I could be a dog left out in the rain,
Hungry and counting every minute
In sevens.  
I'd wait for you for days, through
Nights, never giving up.
Raising my wet head at every and any
Shadow passing. Hoping. Hoping.
Hoping.

I'll wait forever for you to trust me.

I could be a single seed, windborne,  
Then dropped in just enough soil
To crack open and whisper myself roots
As faint as mere thought at first.
Growing, drinking, bathing in sun,
Bending with the movements of
Earth and air.

I'd grow forever until you trusted me.
I'll wait forever for you to trust me.

I've hurt as many people as I've shaken
Hands with in this life.
Nearly every important choice I made
Was a bad one.
I take full responsibility.
So trust me.

I'll never lie and say I'll never make you
Cry. I love you too honestly for
Truthlessness. No cloak and dagger,
No lie less white than Girl, these flowers  
Are not for you.
I am as disappointingly human as
They come.
Men.

I'll let you down, I'll make you wonder,
I'll see you question your own
Judgement, and taste in men.
I refuse to pretend to be more than I am.
I'm too old to fake.
Too old to care too much for  
Opinions and impressions.
So trust me;

I'll shake my wet fur on your new coat,
I'll jump up and lick your face,
Leave strands of hair and smelly
Wet smudges all over you,
As happy as only a dog can be.
Trust me.
Take the leash and walk me home.

I've been waiting forever for you to
Trust me.
I'll wait forever for you to trust me.

I'm not even tied to that pole.

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.

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.

Love watching
Talent shows.

With so much talent
That might never be

Witnessed, how come I
Hear the same song on the

Radio twenty
Times a day

For
Months?

Widen the
Spotlight.

When we don't speak
All signals are clear

As if undistorted by matters
Of heart's flesh and

Ego's transparent frailty.
Whether close as Siamese Lovers

Or a whole world apart; I have the
Password to the Wi-Fi of your soul.

Raindrops on a train window.
So early it's late.
Eyes narrow with deep sleep
Unhad, mouth still bitter
From medicine breakfast.

Carousel of Everyday.
Not staying home is like
Being released into prison.
Dizzy fatigue, city chaos.
Some of us belong in the

Woods; look the
Most familiar from afar in
The mist.
I'll find bonfire comfort
With my temple against her

Collarbone.
Wilderness skies in her eyes.
Sometimes her skin is such
An opposite to cold concrete,
I cry in comfort.

Eyes narrow with warm
Familiarity. My
Tears on her tattoos like
Raindrops on a train
Window.

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

To their sounds
I doze and
Drift
Away

I get so close
To it
I can taste it
In the
Air

Then my personality
Changes
To a lesser
One, like
The

Wind suddenly
Changing
On a hunter,
Giving his
Scent

To it;
Seeing it
Flee from
The mouths
Of his
Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looks at me like
I'm not an
Angel.

I'm good with
That.
Some of us fly

Either
Or. Wingspan of good things
Or not.

Push me in two hours.
Awakening means I
Live still.

Your voice reminds me:
It's worth getting up at
4am.

This Thing Called World
Awakens not; shifts.
I am animal to its

Soul; wings to its crow.
Never afraid, never uneasy.
Worlds turn.

Planets are never alone.
I can't wait to find the love
Of my

Life there. On other soil.
She hides well.
This universe ain't big enough

For the two of us,
Slim.
I am the only sad god I need.

I eat so much fruit
These days. I've become
Addicted.

I sometimes go outside just
To taste the fresh breeze. Summer
Is almost over;  

Soon there'll be a threat of
Snow on the air at night.
So swiftly they go, the winter-

Less months. I will wake up
In the dark. Ice crystals on my
Bedroom

Window. I can make a print
Of my palm in them every
Morning, then.

Taste pure winter. Taste
Her on my fingers. My coldest
Lover.

Here. brush and palette.
paint us on the
walls of tomorrow's
universe.

bright colours, please.
I didn't walk this far
to darken.
paint us

smiling. laughing. content.
believing. no prayers on
knees; no coin wet with
wishing well water.

all we need is imagination
and faith.
bellies made for butterflies;
skin for tingling.

life is meant for risks.
we only live a thousand
times.
look.

this fantastic view shows
nothing unsoft. I didn't climb
this high not to
jump.

