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.

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.

Cold streets. cold people.
cold city of Oslo.
snowless, as pre-Christmas
winters have become.

I wave back at kindergarten
toddlers smiling at the filthy
man with the green hard hat
emerging from the hole in

the brick wall, jackhammer
shouldered, dust like fog following.
sometimes my job is to ruin. there's
nothing "-ish" about "demolish".

friday fatigue.
arms rubber, hands cold; numb.
her voice is my coffee.
her words, diesel.

I wait for her call, hand on phone-
pocket, expecting movement any
time. I hope she'll call me soon.
I hope to God she'll call me soon.

At the tender age of thirty-one
I looked up from her pillow at
Barely twenty years of
Flesh and bone and smile.
I didn't need to spy.

Wearing nothing but herself.
Back straight, front to me,
Eyes locked with mine, though never
Once an uttered
Boy, my eyes are up here,
As they travelled across the this-is-me-ness of all of her;

All composed in some wicked
Genious proving that
God created all designers.
And that nothing exceeds the beauty
Of Woman.

I never forget thinking
This could be the one I watch
Dress and undress
For the rest of my life.

I still don't need to spy.

Have your bad day.
I'll be either strong enough
For us both, or
Weak with you.

These are the times
Of butterflies and honeydew,
Adventure and laughter,
******* of the kind

That makes the left side of
Grown men numb.
Popcorn and sofa cinema,
Good days and some not so.

Go ahead. Have your bad one.
It comes with the package,
And I don't need you to be tear-
Free, to love you.

Stain my best shirt.
Worry me with a frown.
Cry me an ocean of tears, be
Afraid that I'll leave, shake
If you must, with your every fear.
Just don't ever believe that
I'll drown.

Have your bad day, princess.
Have a year of them.
Just make me aware of them.
I'm the knight in white at
Your side to stay.
Challenge me;
I need scores of dragons
To slay.

To do something else; a picnic
Basket with salad
And a bottle of kiwi wine
On a blanket
In the garden
Is as good a place to sit and
Not talk
As any

Sun setting behind pines and
Birches
The land owner's five year old girl
Has kittens
On her summer dress

We laugh as she plays
With our cat
Which seems to have grown
Affectionate of
Her

And somewhere on Earth
Love finds its way
To the surface of itself
And takes a long
Awaited
Breath.

Weekends fly
Like clouds that float
Across the windy skies.

Tonight I'll bite
The bedbugs back,
Then close my tired eyes.

Come Monday I
May choose to fret
That my own time is spent.

But it is worth
A week of work:
Weekend's Heaven Sent.

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.

First poem to Tina as my lover no more.

I.

Three years and eight months.
My closest. My one.
She'd stayed through madness
Enough.
I am a man of demons.
As I slayed the last one
I turned to see her having fallen
For the blow
As well.
Women and children
Die first.

II.

We cry. We kiss and cry.
Make love crying.
Laugh crying.
Leaving streaks on her back
Of salty regret
As I kiss her every single
Detail farewell.
How can gratitude for love
Hurt like being hated
By a loved
One?

III.

I take full responsibility.
Never raised a hand, but spoke
Hard and disgusting
Bottled anger.
Her leaving makes it
Poetry; lends meaning.
I'll drink again, but the drunk
Demon
Is dead.

IVa.

Today I'll come home
And forget to cook
For just one.
That Volvo will never
Come speeding down the
Gravel road again containing
Other than an ex
Coming to collect
More things that are no
Longer
Ours.

IVb.

No longer mine. I say like all
Others in grief: *This pain
Is new to me.
I embrace it on the floor
Holding her sweater
That I burned a little
Warming it on the stove for
Her in winter.
Then it's into the box
With it.
I'll leave a tear on her every
Garment, thanking for
The love and passion
They held within.

V.

I look up at skies as blue
As they come.
I will live here alone.
Thanking for all the beauty,
And all we learned from
What wasn't.
All is how it should be.
This was our road to
Travel together.

Be well. Be loved. Be safe.
You owe me nothing.
Be happy for this;
There's growth in it.
You are no longer my
Girlfriend, but you'll
Always be my
Girl.

"Together" was our word.
To Get Her was
My most gracious gift
Since Life.
Now let me cry
Like a child lost.
Then I'll move on,
Being neither.

Getting jealous?*
I nudge her jokingly.

She shrugs and smiles.
I'm not bothered by the

Tattoo on your chest that
Says Tina,

Am I?
God, I love confidence.

