I dream of not being.
of fading, reduced to gratitude
for all that flowed, floated,
glimmered and shone.
then unbecome.

every day a dream.
every night aware of
daybreak unafraid.
we must all awake into
the othernesses

of belonging.
let the last grain of my person
be lifted on a wind so gentle
it carries; holds with
nothing but care,

and know with the last of
what once was heart, that to
love and thank was all I was
supposed to do.
if so, I did very, very well..

it doesn't have to mean
anything.
sometimes I just need to
draw something.
something about the way her
hair falls into her face
when she laughs.

something about that crow on
that wire that keeps
yelling my name as if I've
hurt his feelings and he wants me
dead and in Hell.
something about the way I've never
heard anybody say they
love me in her western dialect
before.
I melt whenever she does.
hey, I melted the first time
she said she liked me.

that's all there is to it.
it doesn't have to mean anything.
just like dust, rain, chest pain,
a cracked windshield, a hole in
your sock or a letter from the
taxman.

it's just poetry, mum.
just little
somethings.

Did I offend you?*
the new foreman doesn't know me
that well yet.
I move quickly. make noise
when I work. might not always
pay the respect others feel
themselves due.

sir. I've been declared dead once
already. my surgeon was a veteran,
he still gets chills when looking
back at how my heart
started up again after the final,
desperate zap.

this combination of high blood
pressure and Warfarin has me
knowing full well that I hover
above my grave at all times.
one sneeze or a falling object
combined with the right amount of
everyday bad luck

could see me either dead, or worse;  
needing help to feed or  
wipe myself.
it takes more than constructive
criticism to ruin my day.

more than mere words.
more than thoughtlessness.
more than a bad-beard-day,
a traffic jam or the kind of remark
that a foreman fresh to the site
might dispense to seem
confident to the boys.

my world is a friendly one.
it's easy to understand and forgive
when you've been so close to death
that all those who haven't, are 
children.

Some people lack heart
some poems lack poetry
some loves lack love

She's been hurt so many times
she no longer seems to care.
I'm not bruised, she points and
whispers, *here, just place your

punches there.

she guides my hand towards
her chest.
opens up with a sigh and
leads my fingers to her
crusted heart.

here. tear off these scabs so
I can bleed the
wounds
clean and let them close up
as smoothe scars
instead.
I refuse to hurt by
other hands than
yours.

this is love.
there are no band-aids
here.

Two months in love; two
decades they feel.

every morning we wake up
older, yet newborn.

I give you a rose with every
moon. soon I will have

to plant you a garden.
one petal for every sweet word.

one thorn to protect you from
each unkind one they'll speak.

beautiful arms. crimson kevlar.
daggers of green. sweet shields...

to believe beyond belief. leap,
choose flight over fall.

many name us naïve.
they do not know:

to loving artists, every day
is new year's eve,

year
zero.

His bad knee and my
high blood pressure saw us
ascending  
at a slow pace into the
giant hand of mist, running its
fog fingers between trees and
boulders.

having reached the first level,
we turned and looked as far as
the weather allowed.
it rained sideways, but the ground
held a few degrees below freezing.
trees, plants, stones... all was
covered in a layer of ice,
adding to itself with every drop
frozen.

feeling like Sam and Frodo for a
split second; lost in an alien
landscape.
even the dog sat patiently, shivering
with cold and exhilaration.
Øystein reached down and picked up
a blueberry encapsulated in

the cold, wet matter.
ate it. his dog reacted to the
crunshing sound of consumption.
nah, you wouldn't like this, buddy.
we walked next to the path that
had turned into a slippery death
trap, closing in on the peak.

the wind poked its way through
coats and boots, but we took
shelter beside an ice and snow
covered rock side.
the only people there.  
my best friend leaned back and
closed his eyes.
*wow... listen to the
mountain.

I believe in the things between
senses.
unseen, unheard, un-so-on
and so forth.  
both feet firmly planted in
thin air.
I stand for our love.

I imagine castles with our names
on them.
countries to our honour.
hearts and initials on
every living tree on Earth.
like some teenage girl I
picture a wedding on the coast.
priestless ceremony
where the god in all things
holds the only blessing
we need.
before Her I stand
for our love.

before friends and enemies.
before poets and politicians.
parents, siblings, teachers.
before my head and heart,
toe to toe with common
sense and pessimistic
realism.
("this world will **** what we
have; strangle us with the
piano string of everyday
stresses and sorrows."
"no.")