My friend Kaia has these
Marbles that she hasn't lost
Yet.

A few of them work together
When we discuss my
Alcoholic Anger  
Problem:

You have to vent the things that
Irk you. Before you get drunk.
"Get it out and over with.
You'll have nothing to be
Angry about when you
Drink."

So clear.
I am such an
Idiot.

Guys. It's too late for me.
But save yourselves.
No drunk anger ever.

The **** you say...
So glad our mothers will
Never hear us like that.
They'd cry for days.

"Don't go to bed angry," they say.
I say "don't drink a drop with a
Grudge."

It'll **** your
Everything if you keep
Dancing with it; the

House always wins.
You'll never be yourself
Again.

It'll all go away, and it'll
Never be
Worth
It.

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.

Poor girl.
In love with Poet.

Poet and man; angry at times;
Firing insults you can't

Possibly
Counter.

Beating you black and blue
With flowers
And feathers.

Poor girl.
Loved by Poet.

Loved and held closest;
First to fall victim

To every sudden movement
In matters of hearts
And hands.

Girl. If you were as close as
You could, those would not be the
Covers of your bed against you.

You'd wonder how many arms
I had; you'd ask how something
Could so hold you.

That is how close I would be.
Between your skins.
Within your withinnermost.

I would find you. I would dig
Until I found you; separate you;
Open your smile to mine.

See you seeing me seeing you as
As naked as anything without
Anything; final, final self.

That pillow; my arm. That pillow;
My other. That cover is not from
Feathers; I envelope you with

My ownership of the bed we lay
Upon, if I must. I claim what I
Crave; your rest. Rest.

Tears from hurt, then fear, then
lust, then contentment.
one sliding down the still
wet path of the other.

nothing changes like the
weather
within
woman.

Streetlights passing by reflected
In her storm of mixed
Emotions render her tears
Falling stars.

Makes a wish with every salty  
Drop on her lips.
Lips one man would touch briefly
With the tip of an adoring thumb, and

By that satisfaction alone
Die fulfilled,
While others see her as a tool, tossed
Back into the box when dull and

Exhausted.
Fit for a throne, yet only every odd evening
Finds her way to bed from the sofa
Before sleep finds her fading with fatigue.

Shoulders, neck, back, wrists, all
Aching in unison; a choir of
Discontentment, yet still driven by the
Love for her teenage

Kings.
I always hope she's laughing. I
Always hope she sleeps.
In my mind I rest a hand upon her

Belly when she dreams; the
Only way she'll accept a touch
Without shying away
With a faint, forced smile.

Beams of full moon finding their
Ways through bedroom curtains to her
Nearly closed eyes. She yawns a tear or
Three and turns towards the pale

Warmth; moonlight again rendering
Them falling stars.
No wishes for now.
Rest is her only lover.

I always hope she sleeps.

He drops the rest of his one
Daily smoke
On the cold January ground.
Puts his glove back on
And gazes at the crane,
With distant eyes under the brim
Of his orange hard hat.

Then, through one of those smiles
That make any bad day better,
He turns to me and speaks.

*Always eat the yellow snow, Sverre.
It could be beer...

Alone I keep
All the lights
Off.
Ain't no
Sunshine
When
She's
Gone.

By: Sverre G. Holter & Digital Asylum*

I|

I am a man. I was put on
Earth to bleed from my hands.
Work is my virtue. I only sleep well
If I'm exhausted.
Your food and shelter is my gain.
My sweat is the salt on our table.

II|

I *am a man, but also child
with a paper-mache heart and
sandcastle dreams, a child wishing
for later tides while we play
splashing in and out of the waves
but the tide always comes,
and castles crumble, and we
we tell ourselves that there's no need for fear
because we will build stronger walls
tomorrow

III|

Today is our day though
Let us work at love.
Let us play with love.
Let us dance until our feet
Blister and we collapse
Laughing into each other's arms in equal fatigue.
All I want is you.
All I have is you.
All I've never lost is love.
It is our costliest toy;
Unbroken

IV|

Unbroken it may be for now
yet the time will come, as with all good things
where life and love will come to its bitter end
our lives will have ran their course
and in that moment, we will know and be known
we will laugh our last laugh
we will drink and be merry
knowing we loved and were loved
and as the water comes washing in
we still stand behind walls of sand
and we will face the tide together

*unafraid

Sunday afternoon.
Bus stop by the river. Two
Teenagers in love
Practice hugging between hugs.