No eggshells under my feet,
No worry that she'll pry

Or spy. She's her own woman.
Claims to be mine, but

I know better. Even heavy
Clouds don't own the rain.

All I can do is get
Soaked, open

My mouth if I'm thirsty.
Take in the washing.

Hope that the deluge
Never ends.

It's getting covered up, I
Assure her.

Hoping she
Cares.

I was a teenager.
a boy unshaven amongst
pimpled, insecure junior
high school brats.

I'd sit in the dark of my room,
hearing my father's smoker's
cough through the wall
under my Pantera.

long hair, biker boots, leather
coats and torn jeans was asking
to be excluded where I lived. oh,
I asked, begged, pleeded that

they would.
some did; most saw me as
a necessity they
compared themselves with

to assure themselves as normal.
mainstream. accepted.
at least I'm not freak like
Holter.

no. I built this confidence and
character alone.
that was my way to walk.
those were my teenage memories.

don't ever be afraid to get noticed.
it takes grit and
confidence; strong legs to
stand out. and stay there.

"These are just too him," she said
And put her father's boots
Aside for me.
A size too big, but just my style.
Cried silently inside; she'd shed tears
Enough by now.
I thanked her in a whisper.
-
"How did your doctor's go?" she says.  
I look down at my new
Boots; "not well."
"Too thick or thin?" she asks, the
Blood in question ringing in my
Ears in blushed embarassment.
"Too thin," I say, knowing too well
What whisky does to anyone's.
She kindly mothers me in whispers.

"I thank each day your life was saved
By surgeons and Warfarin. But
Just for me -look how it went
With him whose boots
You're wearing."

A fish in flight; a queen diving
Free, slender and one with the
Streaming hands that caress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seaweed; feel its
Calmness seep
Within.

Mouthfuls of lead
Cannot silence
Free speech.

People.
Poets.
Arise.

The pen is mightier
Than the
AK-47.

**** you for making me
Open my eyes to the
Outterness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope you're not
Scared of
Poets.

Green giant hand raised
Towards the heavens.
Claws of seaweed,
Pine,
Olive,

Soon to fade into autumn
Auburn,
Burgundy,
Vermillion,
Amber,

Then shed its template
Flake by flake until
Naked; pure
Black against
Snow.

Headstone upon
Life itself.
Root grave. Branch bones.
Skeleton of an
Angel.

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.

I had a few of my poems
Published in an Australian
Student project underground
Art-paper in '97.

One of my Melbourne High School
Teachers said he felt I had
One foot in Rumi's world,
The other in Bukowski's.
-
i could either be
a drunken genious
at the track
not winning
yet certainly
drinking
my health
borderline
euthanized
and writing to sustain it.
the magic and
honor in not
being an honored
magician.
-
But the sun-warmth within her palm
Makes everything she lays it upon
Feel as if kitten's belly-
Soft and as inviting to love as the
Newest-born infant on Earth
With her touch.
All is Day.
I need her too much to find sleep.
-
****. I do love them both.

Home alone
I play Dinner
Dinosaur.
Growl through dead
Poultry in
Sauce.
Men; perpetual
Boys.

Fooled again by spring changing
Its mind and retreating.

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

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

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

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

Summer sun. Today they are
Firewood in these eyes blinking

Snowflakes into tears that I wipe
With padded gloves, leaving

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

Icicled full beard.
Fooled again.

This is Norway.
This is where giants come to shiver.

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.

Little girl, your deepest fears have
Nothing on me.
Speak to me of your angst;
It's a miniscule bug to my foot.

Our pathetic misunderstandings
Are egos fighting the memories of
Each other in themselves.
Love is ***** and diamonds.

I love you prematurely when I
Sense spring on your
Skin. It turns me on beyond myself.
So let's just argue,

If that makes you feel as alive as you
Should beneath the hands of my
Unshared attention.
Little girl, your fears have nothing

On me.
I eat insecurity like sushi, wasabi
Memories of idiots telling you
You were never meant to write or

Be written of.
Grab yesterdays with the sticks of
Now-man's hands  
And toss them over your shoulder

Like salt after some you spilled.
Your deepest fear is as shallow
As a puddle.
I've shouldered ten times your

Weight, without love.
Watch me now.
You need not set a foot.
I carry you like the sky its stars.

No river bed rock ever
Kisses the same water
Twice.

Autumn opens her arms
To September, and I close
My window for the first

Time since May.
I have had better
Summers. Love left behind

In a deluge of tears and regret.
Doctors sharing bad news
With honest concern;

Waves upon sand castles,
Moments; memories, then
Nothing.

