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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

It was a good bonfire
Leaving the autumn pasture

Covered in light smoke
Like some medieval campsite

Knives sheathed; leaning on our
Newly whittled staffs

We spoke of fathers; how some
Keep on living long after their souls

Leave their bodies
Leaving their wives with less laughter

And life than they deserve
If we ever become bitter old men, he

Said, directly to my eyes,
We have to... we have to cut

Our women loose, before we pull
Them down with us

The wind changed, blowing smoke
And ashes through the trees

Point it out if it happens, I replied
We shook on it

Winter introduced itself like a
Sudden death in the family.
A -28 degrees celsius day has fingers
Thin enough to reach through glass,
Leaving its ice on the inside of
Windows.

I find candles and carry firewood,
Preparing for a cold one.
Out here, blackouts can last for a day.
My iPad and portable modem have
Battery enough for one
Poem.

Such are my priorities.
I empty my fridge into the snow,
Thanking the gods
For my beer.
Don't try to reach me. I'm remembering
Life from centuries ago.

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

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

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

Now I notice
how your eyes burn
blowtorch-blue
when you look at love
looking back at you.

they could cut
through iron bars;
set free
the wish to settle down,
caged within men like me.

Skies, open your eyes.
I don't mind the overcast,
But miss the sunlight of
Your iris.

The farmers praise these days of rain.
We've had weeks of heat.
Now all will explode
In green.

As a child, I would build forts with
Hay bales and hide from
Tractors and harvesters
As if they

Were monsters. My imagination
Took me on rides that would
Actually scare me.
Adventures

Everywhere. I find I do the same
To myself now. Watching rain on windows
With soft music on her speakers that are
Still here.

Our music. I think back on that time
In the bowling alley. I picked her
Up and bowled a strike with her riding
Piggy Back; she was

Laughing nearly hysterically.
Just laughing nearly
Hysterically against
The camera.

Did that really happen? I love that.
I praise these days of rain.
I've had sunshine for nearly four years.
It's time to grow.

A less thankful of things to track down
In dark woodlands, one's flashlight.

Staring a hole in the
seat in front of me.
even the mornings are night
in winter,

so far from the summer nights
when the sun barely dips
below the
horizon.

finally a film of powder snow
with tire marks from
other busses whisper
Norwegian winter,

and a far deeper, crisper cold
will feel like breathing
crystal, only the hint of
firewood burning in

nearby houses lends homely
comfort to the smell of
nature against whom a layer of
clothes is the only armour

between a life lost and not.
cold fingers. nothing makes you
miss a woman like the scent of
her face; hair;

person
on
your
hands.

City full of buildings
I helped raise.

I stand outside one
Of my eight floor brick

Babies.
The concrete

Behind the
Walls

Of your apartment
Were the walls of my

Workplace for a
Year.

I have stories
From your home

You'll never
Hear.

Not welcome here.
Stranger.

None of my keys
Fit her

Doors anymore,
Now that

She's been
Given

Up for
Adoption.

Haunted for decades by
Ghosts in the shape of
My own broken parts.

At my most vulnerable, I
Am torn and spilling.
Some girls have knives

For fingernails; broadsword
Words swung by own
Insecurities-

To chop down a man
Renders many young women  
Giants in the eyes of their egos.  

Enter exorsist. Enter patient,
Slender hands around
Work worn, worried ones.

*Take your time, you man
Of open, ancient wounds.
Rain your lust upon me,

Unveil fantasies and wants.  
I'll be sand; white beaches;
Welcoming your every wave.

Live like you
Do when you

Have little even
When you

Don't and you
Never will

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.

I saw my little brother
On stage last night.
Singing, owning the room.
His pride was my
Pride. I could no longer
Denounce
Buddha.

Burn.
Step onto the embers of my
Secret weaknesses and
Impersonate the
Sword of Michael.

This longing for Valhalla
Won't see me alive much
Longer.
Take me to the nearest battle.
Let me die slaying a terrorist

Or intending ******.
Or should I pray to gods of a more
Peaceful nature than
Odin?
Love and let live.