I think of eternities.
lifetimes of souls.
I take you on for
forever.

I stand for our love.
I have never washed my
hands after handling something
holy. I would never write like
this, and be lying.
I have never tried
to hide a
tattoo.

Eyes wet to the brim,
then relieved by birthing
tears; one chasing
another down
skin that's as smoothe as
running one's palm carefully
across the surface of a
forest pond so silent it's
warmed by even the
moonlight.

First I think she's moved by
loving me; saying I'm more
than she ever dared dream of.
then I realize she's speaking
of nightmares she has about
losing me; waking up to my
things and I not
being there,
and those tears stop as I
hide her face against my neck,

listening to the fearful ripples
in their body of salt and
sadness inside a heart that
doesn't know that it needs
not be half empty
any more.

Threat of rain.
grey skies like the lid of
a kettle from below.
clouds are ice from a
fish eye perspective.
I'm heading for the mountains
after work.

bringing little more than
good boots, a solid knife,
my best friend and his
owner.
love on four legs.
smiles behind every bark.
ears flapping with his running
free; scouting. herding us
through passes, across creeks.

my heart is a happy dog; stick
in mouth, world of new scents.
bonfire dreams, tapping of rain
on built shelter.
bidding the city adieu.
for days, all I can see will be
beautiful.

Setting clocks back that
one hour
I only see daylight through
the windows of the lunch
room.

night all day.

Oslo Skyline lets me
recall one of my earliest
memories;
from a baby seat in the
back of my uncle's
Citroën, hypnotized by
the yellow lights of a
Shell station we were parked
outside.

something so comforting
about the brightness of
a whole, little day
within the darkness of way-
beyond-bedtime.

warmth within winter.
adults in conversation.
I hope the bus driver keeps
the overhead halogens off in
here.

there's nothing unfriendly
about this lack of
daylight.

malware no software can
fend me against rust my blade
like a feast for anaerobic bacteria.

red as if with unjust blood.
but it isn't.

I wear a portable blood pressure
measuring device that inflates
around my arm and could be

waiting to give me good news
every thirty minutes.  

but it isn't,
and a few floors above me
the carpenters are listening to

Smells Like Teen Spirit on their
Milwaukee radio, reminding me

that we always seem to agree on
the more important things in Life,
like what was good about the

ninetees. and what
wasn't.

Arms to the ground.
I have fought my last
Battle.

Boots off, socks too.
I will search; explore
No more.

Head down, to rest upon
My woman's chest.
Not one night

On solitary pillow
Ever again.
The end of my life

As I have known it.
I'll never be less than
Two. Sad pen to

The ground. This might
Be the last poem I'll ever
Need to write.

Bandaged wounds that
Bled ink healing. All my
Smiles are unwriteable, now.

Rain drumming on car's roof,
Its millions of fingers
Poking at the eyes of busy windshield-
Wipers.
I love driving with you.
Radio classic rock.
Shopping bags releasing their
Contents to dance around in
The back of my van

As I leave the roundabout in
Third gear; its back wheels
Slipping on the wet asphalt.
As always.
I love driving with you.
You hold on and giggle.
I know these rural roads like
The back of your hand.

I clown driving, you shotgun
Laugh at my silliness
As I slow down at my
Exit.
I love driving with you.
People speak better in cars.
Might be, that one part keeping
Eyes on the road lightens the
Conversation.

I've never been lied to
With a steering wheel in my hands.

She is in my bed resting.
My computer, TV and fireplace are
In the livingroom.
All the beer is in the fridge.

I have treasures
In my
Every
Room.

When she wakes up, we'll sit
By the fireplace, drinking beer and
Listening to music,
Deciding which movie to watch

Together. Until then, I'm staying
Outside, on the stairs  
In the autumn evening rain, playing this
Game of *All or Nothing.

I know they all talk about me,*
He mutters.
Whenever I'm home sick, they
Say that I'm never at work.
That I'm always late.
That I do a bad job.

I look down into my coffee.
We talk about him, all right.
As soon as he takes a sick day,
We know he'll be back the next.
Pale with lingering fever.
Wet with sweat.