I rest beneath the
Cold stream, perhaps
Allowing new waters

To feel my face in time.
For now, the rain strokes
Nothing but the glass

Of a window shut
To the chill of a dying
Summer.

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.

Take your
Best shot, Life.

Norwegian Roulette:
Full barrel; take one
Out.
Five outta six
Ain't sad.
Look: Click.

Sun not even threatening
To set on this
Spring
Evening, and through her
Window facing the
Backyard I only now realise
That the maple tree must
Have been
Blossoming for days.

I suppose I was too occupied
With nonsense to
Notice.
Let's go, she whispers.
Let's forget about holding
Back, being rational, being so
******* realistic. Leave with
Me and just love.
I might.

I might already
Have come.

Am I so mean to you?
Is that why you leave the
Bed to go and cry alone
When you think I'm
Sleeping?*

No.

I go to think. Thinking makes me
Cry. One hour is worth five
Hours of deep sleep.
I see clearer through tears.

I go to ask. Ask why we both miss
The same sides of love.
Why we both lay on either end
Of a mile wide king size

And wait for the other's arm
To reach across the proud void.
I go to ask why we both feel
Unfairly treated for the same

Reasons. I slip away from
The sensation of sleeping alone
When I'm not; it's worse than actual
Solitude.

I go to have meetings with myself.
To evaluate. Analyze. Criticize my
Act and improve. Take and give
Blame between myselves.

Who wouldn't cry?
No, little girl. You're not mean to me.
I am. I am a poet. I don't leave your
Side to weep.

It's all poetry to me.
Poetry and tears.  
I go to sit by myself and
Not write.

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.

Why does rain smell?
How come leaves make that
Crunching sound when walked
Upon in autumn? That
Great October Sound.

We love seconds and minutes.
Hours and days are for the
Weak,
Weeks and years for the
Hopeless romantics.

Nothing hopeless
About our romance.
We just shut up and take it in.
Love? Photo album in words?
Yes.

We know it.
It's like laughing when her
Dog Shelby
Kisses me, and I kiss her back,
Wet snout and all,

And she carries that kiss to her
Owner;  
So beautiful by the mirror,
Asking me:
Should I wear the black or the

Purple dress? and I lean back
And enjoy her trying them
On.
We are the Moment People.
We snapshot microseconds

And capture them
Like this.
This is why we're poets.
We help them remember.
We write for the ones we love.

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 am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."

Wiggles her toes again
Always a good
Sign

Only rich men know
The sensation of
Coming

This close to losing
Something so
Insanely

Valuable

Ah, this meditative combination
Of balcony summer, drinks and
Poetry.
Oh, this carefree state of mindfull
Bliss; breathing tickles.
Poetry
Was never so absolute; park trees,

City summer, green lungs of
Oslo full of air.
Seeing the bushes by the railroad,
Pieces of nature
Peeping through
The cracks of civilization, taking
Control of city people's hearts.

Flowers dancing shamelessly
*******, swaying in breezes of the
Kind that picks up the heat from
Sunshine-warm streets and
Hugs you with it;
Rubs it all over you
Like a lap dancing angel.

Ah, to live is to meditate.
Late summer, August ablaze.
Weekend era; aeon of freedom.
As at home as any
Norwegian in
Norway. All I try to do ends
Up in laughter.

You checked my pulse
If I slept too
Silently.

Louder, louder!
Breathe me a storm, blow into
My eyes; force tears from a frozen
Stone.

Touch me with lightning, run your
Palms against my scars until
Your fingerprints wear down and
All evidence of our sin washes

Away like blood from a September
Crime scene flooded with rains.
Louder. Louder!
Shut my thoughts out with slaps and

Painted nails clawing and digging at
My chest in search of a heartbeat.
Once a man has gone cold, he's
Impossible to reheat.

Throw all your love on the fire, I'll
Only slip through your fingers like snow
Brought to a boil, kissing blister farewells
On your hands, rendering our

Love an open cut you weep into.
Louder, Louder!
Cry my name into my absence,

Cry the pain of love passing away in your
Arms like a wounded child soldier's blood  
Onto battleground soil.
Arise to avenge your hopes.

Take this frozen stone and name it Heart.
Cain to your Abel. Apple to Eve.
When love is reduced to a shadow, it's
Barely called ******.

I love the sound you make
In your sleep when the hair on
My chest tickles your nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goddessness.
I am a lover of moments.
You breathe, then I.

I

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.

I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.

