...and there it is.
That smile I remember
The way one remembers green
Waves pounding
Wet rock
Outside Warrnambool, Australia.

Friend so beautiful and thoroughly
Good; angelic/demonically opposite.
I must have been equally good
And beautiful in some earlier life;
Surely not in this
One.

So you prove that kharma is real.
I dread to imagine who you were
Last lifetime, having
Blossomed like this in this one.
Diamond laughter.
Eyes that view the world the

Way a child witnesses its first
Circus; clowns, dancing elephants
And all.
Italian queen of Norway.
Born to conquer,  
Knowing nothing but love

And anything else worth
Knowing.
I bow unto no man,
Yet the dusts before your
Feet carry the print of my humble
Forehead.

Every tree you touched recalls.  
Even within the space between
The things you do and
Don't, there are graces and the breaths
Of Gods.
You mirror the unreflectable.

Never stop laughing.
That sound might very well be the
Glue that keeps this dimension
Attached to the heart and
Soul of
Itself.

A time for togetherness.
A time for missing.

I carry with my hands.
I carry with my heart.

Such difference between
Grip

And
*Embrace.

I've measured her right
Little toe. It's exactly 16mm.
When she grinds her teeth in her
Sleep, just rub her jaw gently.
She'll stop without
Waking up.

If you read to her in bed, she'll
Watch you wide eyed from
Your shoulder; study your features
As you speak.
She'll stop you if you lose her
Between two words she doesn't
Quite understand.
She'll thank you for explaining.
She's worth it.

She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. I'll mail you a hundred
Recipes I've created for her.
Tell you all the tricks
So I know she'll eat.
You get used to the hassle.
She's worth it.

She's crazy about cartoons.
Let her watch them; seeing her
Laugh beats the game
Hundredfolds.
She'll love you for letting her
Read for hours and tell you about
The story.
She'll be so beautiful
When concentrating.
Give her space. Yours included.
She's worth it.

Let her grow.
Let her learn in her own time.
Let her be who she is.

She was weaker before me.
Now she's strong enough
To stand up and do the right thing,  
Though both our hearts broke
In the process.

If she goes, let her.
Help her out, send her off
With blessings.
Say to yourself I'd rather see her
Happy without me than
Unhappy here. You'll
Mean it.

You'll cry your eyes out
And scream at the skies. Then
Thank God for every minute
You spent as her man.
They were worth it.

I carry.
I carry care.

I take it with me
Everywhere.

It's as heavy
As the air between

The feathers of a baby
Bird that finally

Lets itself
Fly.

I carry.
I carry love.

Always free.
Always above

Fear.
I carry care.

*Meet me
There.

My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began  
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.

I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that

I sleep with all my verbs on.

I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.

I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.

All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with

Slightly more finesse.

But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...

I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****.

I'll dig with it.

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

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

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

Morning breath of Winter upon the naked
Back of Autumn, as they lie side by
Side on the bed of ploughed fields
I admire.

Mist kissed and coloured by turned soil
The age of Earth herself.
I kick frozen, brown leaves from my boots
And look towards

The river.
It'll freeze up at the tips of its longest fingers
Soon, inviting children with ice skates and
Red cheeks to dance and laugh.

Winter turns his mouth towards his
Dying lover's face, and kisses her farewell.
Until next year, my auburn love.
Sleep until Summer's watch is over.

Up here, the seasons are so stark they form
Four shades of adventure.
A land so proudly unholy anyone can
Walk on water.

Be gentle to the soul of a
Construction worker.  
It is a frail thing from
Everything else
Being so
Solid.

Forever was not
Or even more than
Years  

We grew
Then apart
Leaving

Me with so much
Ground
Rain

Air all
To
Myself

I set my
Alarm on
Nothing.

Such a waste
Spending as much
As a week

Waiting for something
As brief as a
Weekend

Outside it's snowing.
friday afternoon, construction
site more silent with every
worker welcoming weekend.

there's beauty in this.

gloved pats on dusty shoulders,
flakes of white like god's
dandruff on everything
else.

there's beauty in all of this.