Laughter.
Skin.
Red cheeks.
Frost breath kisses.

Wonderful to see the
World trying to
Be a world
Again.

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.

Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

Every line on my face
is one drawn between
myself and my
conscience, then
crossed.

If you hold a seashell
Against your ear,
You will hear a tic-toc
Within the knock of your own
Heart counting down by

Each beat being
Unfathomably fainter; you
Must
Write
Now.
Write for your life.

Silence is sin. Blank pages and
Clean walls around
The dwellings of your poetic
Powers; pure
Blasphemy.

Write, poet. Write for your life.
Counter every grain
Of sand passing, with
Words.
Write prose on the wind with
Your fingers to be carried into

The Archives of All. Write as if
Your death depends
On it. Express the beauty of
Our common insignificance,
And how we are still
Held above
Angels.

Write for your lives, flee
From slumber; awake.
There's lucidity here, unlike
Any seen through the haze of a
Dreamer's eyes.

You are the voice of the
Human Race, the last line of
Defence against
Robot lives
In a cold
Machine.

Write for our lives.
Write for your lives.

When she reads, the way her
Tongue peeks out slightly
As if trying to taste the words,
Makes a full-day poem worth
Every second of dropping ink.

I love it all, she'll say.    
Even if only the first few
Lines make the side of her
Mouth curve in comprehension

The way it does when she's
Warm from being
Agreed with by whom- or
Whatever's before her.

She'll love it all, as long as I have
Words and blood in me.
She'll love it all, as long as I have ink
And we have history.

There are little diamonds
Delighting her
In the bits of white between
Every word.

She cries with the force of the stampede
That killed Mufasa, and I forget the
Viking blood that runs through us.

Weakness on display is a sign of strength.
She is the strongest person I know;  
Does almost everything without

Me. Barely cries about it afterwards,
When hindsight lets her see what she's
Been through.

Wake up, little heart; your nightmare is
Over. Fall back asleep in arms that
Care.

Listen: It's not raining anymore.
She calls out to me like air raid sirens
Over a city dark with enemy aircraft

Wings.
But all is quiet now.
Nothing harder than drops of

Water ever fell.
Sleep. Sun upon cloudless skies will
See you smile, drowzy; unalone.

It's been a year of heroes.
I've met so many of them
Since January.  

Ed Kowalczyk, Eric Church...
And Neil Gaiman today.
They were

All the same comforting
Base of blood and bones as
The rest of us.

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.

I waste not a lamb's tailshake
On yearning; missing someone

That was -but isn't.
Life is too short to dance
With yesternight's attention.

I waste not one thought;
One tear;
One sliver of regret
On something that ended for
Something.

I love now.
As forever as Universe.

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

Don't worry, little friend.
Don't be so concerned.
Even flames bend
To see you unburned.

The clouds that cover
The blistering suns
Are the skies watching over
Our treasured ones.

So just go outside and
Dance in the rain.
You don't need to hide,
There's no danger or pain

That threatens you, child.
You are never alone.
You are safe in the wild;
Mother Nature is home.

Waking up with my
Head on her naked chest

Made me feel
Fourteen

Your true life began as you
Picked up your first pencil.

Learning your words and
Sharing them; thoughts became

Things.

Your true life began with your
Hands putting colour to  

Paper.
It was your first breath.

Words came to you, one by one;
Like steps; you learned to walk.

We held your hands as you
Progressed laughing, singing:

                       I want more.

I want to create. Transfer thoughts.
You reached your teens with your

First poem. The one about kittens.
Sometimes you fell.

Came home from school crying
Over painful words; rejection.

We had been through it too, and
Knew how to pick you back up,

Sit you down at a table to write
It out. *Just write, sweetheart.  

                       Just write.