We speak of how he's always
At work. Hardly ever comes in
Less than an hour
Before us others.
How he pours his whole self into
Any job he's given. Always.

He would never choose to
Believe me, so I change the subject.
Each man his own attitude.
Funny how the brain keeps
Blaming the heart for
Its feelings.

I have no pain to speak of.
So I allow myself
Silence.

It has quiet room for
Sympathy.

I lift heavy covers to expose
What's mine to behold.
Snow skin, sweet drops of
Salty dew from within.

Flesh female, lady
Bones, choir cells whisper
Their name; Woman.
Woman. Woman.  

Eyes smiling. Mouth smiling.
******* smiling. Womb
Smiling. The rest either
Giggles or shines.

Tattoo of the Midgard Serpent
Around her upper thigh.
Snake of Norse mythology,
Coiled around the world,

Own tail in mouth. When it
Lets go, the world will end.
Its fangs are mine in you.
Poison lust. Venom love.

Refusing to release the
Ragnarok of our common heart,
I slowly kiss its every scale in
Submission.

The Devil took on the shape
Of a city crow.
You should have seen him
Manouver through the streets
On the warm gusts of wind.

Beak silver, feet golden,
Wings as wide as the smile
Of a demon's fresh from
Heaven's grasp.
He turned his head, exposing

An eye; a window to his lack
Of soul, as black as the center of
Nothing. Fresh wounds from
Needles in the arm of a girl
On the pavement below

Were sunsets and rainbows
To him; he croaked with the
Voice of a hundred crying mothers:
Your opened veins are my gates.
Syringe keys and ****** handles.

No single sin is anything
Without the eye that judges it.
Behold: Within the skies above
Is only air, no godly love.

No devil neither rests beneath,  
As blade within an earthly sheath.
Behind this blackness you will find
The consciousness of Humankind.

The crow looked up and lifted off
With a giant rustling flap.
Then, mid-air, changed into a dove
Of summer-cloud white; glided above the roof
Tops; became one with the sunlight

That stroked itself across the face
Of the girl in the street.
She looked up at a passing
Child. One that didn't cringe at the look
Of her weary, weathered features, but smiled

As if knowing her.
I swore I could see the chemical veil lift
From her eyes.
Who needs gods or devils, I thought.
*They're only devided by heart.

Another person.
That's what people means.  
Thousand of smiles
That you still haven't seen.

Eyes looking back,
Hands shaking one's own.
A thousand reminders that
One's not alone.

Strange name for a cat, I know.
She had the drawings and
Attitude of one.

The fact that she preferred to
Be left alone most times made
Her my little best friend.

Four years ago she fit in the palm
Of my hand. The last time I held
Her, only her head did.

No more pain free
Cures for what bothered her,
And yesterday no little black dot

Came bouncing across the field
At the sound of my car.
No tip of a tail dancing hungrily

Outside the glass door when I
Left this morning. Funny how
Two sleeping kilos can

Form such a presence in a room,
And their absence the same.
Caught myself about to fill her

Bowl when I got up, then told
Myself to man up and swallow
That lump in my throat

That I hadn't felt from the loss
Of an animal friend in
Decades.

It felt big enough to fit in
The palm of
My hand.

He is almost filthier than
The twenty pigeons that he
Somehow has gathered enough
Scraps to feed.

Almighty to them.
Bringer Of Food.
"Look," someone says,
"Parasites on a parasite!"

I think of gods. And parasites,
Picking laughs from
Their unjudgemental
Hands.

You have to stay with me.
Don't ever dare to leave.*
She looks at me with
Little-girl-eyes

That beg rather than threaten.
I have everything I've ever
Wanted, in you. I'll cling to you
With tooth and nail

If I have to. Something like real
Fear in her voice. Real fear,
And I wonder if there's a single
Look, or a string of

Right words I can present
That will hold the flag of my
Intentions through the storm of
Her concerns.

Are you ever going to trust me?
I hum against the warmth of her
Forehead. Ask me in a year,
She replies. I will.

There are places within a woman's
Heart that hurt only slightly less
When touched by a man's hands,  
Than when not.

Highest point of the construction
Site. On this job, it's the roof over
The nineth floor.

Horizon whispers of the sun.
I thank the skies for not raining
Right now.

I thank the buildings that make
Up the skyline for the work they've
Provided.

