But with the sound of friendly
Voices behind my
Steps  

It is how I breathe at times
When many others
Cannot, you

Have to smile before
I can say you're
Beautiful

I look at you on the sofa.
Lying there all young, healthy
And warm, and I don't just want you
In the obvious sense; I want your
Liver, kidneys, flat stomach, strong,
Long, young legs.
Frankenstein's parts-storage
I want your youth.  

I can't have it. I can't take it
And have it. Angry. I want to
Kick your ***, but not really.
I want your mouth to
Expell something
Other than this
Teenage girl
Chatter.

I want to hit your pretty face
With all of my one-third-life-crisis-
Frustration behind it
With a pillow.
Eat feather, child!
Chew cotton!
Munch goose!

Straight left-straight right.
I have fought men
Twice my size,
I'll beat you up
Until you
Suffocate
And surrender
From
Laughing
So
Hard.

I lean back on my factory-fresh
Couch (that still smells of IKEA)
And turn that Jeff Buckley's Grace
Up so loud the cat escapes under

The bed; ears flat, wide eyed...
And remember. I flip through
My own history -forgotten love,
Nights of such beauty they

Forged themselves onto my
Mind. I see myself stronger;
Dumber. Rougher hands and
Mind.

I hear Chris Cornell and Tori
Amos in shared recollection.
I walked Oslo's paved streets
From a job I loathed.

But it was summer.
I was free.
I was a rock star waiting
To be.

I see hopes I had that remind me
It's not too late for that.
And begin to resonate with
This is your time.

This is when you choose your
Future. Choose.
It's never too late for
Anything.

For a little while.

Breathe.
Breathe wordless
Air.

Though the Summer sun
No longer muffles its rays
With trees, but is full with
Daytime,
I will let you sleep.

Though the cat is playing
With your feet under the
Cover to annoy them into the
Kitchen,
I will let you sleep,  

And feed her myself.
I'll keep the news on low;
Only be whispered to of the
Deaths and tragedies we've
Slept through.

And if my every dream as of
Lately has been true; that
You miss the freedom of an empty
Bed when I'm there;
The room for another it creates,

I will let you sleep.
I will close every door of the house
Between us, hide my pain
In my hands and feel it run
Like the last of our sand between
My fingers.

I will not wake you up with
A single sigh, snuffle or drop of
Tear on this floor that
We walked in our days of love.
I will suffer for us alone.
And let you sleep.

Those tears forced to manifest
By poison thoughts of venom fears
Are old news to me.
I've cried them too, you see.

Those knuckles white around
Princess Paranoia and Marquis Mortality's
Slender wrists will not hold
Their punches back.

That pound of ice in your stomach
Is the worst our foe Fear can do.
I will share this with you.

You think back, back nearly broken by
The weight of grudges.
Bitter bag on your tired shoulder,
Barbed wire strap biting.

I've been to darker places
Than you will ever see.
Share your blackest burdens with me.

I fear no man, nor god.
I've paid my rent with sweat and blood,
The next payment is far from due.
I will share that time with you.

My hours on Earth are mine alone,
But no terms are written in stone.
I like it down here.
Liking I'll share.

That warmth on your face  
Is only my hand.
Your guardian angel is merely
A man.

Both scholar and warrior, and girl,
I have learned:
The skin has grown back on the hands
That I've burned.

You can choose to cry,
You can choose to smile.
I learned that truth, but it
Took me a while.

I have seen the Devil. He was pleasant,
He was kind.
I have seen the face of God,
It was yours and mine.

We have the power to create.
It's not in vain; not too late.
Let us face this storm together.
We'll be the gods of weather.

The choice is yours, it is true.
You are the foot, not the worn-out
Shoe.
You are not the sky; you're

The Blue.
You'll never need my comfort,
But until you stop believing that
You do,

I will play your game
Like a loving parent;
Having given you room
As you grew.

I will share this
With
You.
I will

Share
This poetry  
With
You.