I think of my woman's warm
lips against my cold cheek as I
enter. I will turn down beers
with the boys to feel them sooner,

and there is so much beauty in all
of this.

god is a zen buddhist with an
art degree.
I enter my office and wrestle off
my hi-vis coat, shake the drops from

my hard hat and hang it up.
kick my boots off against the wall
like an eight-year-old coming
home from school.

I could explain a workman's week
ending more poetically, but
life and weekends are both too short,
and there's so much ******* beauty

in all of this, and outside
it's snowing. outside it's
snowing like
hell.

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.

She smiles as if she has her whole  
Entire being in the cookie jar.

I laugh from my spine, as the wheels
In her pretty, dark-humoured head

Visibly turn within some sweet, twisted
Process. She speaks with the wit of a

Secret agent; the vocabulary of sailors
And intent of someone like Skeletor.

Her mouth is an instrument from which
Poetry as the opposite of itself sounds;

From where come words that make me
Either thrilled to talk back, or blush. The

Less you care together, the happier you'll be.
She smiles like that. I'm loving this lesson.

...and still, not owning
Hands enough to cover the
Places that hurt,
She finds the energy to

Lift my spirits with a smile
Of the kind that melts polar
Ice caps and creates galaxies
Without a sound.

I am in love with one woman.
She was the most stunning system
Of meat, bone and spirit
I had ever witnessed
In my life.

Seeing Munch's Scream
For the first time was dull in
Comparison.
Collosseum was a pile of rocks,
Las Vegas an epileptic's nightmare.
All the places I have been and seen
Are no longer memories,
But places I have no peace with
Until I bring her there
To share

Them with her, and visa versa.
Look what the Romans built
Before Vikings roamed.
Romans, behold this beauty,
This blink of time, this mild drop of
Breath into oceans of atmosphere,
The art of arts in my humble
Gallery of Man.
This love that I love with the full
Weight of my person and will,
That loves to make me laugh,
Call me old; even dinosaur,
To make me angry, then mellow.

That plays me like a child plays
A whittled flute
With no single thought
Of Mozart or
Grieg.

I am in love with
One
Woman.
The Just in
*Just One.

Her nickname
Was always
Gaia with a y.

And she was.
Dancing; not so much
Reasoning.

All feeling. Analysis,
Not so much.
Me, a petard of adrenaline and

Testosterone -short fused with
Whisky and blunt logics- by
Which I found myself

Hoist with ruthless regret.  
All man.
All human

Man.
We merged until we
Emerged, passing through

Each other and moving
On. Two forces of nature
Embracing.

With a broad
Enough
Perspective,

Everything
Looks
Beautiful.

At the sun setting
Emptily
I realize I've been staring
Directly at it
For hours without
Dropping
A tear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm having a
Very good
Day.

A strand of your hair
On the table.

I pick it up gently
In grace; gently in love still,

And place it in the bin.
If ever we end,

Let us end it
Like that.

So slight, the difference
Between falling and flying.

They share the jump, and
The difficult breathing.

No one can tell you died crying
When you've been hit in the face

With the
World.

That house,
With the paint barely
There, windows so *****
They're no longer
Windows,

Was beautiful once.

Yes, I see her.
Street scars; concrete cuts,
Nothing in her eyes but
The ghosts of morning ******
And her father's endless
Sadness.

Looking at our photos.
What does she see in me?

Then I remember: Don't put
Your gift in a horse's mouth.

It'll only chew it
To pieces.

I have never experienced
such a strong
friendship
within a
relationship.

Rows of rogue gladiators
Recaptured and crucified.
Muscles, grit and warriorship

Beyond that of any centurion,
Humbled, humiliated, spat upon
By the wine-greased gears of a

Machine the size of seized continents
And cultures crushed to crumbs
Within weeks -not centuries.