I thank the one I stand on this
Very moment, for the food it puts
On my table.

I've been too hungry to take it
For granted. I face north
And thank my home for its shelter,

For each memory that ties itself
Unto it. I thank the city of Oslo.
She has given me much. Taken too.

I turn to where I just might see the
Lights of my girlfriend's apartment
Building. Hoping she's sound

Asleep, enjoying the extra room the
Bed surrenders when I leave after
Spending the night.

Perhaps stretching out across my
Side; hand on the still warm
Impression on my pillow,

Thinking sleep now, girl. You know
He'll be back tomorrow.
I tip my hard hat to the fact,

And descend back down the ladder.
The sun is almost up, and no
Building ever built itself.

The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.

I sat (as I do when I don't need to stand)
By the river Vorma, a twenty minute forest walk
From my home farm.

Bukowski sat with me, speaking of how even
The best books in the world are
Merely sawdust.

I watched the sun via the water go from bright,
Innocent yellow to dark, sensual shades of
All sorts of blood,

Blushing with its whole self, then withdrawing
Beyond the rippled mirror image of its
Completely unjustified shame.

I lost my reading light, folded Charlie up and
Sat with my arms across my knees, watching
Fish jump on unsuspecting dinner insects,

Tossed the book in the water, and sighed.
The whole scene was just too perfect
Not to.

Every morning
I arise a different
Poet than the one I
Fell asleep as.

When will the stars of our
Love go out?
Both of us numb to the
Touch of the other?
See worry or pain, and
No longer bother? Not
Really care if we're with or
Without.
When will the stars of our
Love go out?

The thought is as distant to me
As the sun.
I know for a fact it will
Rise in the morning.
I'm too busy loving to look
For a warning.
Perhaps time will tell me that
You're not the one.
The thought is as distant to me
As the sun.

Every time I look at you...*
So many poems
Begin with these words.

This is one of them.
*...I feel as if I've stolen you
From some poor fool

Who just didn't do it for you.
I don't even wish I could say
That I'm sorry.

You are my loot, some treasure
That I Indiana Jones'ed out of
A collapsing cave,

And nearly lost my hat in the
Process. An unknown piece
Of Wagner's, discovered

In a Richard Clayderman Plays
ABBA book of sheet music at a
Flea market.

You touch me the way I remember
Dreaming that woman on the
Poster on the wall of my friend's

Bedroom in '88
Would magically climb down from
Her two-dimentional pedestal  

And do. "I know you," I think
Every time I look at you.
Sometimes you look at me

And confess -after I've left you
Breathless by doing and/or saying
Something so clownishly stupid

You nearly fell to the floor laughing-
That you "can't believe we've barely
Been together for months..."

I know. In so many
Ways, we
Haven't.

Rain wet pavements are mirrors to
Yellow lights and subtle neon.
Click-clacks of women in a hurry,
Even the taxi drivers are too
Tired to use their horns.

Leaves the size of Samson's hands
Keep dropping around me,
Sticking to the ground
As if glued into the scrapbook
Of autumn.

Somewhere between cold and
Not. Winter and fall.
Morning and night.
Alone in a world full of others
Than me.

A perfect evening ended as
Its opposite.
Guess it was his fault again,
As it always was, whether
God's honest truth or the
Devil's.

Sometimes it feels like
There's a Satan's Little Helper
Carving my initials
Into every bullet in the world,
He thought, and bowed his head
Unto the sour, sour
Injustice

Of it all. No reason to hold back
The angry tears; he let a few
Hit the kitchen
Sink, so as not to stain
Anything.

The guys from the demolishing
Team accidently broke a door
In the basement.

Things happen, but this door was
From the original building; built
In 1920. Covering it in bubble wrap

And writing HANDLE WITH CARE
All over it didn't help. The
Lithuanians were in a hurry;  

No match for a speeding BobCat.
I carried the corpse out to the
Container, and thought to myself:

I'm gonna be the last man to ever
Knock on this *******...
I set it down (the oak thing was a

Good 95 years old), and wrote
On it in my finest lettering.
Chamber.

Took off my glove and stood there,
Gently rapping, calling out to
The guys by the forklift:

HEY! Name the bird, boys!
No response. Sometimes I feel like
I might not belong in construction.

I drink not for the dead.
They needn't escape, nor
Celebrate.