Your life began when the first
Grown up eyes fell upon your

Words and welled up with
Parental pride.

You knew you could speak
To feelings; even an adult's.

Every word you'll ever throw
From your heart will hit

At least another. Every feeling
You form into a sword and ******

At the neck of an enemy of a cause;
A love; a matter; a moment

A call to gathering,
Will draw blood.  

Young poet, yours is the oldest of
Souls. You see the clearest; speak

The loudest, hear the most. Write,
Just write! Some arrows will hit

Heart, but you have a shielding legion
Around you, to take the bullets,

Blades and critisism hurled against
You; you are not alone.

Write. Grow. It's a universe that hungers
For your every little word.

I

...she tip-toes in, sprinkling
Fairy-dust into the darkest
Corners of my mind's living room.   
Shuts the door behind her with
A smile of the kind that sees
Sobbing babies of all ages
Silent and asleep.

Skulls as candle-holders, knuckle
Duster paperweights, blades
["...there are so many
Weapons in here..."].
My taste in art and decor
Is dark and delightfully human.
Aesthetics so alien to an angel.

She sees right through it.
Warrior or shaman,  
All souls are children in  
Her eyes.


II

Having pried up puzzle pieces
That were hammer-****** into
Submission, she puts deep things
Into place
["Shh... just follow the sound of
My voice..."], has love enough for
Lifetimes, yet will always be

Her own.
How could any man not
Dream to harness as much as a
Single ray of her shine?
Comfort; healing; an element in
Human disguise. But her laughter  
Sparkles its give-away:

Us mortal men don't carry  
The strength to hold her as gently,
Lightly; unpossessively as one
Must.


III

Goddess demanding her hugs
Received, or angel pulling pain
From something broken.
Hands that love the life in  
Everything touch also the
Spaces between things.
Find us lost ones there.

A warm river cutting through
Winter frost, ice cold slumber
And lonely fatigue.
*Tired? Here, I'll make
Time go away
For a
While.

You owe me nothing,
Little boy.
Our souls are always
Even.

You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As you've ever been.
Re-engage your safety.
Holster your stress.
Your car is a gun.
Your key the trigger.

Two ton hollow-points flying
Down every street in the world; lead
In search of potential tissue.

The father witnessed his own heart
-Shape and weight of a five-year-old-
Break into molecules midplay
On the parking lot
Under a blind reverse.
Perhaps the groceries blocked her view.
Clip emptied in a split second.
Your car is a gun.
Your car is a gun, a child's tunnel vision
As narrow as the barrel of a .22.
Aim carefully, away from people.
Squeeze, don't pull. You hold lives with
Your steering wheel. Destinies under your feet.
Every turn you make has room for tragedy.
Your car is a gun.
A hot, smoking gun.

You are in as little a hurry
This morning
As they are to put something so
Small in the ground
And return with heavy unhealable hearts
To a house
That won't see them smile
For another five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*I love your
Every single
Circle.

Funny how self-
Sacrifice is such an
Alien concept to
Some.

I'd rather break your
Heart and both your
Legs, than one of
My nails.

Suppose we're all
Raised one
Way, or
Not. At all.

Cancer, old devil.
I've shaken my fists at your
Ugly back as

You've laid your
Hands on my loved
Ones.

Cursed your name;
Kicked at your
Shadow. At last you've

Gathered the
Courage to
Face me. I

Suppose you could only
Ignore me for so   
Long.

Come at me with scythe
Raised, I'll stand,  
Broadsword

Drawn.
No shield; double-
Grip-swinging.

I'm ready.
No nurse ever saw
You greeted

With
A smile like
This.

Woman. Man's mystery.
Soft as feather falling through mist,
In need of something that isn't.
I keep forgetting
That I'm rarely the reason for
Whether you rain or shine.

I am the rock you hide under
While the deluge pounds.
I am the rock you rest upon when
Soaking up the sun.
I am the rock you recognize
As last milestone before home.

Deep inside the eye of your storm
You blame me as little
For anything
As you'd blame any other rock
For something.
I'm just there.
Whatever hits you
Hits me.

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

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

And snack on.
In
Silence.

It's a giant
Leap from
Not.