are the hero.

Start from
There.

Now
Write.

Every page is
Blank after

This
One.

That is
Power.

Pen
Power.

God is a
Poet.

You have that in
Common.

I am an old dog.
Fur thick from winter nights
Under stars, paws hard from
Scratching at the
Insides of doors.

Sad old eyes see through
Actions and words, reading
Intentions and tendencies.
Biting only to teach
Or carry.

I see the kicks behind your steps.
The nervous punches behind your
Patting.
Invade my space, and I'll make you
A cat person.

I don't have time for your
Self-pity and negative meditations.
Reincarnation has finally granted
Me this simple existence of
Non-illusion.

Picture a leash, and I'll
Never walk at your side.
Free from your two legged
Two-facedness; anything human is
Puppy to me.

Don't try to force me. Or own me.
You'll only fail. You'll always
Fail at taking the animal
Out of the
Animal.

I didn't come this far
To be tame.
I didn't work so hard at not
Needing, to end up begging for
A full bowl.

My father gave me the
Last of his wine.
Thus leaving the rest of that
Habit behind.
His eyes, once blue like skies
Over sea,
Were grey with regret when
He gave it to me.
The older you grow, the
Better it sits,
The bitterness clouding both
Wisdom and wits.
I'm glad he won't know
How well I understand
How much the bottle can
Steal from a man.
If anything's off in your
Body or soul,
If angry or lonely or
Not feeling whole,
The first things to toss so your
Boat doesn't sink,
Are the barrels and bottles marked:
Too Much to Drink.

Have you laughed with pain?
Have you cried with pleasure?
Don't tell me you haven't
Lived.

Ants build.
Locusts destroy.
Everything that moves
Dances.

Snow like sparks from a
Raging wildfire.

I watch the eighteen wheeler
Unload its cargo,

Shielding my eyes from the
Cotton blizzard.

Glove carries diesel fumes
And the scent of my last cup of

Coffee. Inside it, my hand
Remembers itself full of her hair

And pulling her closer slightly
Too hard, the way she loves it.

Snow like sparks from a
Raging wildfire.

There are a thousand places
I would like to be, right now.

Her bed is one.
This isn't.

When your palm feels
The shoulder of another,

Let it be to encourage;
Not to hold back.

Lifting is rich.
Pulling is for the poor.

Growth is as human
As breath.

Going home to the country side for
The weekend, where
The snow is twice as
Deep and prestine.

I've promised my girl we'll put
Winter clothes on and trek through
The woods; play children.
Lay flat on our backs

On soft whiteness between naked
Trees, just listening to
Winds like the ghosts of whales
Swimming the skies singing;

Calling to the echos of
Their echos' echos.
Then, red cheeked and sniffling,
Brush January from ourselves,

Stump snow from boots, and head
Inside for hot showers.
Her wet hair slowly drying
By an open fire. Wine, and either

Music or just the whispers of
Winter playing with the ancient
Wood in the walls between
Silences.

Candle light catching the white
Flashes of flakes falling outside
Ice cornered window glass
In complete, quiet darkness.

She calls it camping in the cabin.
To me, it will
Always be
*Home.

Sub-zero city night.
Willows by the window facing
The nearby railroad tracks
Reflect little bolts of lightning

With their multitudes of
White, white crystal flowers,
As a train passes noiselessly by,
Leaving the children

Playing in the shoveled
Piles of
Snow, and us,
Bewildered.

I don't believe in blasphemy;
There's simply no such thing to me.
A god, as far as I can see,
Would see the ugly irony.

Created it, in fact, I fail
To picture any ego frail
Behind whose name the angels sing;
The Lord of everything.

To take a life with said excuse:
He did my saviour's name abuse,
And end a human violently...
Now that, my friend, is blasphemy.

Mouthfuls of lead
Cannot silence
Free speech.

People.
Poets.
Arise.

The pen is mightier
Than the
AK-47.

It isn't rocket
Politics.

Millions of children crying
While the adults of the world

Struggle unsuccessfully to
Push a square peg through

A square
Hole.

Spoiled with having you
Within my reach,
I keep nearly catching
The dark figure
Of your ghost in the corner of
My eye.

Seeing myself in the mirror,
You are shower-naked
Before me,
Looking back from glass; inviting.

Don't be sweet. Not gentle.
My bones were built for battle.

Empty air where warmth
Was days ago; now
A vacuum the size and shape
Of love and lust responded to.

I lean my face on sofa roughness
Where black silk strands
Of hair would tickle it.
Your fingers are not here to
Search; find, utilize the Access
All Areas pass of

The black ceramic ring
You wear.
Neither is your mouth to tell me

To shut the hell up and
Lean back into the
Winter night that blushes
And turns away smiling.

Hours like aeons.
Decade seconds.
Yearning is not boring,
Yet your absence is the opposite
Of fun.
All I have are memories, and
Tomorrow.

Thank the gods I have tomorrow.
Thank the gods, we have
Tomorrow.

I'll dream then too.
Then open my eyes and mouth,
And thank out loud.

*"Real."

Own blood drawn. Self-
Shelving branch sawn.

Blade or stone,
Blood of brother.

Will Time see times
Without the tears of

A wailing
Mother? Free from

One hand stabbing
The other?

Florø, Norway's
westernmost town, 2015.


All you could ever be,
Is *you.
All you ever held was yours
Within the holding.

I ask the snow covered island
Peak towering beyond the body
Of ocean. What is your
Mountain name?

It answers in its
Mother's tongue; silence:
*I am God to Pebble.
I am Child to Ranges.

Brother to Sea stroking my
Sides. Even dancing with Sister
Storm, his every wet touch is
Caress.

I am I.  
Rigid within my given space.
Learn from me if you will.
I care as little as stone.

This must be happiness.
So much more than enough
Food and drink.

This must be bliss.
Sun setting over silent seas,
Warm arm against my

Back as she puts her lips on
My shoulder, exhales a
Whispered I Love You, then

Moves along. Windows to beauty.
Both
Ways.

Western coast of Norway.
Relentless fists of salt and sea
Pound against the windows
Facing the openness.

All edible remains after every
Meal, they surrender unto her here.
She feeds them back.
Her moods change daily,

Taking only one life
With every ten thousand she
Nourishes. *We love her. We fear her.
We love her.

I love my life.
All of it.
Every time the sun warms or
Burns; the rain soothes, or
Stings with angry ice; barrel-hot
Buckshot, I
Thank. Thank for the
Weather.
I love my life.
All of it.

It's an art.
All of it.
Every time the axe rests above
Your neck mid-air,
Wink at the masked one
Holding the handle.
Thank. Thank for the
Swift awakening
Awaiting.
Add years to your dreaming.

It's an art.
All of it.

I love you, poet.
All that is you.
You hold an opposing answer
In each hand, commanding
The chooser to hold
Your gaze and keep
Asking.
The best readings rest between
Every line drawn.

I love you, poet.
It's an art. All that
Is you. **** well
All of it.

Sleep safe.
Add years to your
Dreaming.

All she wanted was a new job.
A good man.
A white Christmas.

By her laptop, spinning out
The last designs of the year,
While I make her breakfast,

She looks out of her
Window, and
Smiles.