I drink not for the lost.
They need not flee from
Past or fate.

I drink for all the rest.
For those who have no
Cup nor wine.

To them, I'm raising mine.
The ones who stay to
Work and fight

Through the day and darkest
Night. Who rest beyond
Sobriety.

I suppose I drink for me.

It's time for a break.
I bring my cup of coffee
Outside.

Drizzles of rain land in
The black fluid, stirring  
The steam that smells of

Warmer sensations than
Those of being drenched and
Rained upon outside a

Construction site. Sip and
Swallow. Repeat. I let the
Screensaver of my mind set

In; gazing at the space between
Things, thinking nothing.
Sip and swallow. The cup

Warms my hand. The coffee my
Throat. Then, a single thought
Warms my chest.

The way her bathroom smells
Of the products she uses.
The way she likes her showers

Hot -so I learn to enjoy them too.
I was always turning the heat
Down, until it got unbearable.

Then stayed a little longer.
Shocking myself awake.
Misconceiving pain as a tool.

I like it comfortable now.
Soft alarms in the morning.
Clothes with room rather than

Slim cuts and tight chests.
A woman that never once walked
A catwalk, but who likes to

Stroke my back softly until I
Fade away between winter covers
That smell of her skin and sleep.

Sip and swallow. I empty the cup
And listen to the rain -heavier
Now- hit my hard hat

Like a thousand fairy drummers.
The break is over. Workday isn't.
I have dry clothes in my office.

I'm having a
Very good
Day.

It's one of those nights.
This ancient house makes noise
With every gust of cold wind,
And I'm all alone on the farm.

I'll throw a log on the fire and
Watch a Paranormal Activity-
Or Blair Witch kind of movie.
As loud as I want, with the lights

Out. Play a trick on my own nerves.
Challenge this old, beaten-up heart.
Eat some cheese, drink strong coffee,
Unplug the nightstand light.

Open the creaking door to the hallway.
Then tuck myself in.
Set myself up for one for the books.
I love a good nightmare.

I'll let my imagination set the scene,
Then drift off into its realm.
Who needs movies, to dream is free.
Tonight, no one can hear me scream.

Hoping for my favourite ending.
The one where it's all so terrifyingly
Horrible, that I pray to Whom it May
Concern: Please, let it just be a dream..!

I'll do anything for this
Not to
Be real...

*Ok.

The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us.*

The farmer let us into his old
Storehouse. Where food and
Goods had been stacked and hanging

Centuries ago, there were piles of
Rubble and memorabilia.
Half drunk and inspired, we filled

A bag with old objects. Brass scales,
Leather blacksmith protective glasses,
Razor blades and what not.

"Guess were going steampunk," you
Concluded, and I agreed.
We spoke briefly of bats, and

Retreated. Back home, the fire was still
Going. You sat down with your
Drink on the floor, arranging objects

Onto the canvas. Bronze spray paint and
A sharper eye for detail than I ever
Had. You nearly forgot to drink your

Wine, and apart from my applying some
Sealing foam and other handyman
Touches, it was all your creation.

I helped you to your feet -glass in hand-
And you stood there with a paint stained
Finger on your chin. Pensive; still working.

A part of me stumbled slightly deeper in
Love with you there, another took your
Picture in my mind, my eyes blinking

Like the lense of a camera, before you
Tilted your head against my shoulder,
Eyes not leaving the work in progress.

*"Don't you just love it? The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us."

I know you worry at times,
That I look back in affection.
Songs, moments, memories.
That I cover them up and keep
Them alive.

You were tougher at first.
Perhaps not as in love as now.

You're afraid to be fooled.
But I'm no fool.
I don't waste time on half-
Assed love.
I either do, or I don't.

I love you. Her,
I don't.
Past is what it is.
It's all in the name.

I only have
Room for one red rose  
In the carry-on luggage of my life.
So I picked you carefully.
Nipped a few thorns of doubt
From your stem that hurt you
More than my hand.

Looked lovingly upon all the
Petals we have in common;
Values, tastes, loves, histories...

Wrapped you gently within
Safe layers and a shared sense
Of compromise.
Put you down slowly into the
Compartment marked
Other Half,
And walked on.

I believe in winning  
By the rules.
None of my doors are locked.
None of my poems are inked for
Another's heart.
All I have is ours.
All I am is yours.

