What a cheerful world
Mine has become
Since I started forcing myself

To smile when my alarm
Goes off

Every
Single
Morning

It takes less
And less
Force

Resting my back against
A back resting itself
Against mine.

What was lifted from my eyes
That made the end of summer
Seem so bright?

This could be a hospital, but
There is good health and honest,
Unpaid care in the walls.

Wherever I am in a room
I can reach out and feel the
Warmth with which

A goddess would sign her
Every most self-mirroring
Creation.

Feeding me dinners, and gentle
Strokes on my arm by my
Side in the

Cinema, taking it easy. Talking,
Loving and getting to know.  
Slow. In and

Out of a place of light in weight
And colour, being asked nothing
But not asking,

And calmly, gratefully accepting
Carresses and other gifts.
Being given to,

By someone who loves to give.
Sometimes I have so much hope
For humanity.

First day this year with sun.
Real sun. Summer sun. I; on the
Warm doorstep. The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps on my lap.

Contemplating shaving just to feel
Closer to the heat.
Scent of garden, fields, gravel road
And the eccos of generations
Feeling the same sheer happiness
Over weather.

Silence but the birds and a distant tractor.

The barn wall opening where the
Collapsed part protruded
Is partly covered with the ripped remains of a tarp-
Storm ridden unremorsefully
Weathered and waving gently still
The sad thin skin of itself in
Soothing winds.
A close-up of waves.
A poem of little tzunamies.

Spring sun rising
On fields dry from
Frost that sing
Of rainbows.

Duet between the frail film
Of ice on everything
And its beautiful astral
Killer.

Light playing on surfaces at their most beautiful
Right before they
Perish.

All it took was
One grown-up touch
Too close to places she was
Too young to name.

Now all hands move
Like searching spiders on the
Table of her little
Self.

Skin constantly goosebumped.
Eyes focused on the
Potential harmfulness
Within and between all things
That move with
Predatory silence.

She walks as if under
Water, like a weblocked
Fly; afraid to make ripples
And draw

Adult
Arachnid
Attention.

Dry your eyes,
Little girl.
Don't let them in.
They're only words.

There, now. There.
It's just a tear.
A raindrop from your  
Atmosphere.

I promise you
Clear skies again.
Brush off your knees.
Arise again.

Dry your eyes,
My little friend.
More things begin
Where others end.

So stand and shine
Despite their words.
They envy you.
Of course it hurts.

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.

Gravel pathways across a
Graveyard.
Rainbows in
Garden sprinkler droplets.
Church tower swallows.
I know death.

I know its smell, the touch of
Something unalive. I know
Its feeling.
It is sharp, lucid and transparent.
White haze in open eyes,
Dreams and memories now

Forgotten.
Stones leaning like mourning
Heads against one another. Trees
In breeze, one has grown around
The single rusty lamp post.
I have stood in its light.

Stood in its light looking up,
Caught not crying over a tragedy.
I know death. I know its feeling.
Closer every time I think of it;
The opposite of a mirage.
Mine may very well one

Day be the first dead body
Someone has ever seen.
These blue eyes milky blind.
Arms like branches; twig fingers.
Life means surprisingly little with
Your hands upon its absence.

Leave my name on each bullet.
Show me your shadow,
Scythe and all.
Dead as burned trees and great
Grandparents. Rancid rest. Dirt.
I know death.

I have medicine.
Am being kept alive by progress.
Little pills like droplets of pale blue
Doctor-nectar.

I have been inside women so beautiful
I nearly gave up
Ghost.
Their confidences were instruments

Of classical composers.
The creative pleasure of the
Universe manifested. Aesthetics. Pure.  
Their bodies were salty

Words longing to be
Poetry.
They did it.
Made flesh immortal.

My hands were dead upon them; my
Heart skipped beats in the name of
Glossiness.
Twig fingers upon dead silicone.

And I grew around their hearts
Like a tree around a graveyard light post;
Watered with tears and appreciated at times  
When any

Grieving heart throws itself at anything
Beautiful and
Rigid.
For something.

I know love.
It tickles and hurts.
And I know death.
They're related.

Sisters separated at birth.
I know Poetry.
She says to Death and Love:
*Do you guys have the

Other two
Thirds of
This
Medallion?

Beyond the reach of castle wall
Shadows, calloused hands shield tired
Eyes from the unrelenting sunlight
Burning red shoulders and humble
Harvests.