Zoom in. See your heart at its
Most spectacular through an
Electron microscope.

I've come to embrace our
Lack of foreverness, yet
Witness it through

Our faint touches hidden
Behind backs while passing.
No, there is nothing divine

Here. No shade of an angel's
Wing over our hearts as they
Stroke each other fleetingly,

Just two pieces of mud in a
World of dirt and
Water.

A broken man in a complete
Galaxy; I carry my pieces with  
My back straight.

This scarred heart is weak, but
My arms are well trained from
Taking its loads.

I'll carry yours when you need
Me to. Zoom out. See our joined
Hearts through a telescope.

Milky Way doorways.
The magical kissing of a neck
Across a threshold.

In a tsunami of turquiose and honest
Smiles, you sing silently of
Anything but tragedies us others wave
Like flags before us,
Until asked.

The oldest young person I know,
And we laugh together across
The oceans between us.
Making noise; annoying haters.
We could be the coolest cats in the world,
If we cared to.

But we'd rather curl up under
My raindeer- and sheep skins by the  
Fire. I'll temper mead; it'll warm you.
We could watch snow falling, lit from the window
By which it fell. Then suit up in the morning

And make angels and snowmen with the landlord's  
Daughter. I'll throw so many snow ***** in the
Back of your head you'll be curly for
Months. Trust me. I'm Norwegian.
You're dead...

You'd love it. Summers are green and blue.
Life in the city electric.
Ice cream and cold, cold beer.
Out here, so quiet you can hear a thousand birds, a
Myriad of scents; freshness; organic.

This could be our happy place. Our
Safe Haven; our Sweet Away.
I'd read to you.
Write about you.
We'd paint together in the fall.
When all is red and auburn.

But there's distance between us
As wide as worlds.
For now I'll enjoy it alone.
Arms open on
Demand.

You have to stay where your life is.
And myself without the pleasure of
Making all your worries whisper away on the wind.

Girl, may you never be cold. Never sad again.
May the life you are so full of
Repay you with bliss.
With love.
With laughter. Oceans of giggles and hugs in
The sunshine.

I wish you so well it hurts. Yes,
I may think you are some sort of magic woman.
Everything you touch
Loves you.

Ode to a Norwegian mother.


How did you get to be so strong?
I shake my head in disbelief
At how she carries gold and grief
All day; all night-time long.

A silver crown upon her hair;
Those strands of grey now shine.
They speak of struggles; mother's
Fears. I wish that hers were mine.

I ask her: "Share that weight with me.
I know your legs are worn and sore."
But men have tried and failed before;
She says: "It's mine, just leave it be."

She'll pick the sun down from the
Skies. She'll sing until the ocean cries. 
She'll shift the planets all at once,
To clear a path for her two sons

To rise as Kings of Time and Space, 
And guide this place from guilt to
Grace. She raises them to save the day.
I say: Let's not get in their way.

The smell of firewood. The
Sounds it makes when burning.
Yellow light dancing on the
Paintings I made for my
Livingroom walls.

The ghost of my cat curled up
By my feet on the sofa.
Outside, the wind grabs
Branches and brushes them
Against the house.

I sit like this for hours.
Barely thinking; just being
Part of the room.
A song. A poem. Barely hidden
In the air.

He stood on her doorstep, flowers in hand.
In coat of his father's, resembling a man.
Still queenless a king, now he stands like a slave.
Flowers in hand, resembling a grave.

I wake up on my sofa after
Work, knowing she needs

Workman's hands to hold
Hammer and nail at

Points she's chosen for her
Pictures.

A stronger back for heavier
Things, but I'm spent. Work is

War, now. Power drill, pistol.
I bark orders at privates,

Not warnings at young, spiteful
Carpenters

Fresh from school
With too

Much product in their
Hair to want to wear their

Mandatory
Hard hats.

My heart skips beats when I
Lift. I count falling stars

At daytime climbing stairs.
Lie to concerned foremen.

A brain-soul-body Bermuda
Triangle of energies lost.

I have love to last her lifetimes,
Shoulders to rest her weary,

Closed eyes against or dig her
Fingernails into, gasping.

But for now, the ceiling I gaze
Up at stares back down judgingly,

Not recognizing this frowning
Ghost of the mud-covered grin I

Carried a few, short years ago.
The futile clawing and sliding of

A minuscule man climbing a
Colossal statue of himself.

My mind travels towards that
Vein on her neck my
Mouth once found

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

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

Broken.

Sweet irony
I hurt myself
Daily
Building.

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.