I have faith in faithfulness.
I go by few books, but one
I follow above all others.

I believe in loving
By the rules.
All other victories are lies.
That's why they call it
Cheating.

I'll pick seashells for a century.
Build you a castle.
I'll pave each floor with
Individual grains of sand.

One for each breath I took
That carried whispers of my
Wanting you.
I'll carve pictures into the

Walls with my fingertips.
Spending years on each detailed
Feature of your smile.
Diving the depths of every ocean

For pearls to render it just right.
I'll mine with my bare hands
Through mountains' hearts for
The black diamonds of your pupils.

Foundations built with my bones.
My blood a crimson fountain in the
Centre of its innermost room.
I'll shape a throne from the ashes

Of your every threat. Facing a fireplace
Spaceous enough to hold suns.
Here, rest your feet on a stool of
Your worries. Behind a door so heavy

Only loved ones can open it.
No ill intentions may cross this moat.
Sleep in a starlit tower room,
On a bed of clean contentment.

Stronghold of pure, divine beauty.
As you are to me. I'd create it for you,
With nothing but myself. Just because
You'd never, ever ask me to.

I searched for meaning
In religion and philosophy.
Taking on gods and
Prophets.

Gained some wisdom, but
Ended up confused more than
Enlightened.
Lost the little firm footing
I had.

I searched in arts and music.
Interprating. Analyzing.
Enjoying and disliking.
Expressing and being
Alternative. Original.
Outside the box.

All I gained was an unhealthy
Love of wine.
Less meaning than I
Began with.
Some pretentious friends.
More confusion than ever.

So I stopped searching.
Stopped chasing.
Stood still drawing fresh,
Crisp morning air into
My lungs, then felt it travel
To my soul.

I closed my eyes and heard
Her heartbeat through her
Naked chest; her collar bone
Against my temple.
Attuned my own to hers.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.

Everyday magic.
Adventure within trivialities.
Dirt on the knees of my new
Jeans from recieving a hug from
A five-year-old.

Seeing pride in the eyes of my
Parents from a distance.
Unretainable love
And lust in the eyes of
My woman on a Tuesday afternoon.  
No special occation at all.
Just here,
Now.
Us.

No need to struggle.
To search.
To run after anything.
Just relax. Observe. Appreciate.
Love. Long for, then
Enjoy.

Nothing is without reason.
There's meaning in  
Everything you sense,
Everywhere you are;

You.

Progressive, she says about the music
The red wine has made her
Put on the stereo,

And I'm glad I have no neighbours, but
At the same time I wouldn't care
If I did; the way her

Hair smells when she headbangs
Is worth more than summer lilac
And lakeside pine in air. Or silence.

I have surrendered to you day after
Day, tonight I put my sword to the ground
And kick dirt upon it

So it will not awaken. I am without
Arms, touching your face with
My unreachabilities.

Rhythm is the only God we have.
Tone is our Saviour, Melody the Holiest
Of Ghosts . *How can we live

Like this? I ask, then shut my mouth
And do as she says: Just listen to
How it climbs; moves; is.

I have no more fight in me. So I
Won't. I'll just let her decide the volume
And music, and when I need it, Dream

Theatre gives in to Enya, and all my
Needs for rest finally make sense as I
Try not to close my eyes and leave my

Head somewhere between her shoulder
And chest, and ask anything that might
Listen not to, for the sake of ****,

Take me to anywhere that isn't where
She decides that we're listening to music
That is anything but us.

Unearthed,
Broken hearts by the millions
Unnerved,
By the sounds of so many tears
Understood,
Everyone has felt this way
Lost loves,
Dying in our minds for millions of years

Earthed,
Secrets within revelations.
The numbers of stars, yet as
Concealed as them all; how
Something as bright as light can be
Hidden behind the undarkness of
Day.
All human tears are not the results
Of crying.
All human tears are the same one. One
Water.
Life. Pain. Laughter.
Pain. Life.
Earth cares as little as soil.  

And yet the Earth is filled with laughter
Tears
Pain and life.
It knowing not the difference is beyond the point
Caring,
That the light we can all bring
To shine shadows upon this unforgiving ground
Then the sound of the last tear drop
Shall bring the endless cycle to a stop.