Sub-zero city night.
Willows by the window facing
The nearby railroad tracks
Reflect little bolts of lightning

With their multitudes of
White, white crystal flowers,
As a train passes noiselessly by,
Leaving the children

Playing in the shoveled
Piles of
Snow, and us,
Bewildered.

Mouthfuls of lead
Cannot silence
Free speech.

People.
Poets.
Arise.

The pen is mightier
Than the
AK-47.

To my friend Julie R.S.*

Being my girlfriend's best friend, it
Was bound to go either one way
Or the other. Now you
Name me
Brother.

When we share wine and guitars,
People sit down in the garden
Outside our open window
To enjoy. Your voice is proof

That God loves art and leaves its
Seeds within His children.
If I were you, I'd also pray as often
As you do.

You have much to thank for; and also
Ask. I sometimes ask too,
Why hurt so easily pries itself
Into the purest of hearts. Winter is
A cynical aunt... it'll help now;
Spring isn't; it's downhill from here.
I promise. And besides,
I sympathize with you;
But never
Worry.

You share the gifts of Beauty and
Strength with diamonds; gems,
Jewels.

I stood by your
Self-declared sister
In my godless snakeskin boots
In thankful poetic observance
As you were leaned into the
Water and said a self spoken Yes
To your absolute re-birth-Father.
I'll always respect you for that.

That, and the way you move
Through the ice-in-tummy-pains
That you are sometimes dealt
By the Hand of All Holding
And accept and withstand,
Knowing it's all part of
Your own Holy
Work-out.

I could carry you for years,
But your soul is loved by
Something so strong
It shines through
Your darkest
Hours.

I am as humble to that
As I am to our
Friendship.

Holy water into wine. Beer from barley.
Walking on the roof of a brewery,
Contemplating how Jimmy Fallon's
Finger never really seems to heal.

Combine harvester headlights dance
On the living room walls
As I lean back on my white IKEA
Sofa, tracing long hairs and

Fingerprints of lovers gone,
Wondering why I chose such a
Revealing colour.
Suppose the transparency matches

That of my soul's lining.
Holy water into wine.
Fields of gold now liquid painkillers
Slurring the voices in my head that

Pick fights with my heart over
Insignificant issues.
I lip synch to the music of my
Neglected talents and the memories

Of inspiration attached.
Bullets like knuckles rapping, rapping
At my empty chamber
Door.

Every finger I ever broke
Was from typing or
Punching
Walls.

Sometimes I put on the mask of
Poet, and pretend to be writing  
For as long as it takes to fool
The empty pages.

Dear mr. Cole.
I allow myself
"Joe", with the deepest respect
For a man I barely know.
But I know...

You contain
Multitudes, no less than
Whitman. Supporting posting
Writers with the warmth
Of an all-loving Allfather; raining
And shining on seedlings sown
By poets of varying confidences.

Larger than any poet
Ever read
Is he who encourages writing.

Joe, yours is the hand that swats
The one that holds back the
Pen of the uncertain poet.

Your poetry reflects
Your garden, God's Creation,
The beauty within wild things
Growing...

And all that glory and grace
Of which you write,
My friend, our Joe.
Is all a mirror
Reflecting
Its beholder.

A response to Joe's poem,
Young Poets Write For Me.*


I touched an old
Tree once, asking  
About its leaves.
They replied.

At times I refuse to believe that
Racism exists, other than in
Movies and jokes.
It is just too ridiculous a
Concept.

In a world overweight with
Selfish, hate hurt, grudge holding
Beasts of Barely Men
With gold lust in their bone
Marrow and gold dust on their
Minds working to make it all
A miserable place for everyone else...
Judge from colour?

Who can afford to exclude the
Good ones, over something
As sadly superficial
As skin?
Angels and devils walk
Within all shades of
Man
Alike.

Slip through the barred windows
Like sand through open hands.
Grasping love with
Force is like
Pushing something sharp
With your wrist and
Crossing your fingers.

