"fjords" poems
A fueling, flashing fulgent, furnace, fulgurous, frothy, fumes and feathery flakes,
I do not speak of waves of snow, hoary frost, or ice, a cold gelare or even frozen lakes!
Formidable, furrows, fructifying, functioning fruition to foremost fondly found a flaming,
I revel not in such destruction but choices for my naming!
For flowers flow fields forever, forswearing funneling fjords finitely, fire fray’s forests furthermost,
Instructing in the arts of language, for I am your gracious host!
Fakir formulates factious forms fading flummoxed into fury, a fugacious fusible and furtive fleeting feigning furiosity,
A deep ditch dug, tight as pug, wrapped blanket snub though not a flub, all perspicacity!
Finds frosty frore a frozen freezing faction for fusty flaming feasance,
Fomorian fantasy of formidable faggoting, facient up to fancying, fancying, furnaced flesh fluidity finds itself factitivity, facets for fabulists from the faint familiarity,
Relating cold to heat as such, requires but a human touch, apologize I do you see for all my clueless severity!
Fans of all the falconry, who fallow fields of family, falter for a fallacy, falling into infamy as forgone flame frontogenesis, fatigues a Faustian felony, for which fate finds is fastigiated foolery, febrile features featly and yet furiously, favonian fear of fellowship fiendishly, figures foal to fatherly, finally fiddle flinchingly, although not so too furtively;
I finagle in my filigree!
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
(Bergen)SEVEN days all fog, all mist, and the turbines pounding through high seas.
I was a plaything, a rat's neck in the teeth of a scuffling mastiff.
Fog and fog and no stars, sun, moon.
Then an afternoon in fjords, low-lying lands scrawled in granite languages on a gray sky,
A night harbor, blue dusk mountain shoulders against a night sky,
And a circle of lights blinking: Ninety thousand people here.
Among the Wednesday night thousands in goloshes and coats slickered for rain,
I learned how hungry I was for streets and people.
I would rather be water than anything else.
I saw a drive of salt fog and mist in the North Atlantic and an iceberg dusky as a cloud in the gray of morning.
And I saw the dream pools of fjords in Norway ... and the scarf of dancing water on the rocks and over the edges of mountain shelves.
Bury me in a mountain graveyard in Norway.
Three tongues of water sing around it with snow from the mountains.
Bury me in the North Atlantic.
A fog there from Iceland will be a murmur in gray over me and a long deep wind sob always.
Bury me in an Illinois cornfield.
The blizzards loosen their pipe ***** voluntaries in winter stubble and the spring rains and the fall rains bring letters from the sea.
3.4k
Scandinavian movies
Bring a lot of fog in my life.
My life is so foggy
My dreams are groggy..
Elvira Madigan looks at him
While he is shaving…
Scandinavian movies
I like to watch them.
They stop this crazy Flamenco
That my heart dances
They bring the coldness of
Fjords in it.
Doctor Glas reads the verdict:
“This is a chronic disease
Underneath her soul is sinful grease
Darkness blackness, the lack of light
She is so tired to fight
So tired to fight.
She loves
There is no cure
yet
She is a liar
Her love is not pure
Her life is dirt, distilled sin
She is so tired to fight
She won’t ever win.”
Elvira Madigan kisses her lover
I am imagining I am kissing you
Elvira Madigan leans forward, kisses him
He still has a blade in his hand,
He unclamps the vessel with his desires,
He unclamps his hand
The blade falls off
This is so dangerous
Like …..Love.
Scandinavian movies
I like to watch them.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Slowly it slides on sub zero waters
trying to find a pathway to the sea
sheet of pure blue and heaven white
lumbers discreetly for aquiline is quite
From the top of the world
frozen fingers reach down
claws frantic on solid ground
No religion no sage
no saviour just age
and the relentless pull of gravity
will take it from mountain to the sea
This sculptress of valleys and dales
and fjords that can be seen for miles
travels without sound
onward bound
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Watch how the white birds float
On fjords, eternally reposed—
The rustles will whisper
how they keep pristine composure:
"Follow the glassy estuary streams,
where swans sleep quiescent darlings
of their ivory shrouds."
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
I've never been to China
I almost went to France,
I missed a flight to Russia once
I only missed by chance
Rome's intoxicating
The air there is sublime
But, I've never been there either
I just didn't have the time
I missed a train to Scotland
Bypassed Wales, and well Why Not?
There's nothing there in Cardiff
Other countries haven't got
I thought about the islands
Bui I do not like the sun
So I thought about a cruse ship
Still, I've never been on one
Alaska, has the mountains
forests wide and big brown bears
But as you can imagine
I've also not been there
I thought about Hawaii
but I never made that trip
I thought about the hula
And I thought I'd hurt my hip
I booked a flight to Cairo
Never went as you could guess
Saw a story on the news one day
And Jesus, what a mess
The pyramids had scaffolding
The place was full of sand
So I stayed home and watched telly
And then that trip was canned
I've never been to Ireland
or Cuba or Ceylon
And at the rate I'm going
It won't be long before their gone
I've thought about the Norway fjords
and lovely Swedish parks
but I've heard that all their fjords are filled
With big man eating sjarks!