Nah, this is in my Norwegian
Bones.
I'll die wielding blade.
I'll die laughing, opened up and
Spilling.

I'll "not go gentle into that good
Night."
So burn.
Be bonfire to my innermost of
Darknesses.

There are shadows there that
Demand chasing.
Make me proud to be
Midgardian.
Burst into flames and remind me:

Sticks and stones are feathers.
Buddha and Baldr.
Enlightenment and love. Well,
I'd rather be a warrior in a church
Than a priest in a battle.

Odin's one good eye
Is mine.
The other weeps for the weak.
May they find
Comfort in the daylight,

While us
Others sharpen our
Weathered hearts
In the cold, uncertain night we
Belong to, like water to snow.

Woman of the day
93 on the news
Strong eyes
Awake Present
Smiling from hospital
Bed when asked if
She could
Forgive the
Two men who broke in
Hit her
Robbed her
Left her in her own old blood

Yes Yes I do I think about
Them

I woke up from snoring.
I'm a light sleeper
When carbohydrates and
Fats roam my
Temple.

Sometimes I drink three pints
Of water before I sleep.
It's as good an alarm in the morning
As any.

So much in my life is
Food and drink.

You may kiss me as sweetly
As you can, or slap
A bitter palm across my face.
It's all dessert and dinner to me,

In any order you wish.
I'll never sleep with you
Hungry.

Third degree lessons learned
Leaving a scar the size
Of its beholder.

Without skin between
Nerves and world
Even softest kisses from love in love

With love are pure agony.
No tear runs cold enough
To be soothing.

I think I might be too tired
To be outraged.
I want to stand on my head and
Hands in front of the moon just
Clearing the horizon, and make
Myself into a peace-sign.

The only flag I wish to paste
Over my facebook profile picture
Is a huge, white one.
No more. Please.
Peace.
But all I can do is waste whispers

Underneath the raging roars of
Bloodthirst, revenge and hearts
Vocalizing the pain of their lost
Limbs.
Too tired to be angry.
Too dry to cry.

Victims. Aren't we all?
I draw November air
And exhale something like a
Prayer, as my loved ones walk to
And from work and school like
Potential bulls-eyes in the

Eyes of pure, ******* evil.
I'd cover a grenade
For any one of them. But for now
I stand against the rising moon
Like a capital "I", then
Put my dot of a heart

On the ground directly
Before me, looking
To the skies.
Furiously fatigued; a tired
Human exclamation
Mark.

To awake rested, yawn and
get up on the
completely right side
of the bed.

a full, healthy breakfast,
quality coffee.
good news headlining
the paper.

the smell of a bathroom after
a woman has spent time
getting ready for a
night out.

words of kindness from a friend.
such things I adore.
...but I love
poetry more.

a fully comprehensible manual.
a love letter post-it note,
or a book on something
hysterically interesting,

like psychology or history.
music of the kind that you welcome
sticking to your mind for a
whole day.

these things make my day for sure.
...but I love
poetry more.

her hands on me, warm with
sleep as she reaches over and
sighs between dreams.
yes. he's still here...

waking up with her hair in
my face, falling asleep on the
sofa with my head on her legs
the way a dog warms its owner's

feet with itself while resting.
not feeling like myself when
she's further away than the
next room.

hard to not shake
when she cries.
impossible not to laugh when
she laughs,

and to not want her
when she
wants me
to.

****. it's plain to see.
...I love her
more than poetry...

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.

Waves form within a
Man alone in silence.

Wind moves old wood in
Walls. I close my everything.

The two sides I see of
All I see, meet.

What's a spark or two
Between good swords?

Sometimes I agree to dis-
Agree with either me or my-

Self; the first thought I think
Is rarely the thing I think I'll

Believe. Will this **** me?
No, it'll be with you forever.

A samurai's infant children's
Eyes begging him to reach

Down before he leaves again,
To kiss. But no. So rigid

Is my will to live; to draw from
Everything, life.