The stuff of contemporary tales and
Future feature films. Justice -not
Unlike poetry- is a purely man-made

Concept. But so very unlike the
Other; as frail in its mortality as
Man's own justless Self.

Fighter jets in formation
Above Ekeberg Hill
Remind me of years
Spent on airbases
During my time in the
Royal Norwegian Air Force.

I was stationed at NATO's
Northernmost base during 9/11.
Minutes after plane #2,
I was upgraded to
NATO Top Secret
Clearance.
Given live ammo for my P80.
Witnessing the colonel's
Marlboro Light shake in his
Usually steady hand as I
Approached; MSO briefcase
Handcuffed to my wrist.
There were papers inside
I was expected to
Die for.
I was 22.

Not even the police carry
Firearms in this country.
Not even the police are expected
To give up ghost over information.

For a nation of such ******
History, we maintain a mellow
Attitude.
We choose peace over "piece".
Gun-sense over violent nonsense.
Naïve? Maybe.

There are nearly no shootings here.
We've had one lethal act of
Terrorism since WWII.

We can live with that.
Literally.

I try to take a walk, I try to close
My eyes; I try to leave behind
The things I see as lies; the ones
You see with daily eyes, but I give up;
It's just so ******* beautiful.

I try to get as drunk as Man can get,
I dream of drugs to throw my soul as
Far away from all of it and name it
****, but it's just too *******
Beautiful.

I try to burn the discs and files with
All the knowledge my father has
Collected of our history, but ****, it
Means too much to me, and it's just
So ******* beautiful.  

Last week we found a paper at the
Site, from '93 and who'd believe
The thickness and the price of
Mobiles that were barely that,
Back then. I try to

Feel ashamed when my girl's youth
Is my lack thereof  
But we laugh together and that just
Makes it 'nice and old' and just so
**** beautiful.

I only barely saw the seventies; the
Tiniest pants I ever wore were
Bell-bottoms.
They were so
*******
Beautiful.

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.

How I spell
"Love"?
I hide my every alphabet

Within you.
We learn to burn our old
Preferences.

Enough gentle winds turn
Puddles into
Cavities.

I thank the grounds for not
Being levelled out
For once.

Not scared of hights any
More; I grunt when your feathers
Tickle my nose.

Godlessness.
Church is my mouth upon
You.

You lean over me,
Reaching for some product
That makes you either

Taste, feel, look or smell like
Things hanging from
Trees in warm countries, or

Nails pink, black or back to
Natural. Upper arm so
Close to my face

I can't resist
Leaning into it;
Mouth and eyelid

First. You shift in
Confirmation. I feel and
Smell; find myself

More than six feet under
This divine concept
Of Woman. Girl. Other

Half. God in Man.
Buried and blissful.
Breathing with ease in

The sweet soil that
Covers
Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shhh..little poet.
Why so angry?
I know you hurt; it comes with
Caring.

Black is a beautiful colour
When used for emphasizing
Contrast.
Alone it is a candle
In a dark room,
Unlit.

Life bites, kicks, pulls your hair
And puts its pointy fingers in your
Eyes laughing.

Other times it is a sleeping lion,
Warm and soft to the touch; too
Full and drowzy with sunlight
To anything but purr.

When Life bares its teeth,
Remember how much a grin
May resemble a growl.

Tell me how it feels to
Scratch the King of the Jungle
Behind its palm-sized ear.

All that glitters
Is gold.

Shhh...little poet.
Why so angry?
There is more to Life
Than life.

I wish the rest of my life
was a long, long weekend.
I'd spend it with you.

Automn opens her eyes ever so
Slightly; earth toned irises within
The green mirror of a summer
Dozing off, her awakening reflected

In human breath now visible upon  
Chilled evening air, and
Lovers' fingers seeking closer
Shelter within the shared

Pockets of each other.
You ask what the doctor said,
But I have sweeter fish to fry
Than worry; such sensations

As the way your skin is the
Softest I have ever felt against
My own surface of scars and hair,
And how I'm looking forward to

October auburns, bronzes, yellows
And sepias. All in contrast to the
Whites and magnolias of the
Winter that follows their blossom,

And the excuses the coldness
In their wake presents to lean
Closer. Huddle up. Warm hands
Under garments, share blankets

With the least innocent of
Intentions. I love the subzeros.
Frost. Goosebumps receding under
A kiss. And another. And another.