I woke up 35 today.
Thought it wouldn't feel
Any different from 34, but
This time...

I'll buy an extra few flowers
For my mother.
It's her day too.

I'll buy my dad a cigar and a
Cold one.
For all the gray hairs.

I'll thank my brother for
Being
Just that
For 33 years,

And my girlfriend for not
Minding what we
Both think
Might be the earliest whiffs
Of an 'old-man-smell'
On me.

It's the first rainy day in weeks.
I'll have a
Few beers too many tonight,
And just stand in the downpour.
I'm an adult now; I don't
Have to wear a raincoat.

It's my party and I'll
Laugh hysterically

If I want to.

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

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

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

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

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

Wish I could read every book
In this world.
Wish I could shake every hand
That hasn't harmed an other
Unjustly.

If only I could press that heart-
Shaped button for every poem
I read,
And inhale every poem of every
Poet that ever pressed one
Under any of mine.
And those of any that didn't.

I see gems with each scroll.
Bits of lives, heartbeats,
Some broken, some healing,
Some full of nothing but
Gratitude. Some filled with voids.
So many laughs. I wish I could
Share your every one
With you.

If I try to hold on to it all,
I'll lose my mind.
And track of my time.

I see poetry in every post.
Wish I could comment on them all.
Some I may not fully agree with,
But praise to all that write.

I have been gifted with so much
Response from so many.
I've tried to reply and thank
Each one,

But I am just one man.
A tired construction worker with
Band aids on every finger
At times.
Their tips hurt from sharp screws,
Hammer blows and rushed
Carving, then typing.
Head from digging in these
Second language parts
Of my simple Norwegian
Workman's brain.

Living a full, fantastic life.
One that I cherish
To write about.
To share. To express to myself,
And in the same breath
Anyone wanting to read.
I suppose we all carry some shade
Of that same feeling.
That's why we're here.
To share.

This site has been more than
Therapy to me.
It has been a home.
A sanctuary.

Some small, huge egos
Cry for fairness and attention,
Mouthing the three ugliest
Words I know:
What
About
Me?

But dark shapes in contrast
Create fulfilment within the art.
So what the hell, all balloons are
Mostly nothing but air. Anyway.

I hope I have inspired some.
I know I have made others feel
Neglected and unappreciated.
Well, it's a dance floor
Full of toes, and it's only human
To have a left leg or two.
Nothing's worth taking too
Seriously. I should know.
I have.

I'll still dance my heart out,
Laughing along with all others
That do. It's a Kindergarten
Universe. Play. Eat. Nap.

I thank you for every Follow.
Each and every Like and
Comment.
Every Collaboration.
Every Unfollow.
Every Block.
A full life is full of everything.

We are all single humans. Yet
Not one is here alone.
There's poetry dancing in
Your every
Movement.
There's life in every heart.

I love words.
I love life;
I love your every
Heart.

This familiar road. Same bus
Every morning for
Seven years,
Yet never
Noticed

The oak tree
On that field
Until
Now.

A majestic crown of
Darkest green upon
Wood as solid as
Boats and homes.

Growing as slowly
As it wants.

It can.

Outside my window I count
Three shadows.
Twelve legs.
Grazing.

Up here we call the elk
The King of the Woods.
[Antlers the width of your widescreen;
As convincing a crown as any].

When they run past the house
The crystal shakes in
The cupboard.
The cat breaks records up trees.

I am a man.
I am merely a man.
I will never own the night.

Ode to a Norwegian mother.


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

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

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

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

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

Let me be the string that holds
The kite of your
Deepest dreams.

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

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

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

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

Teachers grow.
I love the way an
Adult now

Bends knees before
A speaking child
To

Look up
And
Listen.

Selfless service.
Ego-less existence. Robes

Unwearable to mortal
Men, yet their colours are

Worth adopting onto
One's own everyday

Fatigues. I sit with one eye
Closed wherever I am, wondering

Whether this snake uncoiling
Within me is Kundalini awakening

To tell me that Dio's Stand Up
And Shout is not a mantra,

Or just some sense of knowing
That I have not a single reason to

Smile. Until I
Smile.