The break is long over.
I should be back in that

Hole, jackhammering my
Way around that broken

Pipe. But this butterfly
Landed upon the dust

And band-aids on my hand,
And neither of us

Wants to let
Go.

Spring Morning.
Your sun is warm, but your
Breeze remembers winter;

Your touch is that of a young
Woman who thinks she might
Be in love.

One hand mild,
One cold, and your heart
Slightly off center.

This place scares me.*

So why do you come down here?

*To be scared.

Others slept.
We sat with a bottle
At the kitchen table

The way men do
Who deserve to
Talk.

Outside, the embers of
The dying bonfire
Flung sparks

Into the dark, and as
Men that need to cry
So very often

Don't, the night, the woods
And the cabin kitchen
Formed a tear

Just our size. In which
We sat. And sometimes
Spoke a

Little.

She's had nose bleeds,
Stumach aches,
Dizzy spells and shortness of
Breath these last weeks or so,
And worry is a vampire attached
To my neck like the
Opposite of an IV; draining
Me, leaving me
With more than one of the
Same ailments.

At 38, I'm on six different kinds
Of daily medication. **** this
Stitched-up heart, with
Its moving
Parts of metal.
At 24, she doubles that.
Every piece of good news has a
...but... nailed to it like
Vinnie the Poo's friend Donkey's
Tail,

And I wish I was the healthy man
She deserves. One strong enough
To carry her bucket loads of
Tears, her chestfuls of well-
Earned bitterness. But I
Tapped out and went home
For the weekend. Recharging in
Countryside silence and solitude.
This is my docking station.
Superman and the sun.

*“In the unlikely event of a sudden
loss of cabin pressure, oxygen
masks will drop down from the
panel above your head. Secure
your own mask before helping
others.”

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

Handshakes cold through a
Sterile window,
How can you

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

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

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

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

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

I am blowing out
My candle in
Both ends.

I wasn't showing my teeth
To frighten you.

I was preparing to
Carry you again. Cub.

We met as two broken vases
Holding the brittle remains of
Roses never received.
Bruised and scarred, one from
Thinking love is pain, one
From finally seeing that it
Isn't.

Colliding drunk drivers on an
Empty Lover's Lane, both
Alternating between the roles of
Victim and rescue worker,
Mouth-to-mouth and chest
Compressions;
Caresses.

Blue eyes blue lights,
The taste of the blood of the other
As comforting a comfort as any to
Any parched vampire.
We leave the scene as we have
Many: Covered in type O negative  
And hope.

Meet today armed.
Strong with the
Deep, warm, grandfatherlap-
Safe feeling of security
-As solid as a kind mountain-
[-Arms strong, hands like hills-]

As if all you are
[Except the child in you],

Is gone [and the child sleeps]
Knowing
All
Is just
Well.

When nothing's added to this world,
All there is
Is care.

So much purple
In this sunset
It seems
Cartoon.

While she's getting her
hair done, I'm in the
pub where the bartender-
lady is hung over,
playing Alanis Morissette
unplugged

and asking me without a word
not to speak to her

but listen quietly to
would you forgive me, love,  
if I danced in your shower,

and I'm more than happy to
sit at the bar with a pint of

lager and break radio silence
by whispering

got any Eva Cassidy?
as she looks up from her coke

and whispers back
*I could marry you. Yes.

Such a cloudless summer day
In the city.

Ice cream weather girls
Caught me winking back;  

Always looking for a smile
To kiss.

Spring love.
If either of us dies
Tomorrow

It will be in celebration of
Winter passing.
Spring smells nice.

Us Norwegians live by
The weather.
When the

Hair stays on her
Pillow we both
Shave

Like there's no
Tomorrow.
I spell "love" however

I want.
Death adores its
Favourites.

Life and
Love hold hands and
Walk. We walk a lot.

***** nightmares, words whispered;
Arrows dipped in ego's blood
Shot with bows whittled from
Weeping

Willows.
Waking up, red wine
Eyed,
Mouths

Dry from the opposite of
Kissing,
****, we almost broke up
There, didn't we?