I cut myself on the shards
Of the hourglass
I broke open to
Count the grains of
Time spent on equally
Meaning-
Less
Activities.

During the very earliest 1900s
A little boy walked a gravel road
With his grandfather.

The old man kept whittling him
Birch shoots that he whipped at
Weeds with, before he threw them

Aside; ready for another. "Cut me a
Whip, grandpa." "Cut me another."
The old man obeyed smiling.

The man was my great-great
Grandfather. The boy,
My grandfather's oldest brother.

I grew up walking
Those same gravel roads.
Whipping.

To never again pick her up at the
Train station.
"Look for that green dress you
Love. I'll be the one in it, loving
You."

To never again watch her
Frustrated and cursing the
Similarities between puzzle
Pieces, with Easter snow teasing
The windows behind her

Silhouette in my living room as
Belle spotifies Pieces
On my stereo and I just
Stare, smiling like an idiot until
My gaze burns a hole in her

Beautiful neck, and she turns
And giggles "what?"
Blushing and rubbing her cheeks
From smiling so much.
To never again.

The first flowers I gave her made
Her cry. As did the last ones.
I don't even know if she'll see
The card with these ones that
Says "thank you for each second

Together."
So romantic how we thought
Death by her cancer or my failing
Heart would end us.
No, the trivialities of Life

Saw our poem burned. Buried
Like some completely healthy
Pet put down prematurely.
I remember the mid 80's; dad
Drunk and unproud knocking

On the door to my room.
"I killed the kittens again.
Soon it'll be your turn."
Now I know why he always
Kicked at the cats.

He was kicking himself.
As do I.
Never again.
Train stations and green dresses
Will always hurt like

Hell, and people loving, and
Kittens, and puzzle pieces that
Look alike.
"Never again?" She asks.
I love her too much to lie.

She moved since then,
But between where we got off
The tram, and her place,
There was a tiny place that sold
Sushi.

Walking through that smell,
Pavement still wet with rain
Outside,
We more often than not
Sent me back out

With her dog Shelby
To do her business. I  
Tied her to the
Street-thing outside, left
Tips and our pride with

The shop, and returned  
With a walk-content dog and
Too much sushi. She would
Have candles lit; Jeff Buckley
Playing,

Looking at Shelby and I as
If we had been gone for
******* ever as we came in.
"You hungry?"
She'd laugh, hug me, command

The dog to bed, me to sofa.
"Thank you."
We'd eat. Open a bottle from her
Impeccable stash.
I bought it. I brought it.

I never ate before her first bite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(I'm here)

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

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

(I'm here)

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

For now, I'll listen to
My shoes.

I have so much left of
myself to see.
I hope you would like to go
find it with me.

I have so much growing
I know I must do.
I'm hoping you'd like me
to grow it with you.

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

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

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

Sweet workman's lack of sleep.
Unfrowned-upon
Headfull of wine
In the
Morning.

The crane turns
Sunlight blinds me
Like you did

I haven't seen shade
Since our eyes first met

The layer of gray water
On the surface of
This fresh concrete

Is as smooth as the skin
On your shoulders

When you undressed
Before me
And the moonlight threw a

Living
Breathing
Cliché
Over us

The sound of machines
Turning off for the day
Gives a silent vacuum

Within which I meditate
Over the beauty even a
Construction site holds when its
Things remind me

Of you

Woman's consolement comes
In handiest forms.

Incredible healing within
Spoonfuls of
Icecream.

A picture says more than a
Thousand words.*  
Every drop if ink
A pixel. Every word
A world.
A thousand pictures
Held without effort
In the
Unclenched

Hand of

Poem.