Plow for sword, horse for labour,
Opposite of knight and royalty.
Hands that only take life for nutrition
Wave back at the queen standing
In the cottage doorway, smiling.

Apron cape, head proud beneath the
Invisible crown of motherhood.
Needs no throne, a woman so strong
She never sits.
Life is perfect in the eyes and hearts

Of those content with little.
May lightning split the skies and water
Pour upon these fields.
Our gold is oat, we need no moat to
Protect the walls of our home.

No foe invades for so little.
Ashes of dead distant stars; this soil.
Watered with the sweat of generations.
I would fight for this land.
I do so every day.

You finally let me call you
Girlfriend. So
I do until I forget
Your name.

I carve our initials
Into grateful trees
Until I cannot see the
Forest for the love.

Climb. I'll catch you
If.
I have arms to save
Worlds.
Growl at me during a bad
Day; my heart is too callused

To bleed from involuntary
Cuts.
We all carry blades; scissor
Hands also reach
Out for comfort.

You finally call me boyfriend.
I am.
Ask the trees.
Ask their beautiful scars.

Twice as strong
Twice as patient
Twice as confident

Double halves
Dancing

I find missing things
In you

Even your shadow
Is my

Friend

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.

His pants were nearly down on his
Knees. His ballcap was more than
Askew. She  
Was way beyond eighty, as swift
As a snail.
The traffic more "train" than a
Queue.

His friends were all laughing, and
Yes, so was he. Suppose it was meant
As a joke.
But so gently he took her by arm and
Across; our gratitude's all he
Provoked.

She thanked him with eyes that were
Wet with relief. And left us bystanders
In plain disbelief.
He bowed like a gentleman, bid her
Adieu...
Doing as real people do.
-
I knew I had hurt her by ways of a
Child; thoughtless and  
Unconsciously.
I asked her the next day to sit for a
While. And accept my apology.

She said with her hand on my cheek
Like a mom: "No need for it boy, I
Know you.
It happens to everyone under the
Sun... You acted like
All people do."
-
I've nothing but gratitude every day
For people acting in every way
Thinkable, all we're expected to
Is to do just as all people do.

Sometimes we are kind, but more
Often than not
We're selfish and cruel and
Demanding a lot.
But it's worth it, I think, for those
Angel-like few
Who do things as real people do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eyes as blue as the North Sea,
Hair black as the soul of a crow.

Smile like that of a child
Seeing a bicycle finally

Unwrapped and shining, smelling
Factory fresh and prestine.

She'd beat the life out of any fool
Laying fist on my flesh, she says.

I trust she would.
My western Norwegian Shield Maiden,

Born on the coast where seagulls are the
Size of dragons.

She has one foot on top of the world,
The other rested on my lap,

And we're team more than lovers.
Lovers more than people.

Eyes as blue as her hometown skies.
Hair as black as the absence of light

Itself. And I, pilgrim.  
Rest.

We laugh like there's nothing
That's not hilarious.
We speak in unison when skipping down

Cobblestone streets, on our way to
Music or movies. Like magnets
Through two crowds, drawn

Until interconnecting. Astral athletes
Exchanging tops after a game; pointing,
Asking, learning, relaxing.

Learning, relaxing more, pacing. When
Love tries, everything becomes
Dancing.

Dirtiest mouth this side of Hell.
Ocean horizon eyes, laughter like
Galloping horses thundering by;
Making everything else
Shake with blissful amusement.
Like me.
Man...

We talk for hours.
You place a feather on
My fresh stitches; blow gently
On the burns and smack a good-
Night

Kiss from half way across the
World so directly onto my
Forehead,
I turn over and sleep like a
Bear cub momside.

You are more than you'll ever
See yourself.
You shine with shades of
Beautiful not yet
Mapped by those who do.

Your words attracted me.
Our attraction helped healing me.

We stand in sunlight, under
The silver sails
Of our friendship; cutlass drawn,  
Spyglass raised towards the
Adventure.

I'll write with you until
We're both blind.
I'll laugh with you until
We suffocate,

I'll tell you a secret
Every time you want.

Until we share them all.

Then we'll make each other
New ones.

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.

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.

For Petal Pie and Louise.*

My alarm is a piece of music that
Reminds me of when I awoke
With my mouth on a woman's

Naked shoulder, last.
I've found the right song to differ
Night from day.

I'll start there and
Run with anything, smiling.  
I've been serious enough.