Yes. Now, standing alone before
Mirrors, wiping them clean with hands
Wet from regret, unearthing our
Images and trying to

Find them reflected as in diamonds,
Nickle plated gun metal, or something
Else, like the Mona Lisa's glass case
(And as bullet proof,) but seeing

Only the screen of an
Old, dusty tube TV showing
Re-run specials of the
Itchy and Scratchy Show.

A spark escaped from my
Fireplace.
Flew for a while; went out
Midair and became this
Poem.

As you watch your lover leave,
Allow yourself an eye for a
Week upon their character; on
How much remains.

If less than you thought,
You'll know how
Much of it was
You.

We're all
Part
Someone's
Illusion.

Above the crane,
A crow and a seagull.
Two-piece game of
Checkers
Over scraps.

Ed Sheeran, wine, candles
And cheese.

It doesn't -by the gods- get
Better than this, I think

To myself. So she clears her
Throat quietly, and

Sings. Softly
Along.

Tools heavy in hands weak from
Weekend's fill of laughter,
Beer and barbeque.

Sun in eyes narrow from
Sleep. Traffic in ears spoiled
With countryside serenity.

Not even eight am, and I'm
Bleeding from open joints on fingers
That left their gloves somewhere

Clever on Friday. Drops of myself
Form little red rings in the chemical
Rainbows of puddle beneath.

It is my passion; not my job
To play with words in the ways of
Poet. To drop a few lines instead.

I am a man of heavy duty action, the
Kind that jackhammers concrete to
Dust, a thousand demolishing words.

My work is so far from poetry that
I should get changed in the phone
Booth outside the barracks, but

For now my mind is as narrow,
My imagination as shallow as this
Hole that I'm paid to dig.

I was such a beautiful child,
With my shoulder lengths of
Sun bleached barley.

Smiled little pearl soldiers in
Line. Old glassesless ladies
Took me for
Girlchild.

But I grew twisted like an
Appletree around a
Graveyard path
Lightpost.

Teeth came out crooked.
Hair fell out at thirteen.
I was big for my age;
Grew other hair in places
I never knew I would.

My voice broke as if in
Sorrow over the child
Inside that had
Died. After that I spoke as if
Into a bucket.

Sometimes I catch my father
Gazing at me through a slight veil
Of grievance for that same
Child.

I would never dream
To blame him.

Planet of Sphere. Ocean of Water.
Word of Mouth. Light of Day.
World of Why's.

Every other breath a question.
Every other gesture a fist
Shaken towards the skies, or palms
Tracing a hole of absence
Shaped as a closest one.

There are no parents
Treading this Globe of Ground.
All of us infant siblings, comparing
Perceptions in a vacuum of
Answers.

Sons and daughters all become
Not.
Fathers and mothers fall victim
To blood drawn from own blood
And remain as drained
Heart shaped shadows, if in any
Shape at all.

The only cure against loss
Is not being there to lose, or never
Having had any ones to.

World of Why's.
Men of War; each a Child of Mother,
Whether as living as childplay  
Or fallen as something that
Has.

I am strong enough to hold you
So hard you won't feel yourself.
Inside you, where you carry
All you love, though, is a universe
Away from my
Reach.

That is why they are safe.
Safe as statues, painfree as
Mountains.
And why
You never
Will be.

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.

Putting make-up on
the darkness.

Fireplace altar.
Cathedral dome horizons.
Icon constellations.  

Snowfall prayers, solitaire twilight
Forest tree stump confessions.
Every shadow a priest.

Every infant an angel.
Willow wind psalmsong;  
Praising the Everything.

No heaten forcefully converted.
No sinner's soul purgatory held.
Heaven is when

I close my eyes. Heaven too,
When they're open. Preaching to the
Choir of me.

Church of One.
Hell on Earth. Worldly Paradise.
Yin to the Yang.

I feel the pain within it all.
The pleasure as well. Poor
Beautiful, ugly world.

Single disciple walking. I'll focus
On my humble
Feet.