Some people lack heart
some poems lack poetry
some loves lack love

Fooled again by spring changing
Its mind and retreating.

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

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

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

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

Summer sun. Today they are
Firewood in these eyes blinking

Snowflakes into tears that I wipe
With padded gloves, leaving

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

Icicled full beard.
Fooled again.

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

Life is too short to waste
On insignificancies,* she says,
Waving carefree toes under socks
On my lap
-One green; one red-
When I call her my
Lantern-Lit
Vessel of
Wisdom.

Tummy jitters with
Infantile anticipation.
I am a tiny puppy let loose
In a giant green park.
All words in the world are too big
For my mouth.
I am standing at the absolute centre
Of my heart's deepest dream.
Here Am I.
Nothing is
Other than
Home.

Ahh.
I believe
It is a sign
Of a healthy
  Relationship
    When the words
       She loves to hear
          The most no longer
           Are I Love You, but
           ****, girl. You crack me up!
                                 It means the love
                                  Can be taken for
                      As granted as it should.
Laughter
Never is.

Log off your gadgets. Log onto Life.
Feel sunlight on your skin, smell the

Sea. Laugh with friends; no lol'ing.*
I agree. Life is for living.

But remember: With this handful of
Technology I can access the camera

On your phone; watch how the gentle
Breeze captures your hair in waves  

Half a world away, and say I love you,
And you hear it over there; smile...

****. Perhaps the future wasn't so
Bad after all.

No wonder the barley is yellowing
In this heat. Surrounded by gold and
Green, I spread my arms. Lawn angel.

No one can laugh like children
Running through garden
Sprinklers.

Bullet and blade
Have ended
Many a friend.

Some were warriors
Living by sword, others
Just unlucky.

No one safe from
Anything. I buy her
Pepperspray instead of

Flowers these days.
Keep leaving
Butterfly knives in the

Pockets of her coats.
I am a man of non-violence,
But one with worlds to lose.

I miss the days when the fight
Ended as ground was hit.
Knuckles and bones were

All we needed; men fencing
For themselves with nothing
But themselves,  

And women were there to be
Charmed and fought over. Not
Left torn and terrified

In a ditch, broken beyond repair,
Their men helplessly wielding
Lead and steel at the absence

Of the animal responsible.
I'll buy her flowers today.
Flowers, and walk her home.

Bullet and blade
Have ended
Many a friend.

The weight of their
Tragedies is about the
Same

As that of the crates of ammunition
It takes to keep the world
Safe from the threat of itself.

Unclench your grip
Around your own
Being.

Relax your jaw.
Your shoulders,
Your

Breathing. Slow and
Deep. Let life
Inside.

Lean. Sink. Merge.
Nothing needs your
Support;

All is here for yours.
Nothing on Earth isn't
Furniture.

It was a stressless
World. Before
Man.

Do you speak to yourself
With respect?
Thinking back on words
Fit for retraction, do you call
Yourself idiot? "Why didn't
You just shut up? Stupid,
Stupid, stupid!"

Spitting foot flavour
On your own shadow, leaving
Bile, regret and self-loathing on
The walls and floor
Of your headroom.

"You always mess up.
Why will you never learn?"

Forgive yourself. How would
Another feel if spoken to
With such hostility?
Day after day.
Minute after minute.
We talk down to ourselves
Like invisible
Evil twins.

Be nice to yourself, even within
Your innermost of monologues.
Be nice.
Watch your mouth.
Don't talk like that
To my friend.

A confused magician,
I pull the rug out
From under
My own feet;
Remain standing,
Refusing to learn:

Nothing bruises your ego
Like your own
Bruised
Ego.

Singing in one ear, ringing
In the other.
Both drowning out
The voice of shouldered
Angels telling me
To let it go, just let
It go, little big boy.