So begins my day. There is no
Garment between my bed and
My bathroom. If the night

Was warm, I'll glimmer like a
Twillit vampire (a thousand diamonds...)
If it was not, I move through the room

Like your regular, hairy
Neanderthal.
I walk showerwards as I walked

Into this world. Without
All. The mirror says: "You could
Have lifted more," while also

Saying: "...many have lifted
Less..." I care less for that  
Than warm water bringing every

Pore of my body from
"I am an unrideable horse," to
"This is my machine. This is my

Only vessel. I will row this ship
Like I row towards the only star
I care to maneuver to;

Shining as such: It is a woman's
World. It wants you; like flowers  
Want water."

Thank you. I know that guy in the
Mirror. He's been gone for
A while.

November shakes the wet from
Her wings and stretches them to
Their full reach; tips touching
The death and birth of October
And December,
Feathers the colour of leafless
Trees and ploughed fields.

A thirty day lifespan of deathbed
Lullabies and hardened faces,
Bodies crouching to lay themselves
Upon their own warmth in
Desperation, clouds of breath
Escaping layers of
Cotton and wool.

Winter is as inevetable as dying.
I wander between birches and
Pinetrees like crooked teeth
Protruding from the mist; the
Bones of something decomposed
Between moss and
***** forest water.

Black as old blood.
Brown as mud, air like millions
Of tiny arrows against any bare
Skin.
This landscape could be someone's
Nightmare, some horror movie
Set or a Ted Hughes poem backdrop.

But I stand, still and alone, one
Palm against a rotten tree trunk,
The other upon my Norwegian
Heart. It is a time for looking within
For strength. To be silent and not think,
But feel; a time for building fires.
To gather what's dry, and prepare.

I have never thrown
A stone at two
Birds

I'm not without
Sin, this house
Is all glass

And besides, who
Needs to **** anything
To multitask

Man's love of money...
I love it too. It results in
Food, drink and shelter
For my loved ones. But...
On days when my back
Won't straighten properly,
When my carpenter's elbow, rugby
Knee and boxer's hands
Impair me
I ask myself
How many hours I've worked
To pay just
Interest.
How many banker's cigars
And Department of Finances-
*****-ups I've
Funded with
What's left of these knots of
Muscle and bone that
Are moving towards giving
Up the guitar.
Haven't owned a new one
Since '94 anyway.

So if what I've heard is correct,  
Five percent
Of the world's population
Earn ninety percent of all
Money made.

Somebody very high up
Should be fired.
When I'm dead
I'll ask to see
The books.

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.

The car I thoughts was parked
Up the road lending headlights
To my bedroom wall is in fact
The moon.

I think I broke my brain
Trying to remember
Life before enlightenment.
Golden lights escape through cracks.
Soulness inside.
And forever.
Sun.

In the vault of my innermost,
Shelves shelf letters.
Some rhyme.

I'll never send you an email.
I'd rather cry into a rust red leaf
Held before your face to

Not kiss.
Winter is coming; Death approaching,
Carrying Life in

Her arms like a
Newborn
Cliché.

So we didn't ****
Ourselves this time
Either.

Leave scars on the cheeks of her man.
Scars deeper than any left by angry
Fists, or gravel.
Deeper than those slapped on by wedding
Ringed fingers; now naked.

A woman's tears.
Each heavier than an ocean.
Deeper too,
The chambers in which their source and
Remedy rest.

Outside the walls of which
Water falls.

Each drip-drip-drip
A vertical sea in the uncynical/
Cynical eyes of
Timelessness and male poetry.

I've always loved to make her laugh.
She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.

First call from the hospital;
The worst one I've ever made.
"I'm sorry. Yes, it's cancer."

Hearing a mother's worst
Fear grip her throat with the
Force of a crocodile's jaws around

The neck of something
Unsuspecting.
She does what mothers do: Finds

Strength within the heart of
Complete devastation.
Clears her throat and tries to

Speak,
But the sounds she makes are
Fingernails on

A blackboard to a sympathetic son.
I am not the victim here.
I am merely a messenger

Whose life is on the line, bringing
Bad news to the
Undeserving.

"Didn't you put us through
Enough with your nearly failed
Heart surgery a

Decade ago?"
She manages a stab at
Sarcasm, and I

Smile in comfort
At her
Courage.