I've never been most anyplace
I ever set to go
I'm not sure why I stayed here
I really do not know
Next week I have a trip planned
I'm not going to Spain
And then a fortnight after
I'm not going again!
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
Greenland's fjords
Native tongues
Thai curries
Tundra calls
answer
Let me answer
Earth, all of this
great
I'm grateful
To be here
Warm showers
Nashville towers
But all of this
All of this
Earth
calls
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
I was born for Nebraska
I was born for the Massif Central
I was born for the mountain top shrine
with nothing but the music of nature
to distract me
I was born for the weekly news
on some sleepy island in the Pacific
I was born for Covent Garden
The Pangea of Culture
New Orleans trumpets;
the flamenco player
twisting lime into his drink
I was born for the cotton fields
I was born for the salt marsh
for the tug-boat all out of fresh water
I was born for the Ganges
I was born in the shadow of the Hajj
I was born for the G-dless land
of Death Valley
the streets of Harlem
I was born into the spirit
of old Afghanistan
I was born on the false strings
of liberated women-
I was born on a stage of puppets
a backdrop of Glaswegian tenements
or of fjords unvisited
beside Scandinavian seas
I was born for Rugby Cement
I was born to be fixed in place
This wandering mind
These restless legs
I was born with a travelling soul
in a town where I can barely walk
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Finite Fjords ferried then forgotten
junctures Masking mashups
disunion unfound by everyone
slackface mouth agape
tongue in cheek spittle drips
words trapdoored out
vocal vacuum chords
strum silence
heretical heresay
the headlight sped north
Abortion of caged comfort
Abort wars, birth best
invent intentional acts
WILLED UNDEVILED DEEDS
BLEED BREED PLEAD
SERENITY WITHOUT ANY GRANDIOUSITY
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:25 PM UTC
your symptoms are mine. we attach dead cells to living gods, you and i.
Golgotha spawn, writhe in leather trousers
to harlequin the marrow of our dire pipes !
to leap and jeer in tandem
that's how love does the impossible
with your mundane.
we are the abattoir of our stoic cow
your symptoms are mine. i see how you might think me mad; you not i.
but this is the dream fleck of your unkissed
a sweltering bloat of frozen hope
flogging the wolf in a gleam
of campfire exodus
and dust.
your nexus is the heart of the most free, a slim gorge of Krakens
yawning fresh hell and fjords of unconquerable silence.
yours is the tomb I am used too.
where we resurrect
we die laughing.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
along the red marble hall in the east wing
on either side, hung from the talons of granite stones
resting on their brother's shoulders in the bitter load baring
framed in golden oak and cherry wood, gilded arcane; several paintings
in the style of the Old Masters. And a long rug from foreign fjords
like a flat dune of spice, the length of a mile. pinched to a vantage point
in a spider's web. and a draft.
a draft through the twelve senses. your song un-gongs the gamelan
and the bells remain. pecked by crows of a different summer.
beads of honey making war
on paraplegic bees. we keep these in styrofoam cups to just enough; seal our wounds.
we encounter the lost rooms with the odd keys
on either side, the full length of the east hall. stout, brawny portals to discord and fable.
perhaps even windows of a different winter.
perhaps we know.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
The small stone fell from a ledge
in a study somewhere
and dropped into a travel bag.
Later the bag was picked up and carried away.
Much later still it was put in a car
being placed on the back seat. The car was
then driven to a port where it was taken off
the seat of the car and carried on-board
a cruise ship. The cruise ship was about
to sail up the Norwegian Fjords. It sailed
there quite frequently, though not
exclusively as it also sailed
around the Mediterranean Sea.
The bag was taken to and placed in
one of the luxurious staterooms.The
owner of the bag and her husband
were celebrating an important event
by enjoying a journey that they had
always promised themselves. The bag
eventually ended up on the deck as the
husband had fetched it for his wife
for an object that it contained. In
getting that thing out, the small
stone got caught up in it somehow
and was pulled out of the bag and
fell onto the deck of the ship,
whereupon it started to roll about.
Ultimately the stone found its way
to the stairs down to the lower deck
where it found a gap to lodge in. The
cruise ship sailed into the fjords
during a sudden heavy storm causing
much turbulence not only on the ship
but in a number of the passengers
stomachs, one of whom, a drinking man
I chance, could not contain himself,
and he was violently sick. The storm
abated however, and all was well.