Spirals cycling endlessly
In optionable directions.
Dancing or
Duelling. Loving or
Lying. Living or dying
Trying, crying.
Waste not heart's blood on
Grounds. All it takes is
Enough breath to clear
The skies.
It's only life, mother.
Weep not for my death;
Laugh that I lived.
A thousand hates, yet the
One love I shall recall.
I name no flying
To fall*.
When I smile, my tears
Quench my thirst.
Endless cycle.
We can all choose to
Spiral
Upwards.

Wish I could read every book
In this world.
Wish I could shake every hand
That hasn't harmed an other
Unjustly.

If only I could press that heart-
Shaped button for every poem
I read,
And inhale every poem of every
Poet that ever pressed one
Under any of mine.
And those of any that didn't.

I see gems with each scroll.
Bits of lives, heartbeats,
Some broken, some healing,
Some full of nothing but
Gratitude. Some filled with voids.
So many laughs. I wish I could
Share your every one
With you.

If I try to hold on to it all,
I'll lose my mind.
And track of my time.

I see poetry in every post.
Wish I could comment on them all.
Some I may not fully agree with,
But praise to all that write.

I have been gifted with so much
Response from so many.
I've tried to reply and thank
Each one,

But I am just one man.
A tired construction worker with
Band aids on every finger
At times.
Their tips hurt from sharp screws,
Hammer blows and rushed
Carving, then typing.
Head from digging in these
Second language parts
Of my simple Norwegian
Workman's brain.

Living a full, fantastic life.
One that I cherish
To write about.
To share. To express to myself,
And in the same breath
Anyone wanting to read.
I suppose we all carry some shade
Of that same feeling.
That's why we're here.
To share.

This site has been more than
Therapy to me.
It has been a home.
A sanctuary.

Some small, huge egos
Cry for fairness and attention,
Mouthing the three ugliest
Words I know:
What
About
Me?

But dark shapes in contrast
Create fulfilment within the art.
So what the hell, all balloons are
Mostly nothing but air. Anyway.

I hope I have inspired some.
I know I have made others feel
Neglected and unappreciated.
Well, it's a dance floor
Full of toes, and it's only human
To have a left leg or two.
Nothing's worth taking too
Seriously. I should know.
I have.

I'll still dance my heart out,
Laughing along with all others
That do. It's a Kindergarten
Universe. Play. Eat. Nap.

I thank you for every Follow.
Each and every Like and
Comment.
Every Collaboration.
Every Unfollow.
Every Block.
A full life is full of everything.

We are all single humans. Yet
Not one is here alone.
There's poetry dancing in
Your every
Movement.
There's life in every heart.

I love words.
I love life;
I love your every
Heart.

I dreamed I fought Buddah
Again. The fat ******* was a
Slippery one, but not as
Heavy as you'd think.

He laughed with every punch
I landed. So disarming, it
Bordered on cheating.
When he finally tapped out,

I lost. I crossed swords with
Christ some nights ago.
A testament to surrender.
Flat slaps against a thousand

Cheeks, I guess crosses and books
Of poetry -alike- are made from
Wood. I'm the son of a carpenter
Too, I yelled. But it was Mary who

Had a little lamb. I formed a spear
With my hand and drank the
Water it revealed; thirsty as sand.
Like fighting a holy ghost. Air.

I punched at unbreakable mirrors.
I gave up faiths I never had.
Then Odin came up from behind.
Took out my left eye and prepared

To render Blood Eagle, dagger in
Hand, coil of Man; as mortal as any.
We whispered in unison: Finally
A fight worth ending.

Nothing is
Holier
Than
Flesh.

I ask my eyes to remember.
They have so much to tell.
I ask my memory to work with
Them, but it's stubborn,
Like an old pair of shoes
Letting in rocks and
Gravel.
We've walked enough.

I ask my lips to remember
Old juvenile softness,
My ears the sound of wind
Through rainforest foliage; a
Creek drizzling down a water-

Worn hillside, but all is so
Vague after the years between.
Some things resurface,
Then sink back into oblivion.
So much mind wasted on
Everyday trivialities.

I was there,
I tell myself when
Trying to recall the Italian song
Thrown between the brick walls
On either side of the narrow
Canal, as the gondola slid under
Yet another ancient bridge.
I could smell
The water. Filthy and beautiful.

I'm here,
I'll keep telling
Myself as always. Eyes
Resting on the
Ground Of Now,
Neck too sore to look
Back and focus.