A confused egoist,
I put rabbit after rabbit
Into the hat of my closest
Human relations,

And remain on stage
Until the last of
The audience
Has left, applauding
Their every step
Away from me.

Frailty, thy name
Is Pride. Another is
Demanding Respect.

Here, pick a card. No,
Not that. Another one.

Some of us spend lifetimes
To grow into
Lesser men than
At birth.

Work gloves are for winter.
It's time to grow thick skin
In our palms;
Red drops on white wood

Are sure signs of summer.
Soon splinters reach no
Nerves, knees become insensitive
To gravel and roof tile roughness

As our bodies learn the annual
Lessons many hearts fail to
Learn in a
Lifetime.

I haven't seen her since Friday.  
Weekends with her move
Like electrons around
Nucleae; without her like
An old slug up a mountain side.
Now she's less than
An hour
Away.

Apart from daily good night calls,
I've spoken to none but our cat.
Now my voice sounds alien
When I fill her bowl,
And she looks at me as if slightly
Worried for my mind,
Before she eats.
Don't worry, Wolfie, I
Hear myself say.
*She's less than
An hour
Away...

Girl, it is summer in just a few months.
Springtime -a newborn that screams.
World will be warmer with wildness in hunt.
Winds wave away winter dreams.

Girl, we could sleep just as normal would be.
Awaken when sun chases moon.
But baby tonight, let's get lost in the night,
Let's get dressed, see the sun's setting soon.

Boy, you will say, not a scene have I seen
That scares me and still owns my eyes
The way this is cut from the textile of dreams,
You were right; I did not realize.

You'll see elk in the moonlight; not sensing us there,
Bats between branches in dance.
All playing near to the river down here,
Like some unwitnessed rural romance.

But more than the Wild, there are mysteries still,
Of nature beyond what we know.
Of trolls and of elves and of creatures that will
Only let nighttime them show.

Let's get lost in the woods, find our animal roots,
I will go there with you if you might. By
When Sun lights her flame, we will not be the same.
Let's get lost in the woods tonight.

She is as far from a morning
Person as her Volvo V70 is from

The speed limit as she drives me
To the riverside bus stop.

Leopard patterned one-piece
With little leopard ears on the

Hood, pilot Ray Bans covering
Eyes as red as her station wagon

And as narrow as her appreciation
Of my pre-5am sense of humour

When I giggle at how those little leopard
Ears bounce along with every

Bump in the road.

Thunder echoes.  
Flashes through billions
Of hailstones smashing against
Trees, leaving clouds of

Crushed leaves hanging, slowly
Blending into the chaos of
Angry weather, then: Nothing.
I worry for my windows,

Pounded with ice and shaking
From relentless thunder.
Nature, now, is an angry
Woman,

Child, heirloom or love stolen.
Furious fire, skies dark with a
Thousand wings.
Drop your swords and run,

Men. Your homes are in
Flames. Your armours as
Useless as your wet pairs of
Long johns.

I am a giant.

Near blind with seeing too
Much and squinting
When speaking to
People.

Clear the flowers from the window
And light candles for me.
Light me a thousand.  
So I may find my way home,
And we finally fall into
Each other.
Then light me another.

Use clear words.
Speak my language; I'm tired from
Bending my knees to
Hear. Show me that you'll listen,
Show me that you care
Enough to really
Listen.

I am bigger than you.  
I'll keep you safe
Until forever.  

As long as you dance with me;
Work with me; play with me.  
I'm clumsy and slow, might
Break everything
Except your
Heart.  

Light me a comet of candles,
An army of angels
To show that you
Want me there.

Light them all.
I have nights
To maneuver
Through.

News off. Music on. All is perfect in my world.
I only use papers as kindling these nights.
Far from "because I don't care",

I just stopped so suddenly one day, having
Noticed how I barely hear myself
Asking why to it all anymore.

I'd yell at the Prime Minister, I'd curse at CNN,
I'd turn it on to hear explosions in Bagdhad
And Syrian children crying for dead parents

In the background, while doing the dishes.
Why? No clenched fist of mine could reach across
And unfold, full of peace, compassion and disarmament.

Show me good news! I know they don't get the ratings,
Sell the papers or the next advertised product, but they
Happen in equal amount to the horrors.

It's a beautiful world as well. Where my loved ones remain
Unshot, uncut, unbombed, unharmed. Safe and even smiling.
That is truth. That is real. That is here.

Anything else is a lie.
That is why.

I found -in the shadow of a
Crane rigged and ready- that
I couldn't help myself.

Took a ladder to the huge sphere
Of chipped and battered iron,  
And threw one leg on either
Side of the chain.

Sang leaning and rocking
Into the walkie talkie
As my foreman spat his
Coffee not to choke; laughing along
With Swedes, Polish, Lithuanians
And Norwegians alike.

Miley. Bringing people
Together.

It's like dancing with
Timber,* she laughs.
I'm done trying.

Lower my branches, move
Away from the floor,
One root at the time.

Body built for lifting and
Fighting, not moving with
Any sorts of grace.

I'll shelter her nests, protect
Her from angry weather.
Stand solid as a green mountain,

Watching her dance;
Leaving acts of beauty to beings of
Beauty. Like flowers. Snow falling.

My woman.

Does this hurt?*
Yes.

It hurts like seeing your
Childhood home for the last time.

Nothing stings like your skin catching
Sparks from a bridge burning,

Like resting scalpel on chest and
Sliding to access the heartful of

Thorns, then changing to tools of
Extraction.

What am I doing here, would be
The last words they'd watch me

Think. Now I remain with the
Question, eyes turned to where I'd

Like to see Heaven holding divine
Wisdom and offering it,

Getting nothing but rain in my eyes
And silence.

All homes are temporary.
The smell of lilac floating down

The street will always take me back
To when that bridge connected one heart

Set on forever to one set on for now.
I run the tips of my fingers across

The scar of scalpel; a map from Death to
Life; lying flatline;

Temporary, temporary rest.
I was never meant to stay, I whisper

Into what I know is coming.
Will this hurt?

Yes.
*Good.

I don't care how
Angry she makes you.

Be gentle and kind to all
Women. Their

Hearts are closer to God's
Than our fists will ever be.

I like to remind
Myself

*This is as old as
I've ever been

The peace with which you rest
Reminds us: You were
Somewhere
Else before.
This world, it screams in violent
Dreams, but you know
Not the ways
Of war.

Deepest contrast -black to bright-
The way you smile
While others fight.
Could it be behind those
Eyes you see
The true
Reality?

The adult here is you alone,
The child is rampant
-Running free.
Fighting over toys and candy
While you're resting
Peacefully.

I fear not a thing in this room; world; vast. A path as wide as Earth-
I have none other to follow. Why should
I find myself ravingly inclined to throw this bucket into the ocean,
haul it back in until my palms bleed and with the intent of an excited madman
drink it all until I regurgitate shards of broken dream, regrets and utter salt.

I have listed all my achievements, all the houses I built, all the cast-iron-flame-retardant-
bridges I sat ablaze without a shrug; floating away into the air-waving
|new-life-death-the-universe-and-everything|
fumes of a well-played Molotow Coctail. I fear not a thing in this room.
When I die, I'll rest my cranial remains on a volume of pure epicity.

Loves and lovers won and mostly lost. Victories at high and lower cost.
Faces, sounds and scenes, more wild and blinding than I'd ever seen.
I cannot see in past or future anything considered missed.
No laugh withheld, no sin I felt I needed to resist.
It's only me: Little God. And I have come here to exist.
My diary. Is my Bucket List.

As if it's not
Enough that my
Mother liked her

At first sight;
My cat -who warms

Up to dogs and
Human strangers
In equal-

Just spent the
Night curled up

By her head. It's
Those huge
Little things

That make a
Man say thanks to

Such ordinary
Concepts as
Sunday,

Overcast and
*Morning.