I smile into my phone.
I smile at the emerald
Lawn around the

Hospital. At the sky, where low,
Dark clouds speed above me
Like angry, little spaceships. I

Smile at the horizon, where
The sun sets behind an
Almost pitch black

Promise of evening rain.
And my mother doesn't shed a
Thousand

Tears. She sheds one.
One single tear, the size of a
Womb around

Herself, like hers once
Held me.
A shield of salt water,

Transparent kevlar of
Maternal self-defence.
Flashbacks from little legs kicking,

A sore back and things swollen,
The battle of her first birth.
"Life's not supposed to

Be boring," I try, and she grasps at
Anything light-
Hearted in desperation,

Letting out a little laugh; not
Forced, but faint.
A slight relief from the

Nightmare.
I've always loved
To make her laugh.

She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.
There are parents who

Take their childrens' good
Health for granted.
I know two that

Never will.
"Have you spoken to your father?"
"I'm going to," and we

Hang up
With our usual I-love-yous.
The wind picks up the fallen

Features of August, whirling
Them against
Bricks and across parking

Lots, and I pause
Before I
Dial.

Swig of cold coffee, button up the
Ridiculous patient-
Shirt they gave me, and

I can't take my eyes
Off of that
Horizon.

That dark, wet deluge approaching,
And it's dad's turn now.
I love to make him laugh.

This time I won't try.  
I crush a handful of dead leaves that I  
Surrender to the wind

As he picks up and answers with
An unsteady, nervous eagerness.
"Yes, hello?"

"Hi, dad. It's me."
I brush my hand clean on
My pant's leg

And begin with the loving
Determination of
A parent about to rip a

Disney-band aid from the
Bruised knee of an anxious
Toddler.

Two broken
Eggs on the floor.

Flour and milk on
The bench.

Sinks both full of
Dishes and knives,

Pots and stirrers and
Ladles. The bin

Has long since given
Up on containing.

Bacon in air.
Me on sofa.

What on Earth
Happened here?

She's home. *I got
Hungry.

Keep your voice at the level of
Monastary; volume of
Clouds.
Let sleeping men lie.
When my knuckles turn
White around the wheel,
For God's sake shhh; I have  
A fuse of gasoline, diesel
In my gut and veinfulls of
Nitro.
The first thing the explosion
Kills, is the bomb.

You don't need gloves
To handle me; it's me
Your touch
Hurts.
It's my turn this morning.
I'm a porcupine with its
Fur on inside
Out.

New love.
New day.
Some strange sunrise in the
Eyes of the man she just
Possibly chose over
Many.

Not her preference at all, she
Thought, then closed her hand
Around her past, and with one
Last squeeze, let it go.
A man with issues and demons
Different than

The rest of them.
A soft touch -that new too-
And a habit of buying her lilies.
New love.
New day.
Some strange sun setting over

A lifetime of raised hands and
Voices.
Give me days, years, or more,
He whispers.
Love focused on feelings, not
Flesh.

And I will stand with
You. Lay
With you. Walk
Barefoot through
Meadows and minefields
With you.

Glove tossed in a challenge of
Love.
He braces his heart for her
To accept.
I'm bracing my heart for hers
To accept.

Are you just going to stand there and
Watch me peel this garlic, she asks.  
I shrug with a slight smile.  

Beer to my lips, and I catch her moving
The way a dancer does when she doesn't
Dance.

What is art?
This.
The juggling of seconds that contain

Something more than all of those
Without her.
We could be on a midsummer

Balcony in Venice, or
In a barley field in Provence, mid-
Kiss and laughing so soothingly the

Sun doesn't even feel like it takes.
Red skinned by sun-down, sipping
Local wine and asking ourselves

How the Hell life became so
Liveable. But she's in my kitchen, *not
Dancing across the worn down linoleum

With a freshly peeled piece of garlic in
Her hands, and I just found the key to
The treasure chest that contains

All the reasons I have to keep
Breathing instead of not
To.

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.

It's getting pretty dark in here.

I have no words for this void, no
Name for this emptiness,
Other than
That.

I have narrowing vision and a
Spinning head. Tears in my
Eyes, and am feeling sick.

I have not a grain of familiarity within my
Reach; I could be anyone
Anywhere.

How the Hell can a heart
Take as many beatings as
This old thing, and still

Keep beating back?
It's been broken,
Bruised and cut.

A worthy opponent
To the World.

My rhymes are sore.
I've sprained both my
Anaphoras quite badly. Oh,
And I bleed from all my metaphors.

My episthropes are fractured from
Endless twosome emphasis.
I've taken a bad one today.
It's bedtime for beat poets.

The most interesting person
I have met was the one
Least focused on being just that.

Paper beats rock.
It never tries to rain.

My whole life
I've been focused
At times almost
Desperate to win

The fight
I never tried
To beat
*It

Torn was the fabric of our
painful pasts.

torn by shots fired from heart
to heart, ricocheting between

bruises and disappointments,
then wedging themselves between

ribs, to rest and incapsulate.
I run my asking fingers across

your entry wound.
we did this to ourselves.

torn to pieces, the drapes between
us and The Holiest of Heavens.

let us never cease fire.
empty your every clip;

beautiful, beautiful
bullets.

I'll never forget her face.
Our eyes met; both had butterflies
In our stomachs that had
Butterflies in theirs.

Teenage features made
My eyes softer from
Touching them with vision.  
Smiling with every inch of

Herself; slightly protruding
Canines gave her a sense of
Wildness. An insanely
Beautiful wolf.

Mouth slightly open in
Centre at default.
Those lips that women botox
Themselves to achieve.  

Angelina Jolie's half-sister's face.
I became a slightly different man
Then.
Like after a near-death-experience.

After three and a half years together
She still blows my mind.
I can watch her from a distance, and
Contemplate the way her skin seems

So thin over her collar bone that
You wouldn't dare even kiss it
If you could. That, and how I rest my
Face there every evening and thank

Whomever it May Concern
For it all.
I am a man with hungry eyes and
Hands.

Beauty is my ******.
My own strengthening, inspiring,
Comforting -every-day-Heaven-
******.

I rub her shoulders; like
Softening mahogany.

Hands ruined from decades
Of construction and boxing

Do her too little good.
I'd give her my back; it's much

Better than hers. Keep my hands
And my stitched up heart with the

Ticking aorta valve of titanium
And granite (such contrast to its

Otherwise volunerable softness), but
I'd give her these shoulders.

They can carry worlds, the full weight
Of a grown woman  

For miles, across continents if so.
They have carried everything except

The ability to lend themselves. As
Useless as beauty to the blind.

With eyes narrow from fatigue
And worries, I gaze at the
Traces of time on my bedroom
Ceiling.

Cracks and flaking paint.
Do nightmares and dreams
Leave their imprints
In wood, like silent poltergeists

Remembered; collected;
Guarded; stored?
Invisible scars on dead surfaces.
So unlike those on me

That she finds with drowzy
Fingertips in the dark,
When I visit and cannot
Sleep from the alien music

Of the Oslo City night. It
Lacks the sound of wind
In trees playing with leaves
That usually make up my

Bedtime soundtrack.
I awoke from dreaming she'd
Left me; driving away with
Some ex and not looking back.

I ran until my
Legs buckled. Ran after her.
I sure hope her poor walls
Don't remember.

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.

Brother Bear (your name in English)
once again we meet in joy.
Soon our laughter rolls across the fields
and plains and forests, boy.

My best friend, my twin although
you're twin years younger than I am. 
Still in many ways superior to this
rough and rugged man.

*Hark, I feel my stomach shiver.
I can hear my liver sigh.
I can sense my brain's uneasiness,
I hear my kidneys cry.
I can feel my long intestine curling up
and screaming WHY!?
I can smell the smoke from meat ablaze
across the summer sky.

Catch every word flung in your direction
As if spoken with the purest, kindest of intents.
You'd be surprised how often
They are.
Take rocks for roses, no matter how
Cold to the first touch.

Learn from river hit by boulder or feather.
I have room for both.
Float along or rest.

No thing thrown in anger hurts me.
I will not complain nor
Thank. I am a river; I
Run to nothing
From nothing.

No one single misunderstanding arises
Where man so rarely roams.

Do not ask why you are here,
Treading the waters of a
Planet leaving tears on the
Straight razor held
Firmly to her throat by her
Children.

You are here to dance your life
Out from birth to dust
On the floor between Satan and
Seraph, between kind and
Selfish. Between
Poet and predator.

Know that a light heart, love
For yourself and others; a
Whispered gratitude for the
Smallest of things, is the tallest
Tree in Paradise.
Anger is an axe.

And fear. Fear is a chainsaw.
See the flower; ignore the
Thorns.
Look past the hurtful comment;
More often than not, it was a tickle,
Not a slap.

Be the finger that begins the easing
Of the grip around the razor's
Handle. Form an open hand upon
The face of our blue mother.
Kiss her. Kiss her every sweet
Tear of relief.

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.