A crewman took on the task of
cleaning up after the apparently
bibulous gentleman and washed down
the deck, and in doing so, washed
the small stone through a gap,
specially there for the deck washing
purpose, and into the fjord whereupon
it sank to the very deep bottom.
Such are the mysteries of life, but
in that one pebble's journey you can
gauge the unpredictable future of
every man, woman and child and creature
on Earth.
Isn't life utterly bewildering?
It is unlikely that the ever-moving tides
in the fjord will not have moved it elsewhere
many times since it fell in off the ship,
out of the bag, out of the car, into the car,
into the bag, and off the shelf
in the first place.
How it arrived on the shelf is
a story for another day.
Utterly bewildering!
©Joe Wilson - The pebble of life...2014
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Up here it is more temporary; the
Sun has already turned.
In six months, the only light will be
That of the snow piercing through the
Darkness of a
23 hour night.
Words such as swimming and
Barbecue have the same taste as the
Cardboard of the box you are provided
With when being told to
Clear out your desk immediately.
And the winds pick up from
Closer to north with promises of
Ice cold rain in them.
Then just ice.
I fear not bullet nor blade, but look
Down and shiver at the thought of having
A brief, bad summer
Such as this.
I spent a week on Helene's parents'
Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating
Cod still wet with salt water, but yet;
The skies were grey; the breezes
Ungentle; unsoothing.
But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites
Where the ground still
Smells of sacrificial blood and
Mead, and there
I shrugged the disappointment off as I
Closed my eyes and imagined paddle
Sounds and Norse grunts from a
Thousand years ago; rugged
Travellers returning after months at sea
Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home.
Thinking nothing at all
Of the weather.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
Soil and ancient roots
Unbearable vacuum
Her silence killed me
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
i speak in whispers of
New American Tragedy:
id seeking ego, beyond
means and dreams.
A spirit as big as the
Western plains, as lofty
as distant clouds gathering,
as crushed as the valleys
and fjords carved by
glaciers ancient and cruel.
Samhain is passed, now in
November we must look
to the solstice, for there
is seemingly little to
praise. Entropy approaches,
brushing our hair
with tender fingers,
piano
gently exhaling nothings
in earshot,
piano
dolce, dolce
unghia sul ponticello
easing its canines into jugulars,
per amore
per amor nostro
ci ama treppo per essere solo
laughing.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
He is Sicilian, skin tawny the color of
toasted garlic
knobby knuckles but strong palms
steady and smooth and graceful
never wavering as he slowly depresses the plunger with his thumb
pushing two clear drops from the syringe
he ran out of dope so he soaked his old cottons
to **** out the residue
and deposit it in his vein
fist clenches twice and holds
and he dips the needle in
so light
so little
then his fingers shimmer away from his palm
and drop to his side
When I was 13 I took a trip to Alaska
my aunt brought me there and we rode on a boat
along the southern coast and through the fjords
One day we saw a glacier calving across the water
so ***** it looked like a cliff, but when a piece fell away
the ice that it revealed was deeply blue
He'd only traveled in the desert
from Austin to Iraq
but one night here
in Duluth, Minnesota
we lay on the roof and watched the Northern Lights
I told him that they were the color of glaciers
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 12:35 AM UTC
Secret inspirations on wonder nights
that come on the wings of wet winds,
moments that tiptoe across the gulf
of the worlds, I keep them deposited,
safe in your soul; When you smile,
you bring hundred hidden meanings
to life; You are my journal: in you I
hold my fondest fjords and rarest
gorges zealously concealed from the
prying eyes of life and time; Empty
flower vase that brings a silent corner
alive in shades of azul, dream-song
of the lone twig romancing the moon
in waving waters of the silent lake,
distant star that lights smiling eyes,
invisible companion on sacred quests,
hope of the cactus in barren deserts,
Señora, without you, I am a poet
orphaned in the loss of his journal.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
*reverberating down endless fjords
louder than an aching heartbeat
an alluring cardio-tinnitus
ringing at the wavelength of life
clouds appear oblivious to such calls
forever bordering sea and sky
albeit restlessly on the move
concealing their turbulence within
myself bound to superficial drifting
keel scraping along jagged depths
aimlessly navigating the narrows
deaf to the serenade of reason*
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
Shadows of grumpy old MANisms
run through my channels
flooding my fjords
overrunning my shorelines
and scaring the kiddies
the schoolmarms
the chaff and the raff
The kisses of clouds
upon my four bared cheeks
as I fall to the Earth again
explore the memories
that we shared together
while cloaked in mist
The gray twilight shades and tones
take over like gentle music notes
soothing away the agitation and the
frustration of an aging mind
that I myself would run from
if I were still able
Every day
your memory gets farther away
and so does the toilet
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
placed a heart inside a box,
box, sealed with a zillion locks.
then she went down on one knee,
with eyes closed she couldn’t see.