Ears hearing her muttering
In sweet sleep, then opening
Her eyes to look into mine,
Touching my

(I'm here)

Face with feather fingers, then
Closing in on herself to
Sleep on, safe and warmed
By present love.

My eyes still see.
Ears still wallow in music.
My skin still

(I'm here)

Feels the touch of something
Wanting to touch it,
Touch it.

For now, I'll listen to
My shoes.

As I step out into the street
To stop traffic for the loaded
Truck to back into the
Narrow gates by the
Intersection,
I think about you.

As the suit in the BMW gives
Me the finger and I respond with
A raised index- and little finger
Heavy Metal sign and a grin,
I think about you.

As I signal the driver to back up
Further and further until he's in
Just the right spot to unload,
Take off my wet gloves
And blow into my hands,
Sensing the scent of
Innerwoman, I think about
You.

As the Hiab truck crane unfolds
From itself and rises, rises,
Extending towards
The low, heavy clouds above
The city morning, I think about
Thinking
About you
Naked.

When she cries
Oceans withdraw their
Hands from thirsty
Shores to lend tears
To her worries.

When she cries
My hands find her cheeks
And collect little
Beads of diamond from
Velvet surfaces.

I grace my lips with
Divine martinies, and as
Softly as I can, kiss their
Path to where lids meet,
Then lips, as if trying to

Breathe them back into
Her heart through her
Mouth, and by that saying I'm sorry
That I left my love unconfirmed
Last morning.

The handle of my
New knife
Didn't sit so well in my
Palm.

The blade sure did.

It's kind of cold in here,* I think as
I leave my
Laptop on the chair and
Pick up the last pair
Of wool socks my late
Grandmother knitted.
Spoiled from spending time
At my girlfriend's place, its shell being
170 years younger than that of
Mine, I suppose...

Old houses breathe.

The cat is balled up on the sofa;
Sleeping within its own
Body heat, only responding
With a flick of an ear to
My patting it.

I light fires in living room and
Kitchen, and
Recall how I used to sit at
Four in the morning
Under a blanket with a cup
Of coffee and tried to

Shiver less as I waited for the fire
To take. My parents' living room,
Having had to move back.
Late twenties. Divorced.
Undergone heart surgery.
Declared bankrupt
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

The ****** Months, I used to
Refer to them as. When it all
Came down.
The following years -spent working,
Saving, drinking the weekends
Away and lying to my doctor

About it- I got to know my parents
Again. My father would knock
On the door to my room and make
YouTube requests; recalling songs
From decades ago he never thought
He'd hear again.
He still brings up those nights
On occation. It was good.

Mother's knock meant room service.
She loved waiting on me like
That. Feeling useful.
Having me there. After all that
Had happened.

I had all I needed up there. Guitars.
Weights and a bench. Decent
Internet. Sometimes I'd just sit in
The dark in silence, hearing nothing
But the ticking of my St. Jude aorta
Heart valve, feeling the soreness of

My fresh scar fading, tracing the
Uneven bones of my rib cage
Where they's sawed me open.
Gutted
(On most levels of Life, in fact).
But it was good. I was
Aware. I was still here.

In the mornings I'd get up at 03.55,
Light the fire and sip my coffee,
Watching snow land on the
Windows, or stars illuminate the
Fields of white outside, perhaps even
Dancing northern lights
Above the pine tree tops.

Winter. Summers were summers.
Bird calls preceded my alarm.
Coffee on the stairs outside.
Sunrise streching her hands above
The horizon as I awoke.
Nothing I could see wasn't home
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

Three years until I moved out again.  
It got quiet for them, I know that.
But I had healed.
Trained.
Grown.
Smiled.

Three moves later, and I'm back in
My home village.
Neighbouring farm.
Countryside silence.
Home.

~

The room is getting warmer. I place a
Piece of wood on the embers and lean
Back in my chair by the fire.
The cat is now completely outstreched
In a full feline smile of fur and limbs.
I see movements in the trees outside in
The corner of my eye, but the winds
May blow as violently as they want.

I have four walls and a roof.
A belly full of salmon, a job that pays,
A wonderful woman who
Loves me as much as I love her, and
From my bedroom window, I see the
Lights from the
House where my parents live.
Where I grew up.
Twice.