on her shoulder laid a sword,
she recalled the ghost of fjord,
for her journey to begin,
need she open din within.
placed a feather on that knee,
dropped her bones into a scree,
cold air breeze stayed far behind,
as her soul with stars aligned.
her heart remained inside a box,
someone took of all the locks,
on a sword he dropped a tear,
filled his hunger with a fear.
no one else but ghost of fjords, welcomed her amongst the wards.
feather fell on blood sprayed scree,
begins the journey with the sea.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 7:13 PM UTC
Palms, acacia, and eucalyptus trees
Long, white beaches
Red, hot sand
Down under
Far from home
A spark lits up
Like the stars shining
Over the spread-out city
Oak, spruce and pine trees
Long, deep fjords
White, cold snow
Up in the north
Somehow far from home
Cloudy and raining
A glimpse of the moon
The same as you see
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
LANDSCAPE TOGETHER
Memories become reality, events are lucid
and ongoing as brown haired girl stares thru
her frizzy hair, it’s not fair!
It’s too deep – do I like the girl?
Is your sister weird too?
Are you so weird too?
Maybe you doubt my love for you,
a foreign landscape dwarfs you,
diminishes you, makes you nothing but a girl.
You ask me my view, I reply
you’ll have to make up your own mind.
A million pretty girls have walked this land,
most are dead now. Their beauty heart stopping,
their country wordless, timeless.
We go to triple north deep fjords, midnight sun,
hazy skies of Freya. You invoked such a girl
in our spell on our enemy,
one day I, we’ll go to such shores.
To Viking lands, Leaves Eyes music,
Tristania and Mortiis. No mere girl can encompass
my love for you or a beauty you have yet to see.
Take you to frozen lake where biplanes flew
and fought against **** enemies.
A beauty rather indescribable but from your soul,
see it with me and you’ll understand.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
Do you know what happens to the teeth of children salvaged by the tooth fairy.
They are carried away in a velvet purse.
A vermilion scarlet purse with golden drawstrings.
And so the story begins.
~~x~~
The tooth fairy is a tiny soul, but she flies incredibly fast.
She wears a dress of silver and a tiny little diadem.
She sports the wings of a dragonfly.
Diminutive.
Dainty, she's much too small.
Much to small to be seen, by the unsuspecting naked eye.
Too big to be snatched by passing birds, so now you you know.
~~x~~
She carries her precious cargo, to the ice floes near the fjords.
And there she is greeted by the ice queen.
Whose name is Matilda.
She has been building a new ice castle, in which her family dwell.
~~x~~
It isn't finished yet you know.
She cares not what colour your teeth are.
As long, as they're not holey.
Holey teeth let the cold in.
~~x~~
Chilled wind whistles around her old arthritic neck.
Her kids took over the construction.
The buildings nearly finished.
~~x~~
The tooth fairy, whose name is Christina.
Dropped of yet another batch.
Sadly the naughty children have not brushed as the should have done.
A batch of broken teeth delivered.
My goodness how Christina shivered.
~~x~~
She thought she'd ask me to drop you a line.
To remind your children to brush well every time.
Matilda smiled at Christina.
She said" thank you my dear"
"For this winter I may freeze."
So please, please brush your teeth.
You really really should.
She said she'd find it really swell.
Hole less teeth will keep Matilda warm and well.
(c)Livvi
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Oceans of if's running rough yet smoothly,
In a mind filled with diffidence and hesitance;
Far-flung revelries of reveries in thoughts acquiescently,
Yet a heart searching possibilities with such adamance.
Piercing emotions fleeting through a murky surface,
Lulling the deadened soul with such alluring beguile;
Limerence spurned, suddenly pervading transient abyss,
Denial in persistent negation of emotion's cavil.
Depths of stolen glances seeking truth beyond words,
Waiting for signs of undefined warm requitals.
Beyond observations, I've only seen fjords;
Chilly shoulders and disregarded affectionals.
Force your eyes and heart, my presence descry;
And let's have a dance until twilight and time recedes,
For might've we not a chance again, not even in a scry.
Lest make a foolish heart's wish finally give up and accede.
Despite all eyes looking at us,
Did you ever feel something special?
Mistake my intentions not, I don't desire a fuss.
But I only yearn to figure, if in your heart you've got a lovely fractal.
To depths and beyond, I covet to seek.
The precious brilliance of your cloaked human shades,
Filled with beauty offering silence and meek;
A plausible sanctuary for a soul as it ages and fades.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
a useless cartographer
i would be,
as all roads
my love would lead me
back to thee..
all seas
would wash upon
thy shore....
all rivers fjords
and waterways
would be found to flow to your doorstep in a cascading
maze
meridean, ley lines,
all would be
tied up in bows and attached to your casement windows
mountain, plains, steppes
and vales would rest
adoring, in your garden pails
so i could not
be a cartographer.....no
useless would i be.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC