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Epilogue

  This collection willed itself into being at a time when I was planning an entirely different writing project, and stayed strong throughout the changes and/or demise of that and other projects I was doing on the side. I never planned it. It willed itself into being.

  I won’t deny that it is essentially one long ode to depression. That should be fairly obvious to you if you made it this far. It reflects my state of mind fairly well I’d say. And that should kind of also explain why the writing of the collection became such a pressing matter that it pushed all other things aside.

  So, well, here it is! An intermission of a poetry collection. Written over a six month period of recuperation and recharging. The first poems (not counting the older ones that snuck their way in) were written in the immediate aftermath of my grandfather’s death, but didn’t fit into my last poetry collection which I were publishing at the time. The newest poems are rounding up everything, just barely making it over the finishing line at the eleventh hour. And now I can write no more of it. The theme is exhausted. Not because there is nothing more to say. Just because my situation has changed, and the sadness and loneliness that fueled the poems no longer extant in my life. Thus, it is done.

  The timing – with regards to this collection – could not be better. It closes a chapter for me, so that I can now allow myself to face squarely forwards.

 

  This is the end. I hope you got something out of the reading – at least remotely resembling how much I got out of the writing.

 

  Thank you for staying on.

– K-M Skalkenæs

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Catalyst

What is the greatest source of inspiration?
What can really make you contemplate
and urge you forward to complete something?

Well, if you’re happy and content
you might never see the point
of changing anything,
right?

You cannot know the light
if that is all you’ve ever seen –
you will not understand it
or appreciate it’s there
until you have lived through a night –

  And what a night. I don’t plan to moralize, but I do plan to speak my mind. I lived through a night like I hope you’ll never have to. And you probably won’t have to. Most people don’t. I was just the one out of thousands who drew the shortest straw. And then I was stuck in a nightmare that lasted 25 years. A long, drawn-out sleep that left me with nothing in store and everything to rebuild.

  But I did have one thing through that time. One thing that carried and supported me. And that was poetry. If I had lived a happy life, I don’t think I’d ever have started to write. I don’t think I would’ve seen the point, since I would’ve lacked nothing.

  As it was, I lacked – not only material things – I lacked a voice and words to express my thoughts. I lacked expression. And humans are social beings. We have an innate need for words and speech, but I had no words and weren’t heard when I tried to speak. So I wrote. Everything I couldn’t say out loud I wrote – poem after poem, essay after essay – and found a voice along the way that seeped out into my everyday existence and coloured what I’d do and say.

  It’s been an amazing journey, but if I’d never had problems, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to move along the way – I’d probably just have wanted to stay where I was at the beginning. Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right?

  I have no regrets – I chose a path that advanced me, however slowly, towards an understanding of my abilities, and what I truly wanted at heart. It just so happens, that at the end of the road, what I wanted was to continue writing, since I had not yet nearly told everything I had to tell. And since I had come to be able to write fairly well, there seemed to be no reason to stop at all.

What is this stupid construct
the world calls happiness?
A soothing balm
to keep you in your place.

I’d rather feel the pain,
the sadness and the cold
the world too has to offer
instead of growing old
to see that I learned nothing
because I was content –
who on this Earth would truly
want that to be their end?

  Whenever I was at my lowest, no matter the circumstances, I always felt the urge to write. Mostly because no other solution was in sight. But that was what kept me going, and it was a sure and reliable guide to have at hand throughout that long and lonely night that was the uncertain stumbling steps I took towards the light.

  And the worse I felt, the better I wrote. Paradoxically. That’s how it goes.

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Where Are My Sunsets?

Where are my sunrises?
Where are my sunsets?
Where are my days?
An endless night
has taken their place.

Where are my colours?
Where is the music?
Colourless it fades.
A blurry image of a world
now passes by – abates.

Where are my sunsets?
There’s no sun to make them.
A distant globe up high
whose light retreats
remains cold in the sky.

Where did you go?
Why did you go?
Now what of me?
What do I do?

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Doppelgänger – The Poet About the Woman

She speaks through me,
she looks like me
but I don’t want to know her –
and if she was able
to hear my voice
or heed my advice
there’s much I’d like to show her.

But turning gently
in her own sphere
she is here
but she’s not here –
No words can move
her shrunken heart
that beats a tune
apart.

And I presume
to know her mind
but I don’t understand
her kind.
And what she says
provides no clue
since nothing stays –
I guess because
nothing was true.

She confuses me –
her nonsensical speak –
her vague existence
yet more real than me.
I wish that I could do
without her altogether –
but that I cannot do
since we are bound together.

And since she does provide me
at least with inspiration
I try to be patient
I try to contain
her baser moods –
for a fashion –
and tolerate
her existence.

But how I wish that she
was more like me.

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The Poet Encounters the Prosaic

Someone once said to me: “Not all of your poems have to be good. After all, when you need to fill out a whole book, some of the material will inevitably just have to be fillers.”

Just no.

A chance meeting between a poet and the most prosaic person to ever live, possibly.

Undoubtedly a person who hasn’t written a single word that wasn’t a school assignment or a text message.

A person who doesn’t have much to say and insists on saying it loudly and with as many words as possible nevertheless.

Whereas I have spent years trying to say as much as I can with as few words as possible. Cutting to the bone and distilling the essence of a message.

Boiling it, tending the fire beneath it until it was time to retrieve it – the few select cuts of words returned to me.

Go back and recreate the unnecessary left-overs?

Just no.

You can’t add fillers without destroying the picture. Who cares if the eyes are well drawn if the rest of the face is a cartoon?

Just no.

But then again – a person who would say such a thing in the first place is probably not likely to be either willing or able to read a poem in the first place.

That kind of people just want their heads filled with noise so that they don’t have to think.

The antithesis of my mission.

The beauty of such people lies only in the fact that their prosaic nature makes the poetic stand out in contrast all the starker and more visible – even to those with less discerning eyes.

I praise the prosaic. Without it, there would be no reason for poetry.

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The Endless Question

The question never ceases to surprise me –
the only one most men have wits to think of
when they hear that I write poetry.

“So, you write love poems, don’t you?”
over and over – always the same –
never anything smarter – nothing new.

I’m tired of having to answer: “No”
but since I do not write of things
I don’t have knowledge of, it must be so!

Granted, in youthful folly, I once tried –
but that endlessly repeated question saw to it
that the impulse very quickly died…

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I Can Resist This! –

Tenuous grip on sanity –
that scent of man –
tendons on a turned neck –
the gesture of a hand –

Flex of muscles on a leg –
– I can resist this! –
To long – it’s been too long –
– I don’t need this! –

A hand is raked through hair –
a thought, a hope, a wish –
wispy clouds of breath
in winter air; mine, his –

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Idealism In Hindsight

Though said that I have principles, ideals
and dreams of better futures worth the building,
is the truth not rather, somehow still,
that no thought of mine ever soared so high
that I didn’t, beneath it, secretly yearn
to shear my roots and shake off destiny
rather than transform society?

How easy to be free
when nothing holds you back.
How easy to reject the norms
when no-one cares
or perceives it as a lack –
except oneself.

So easy
except for yourself.

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There’s a Nightmare Afoot

There’s a nightmare afoot
and I cannot tell if it is a dream
or reality rearing its ugly head
intent on breaking the spell –

Something dropped and then picked up
only to be dropped again –
play that on repeat for eight hours of sleep
and you’ll be wishing for the end –

Only to wake up for work – REPEAT –
like yesterday and the day before;
nothing new to do, nothing new to see
and no chance to really plan for more –

Only sleep to remind you,
honestly at least,
that there is a part of you
that always yearns for more –

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Whatever Comes Of It, At Least I Tried, I Did

I would write,
I would write but I am tired and the words don’t come –
perhaps tomorrow
or any other day but today.
But if I say that every day
I may never get to write again
and that thought is so scary
that I try – at least try –

Because what else would I do?
How else would I express myself?
I would explode eventually
with all those words inside me
that cannot make their way out
unless I write them down
and hand them to you.

So I write –
so I try to write
and whatever comes of it
at least I tried,
I did.

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What I Am

I am a stray cat nobody wants to feed –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

I am a shadow in the darkness of the night –
I am a planet knocked off course
and hidden from the light –

I am an epiphyte high on a branch, alone –
I am disguised to look like my surroundings,
so you pass me by, unknown –

I am an eye that follows you around –
I am a presence that you barely can detect,
a movement; subtle, slight

I am a shade dissolving in your light –
I am an echo in the silence you create
with all the noise you make –

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The Restless Darkness

I am a civilized woman, am I not?
A product of a state who never lets me go.
A product of millennia of development,
and paths that others had to go.

Then why does the darkness within remain?
The drive that makes me restless,
angry, fearful of myself
time and again?

Is this the best that I can be?

A clenching fist that never gets release –
a thousand angry thoughts
that no amount of words can ease –

A core of smoldering darkness
unseen within –
a hand stained red
with paint
from a canvas torn in anger
at my failure as a human being –

Why is that I can’t get to express
anything worthwhile to anyone –
the silence, the civility
it only feeds the darkness
it festers deep within
yet still remains unseen by everyone –

The breaking point –
I don’t know where it is
since I am weighed down by society –
all I do know
is that there is
such a thing as too much civility –

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What Is the Value of Life If This Is All It Is Reduced To?

A quiet but merciless
centrifugal force
of inarticulate gibberish
burst from people’s lips
around me.
There is no respite
from the meaning
I fail to discern
in their murmurings.
There is no peace
to be had from moving lips
and flailing hands
that corner me.
There is no life
that doesn’t include
this meaningless
display.
Then what’s the value
of a life
if this is all
it is reduced to?

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The Moth Inside

The moth inside me yearns
towards the people in the crowd
with their invisible light –
the aura of their company invisible by sight –
although each contact only causes me to burn.

Yet still I find myself
dwell on their presence by me
though from a safe, slight distance –
their presence cast the only light in sight
and so I must return – if only once again to burn.

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Teacher Totally Disenchanted

The more I know,
the less you seem to know.

I used to think you knew everything.
Now I know that you know a few things.
And fake a good many.

Now I know that I could teach you.
Yet I shouldn’t brag – since after all
you were the one who taught me
the foundations which I took off
and overtook you from –

I could’ve kept respecting you
perhaps indefinitely
if you didn’t so insistently
keep claiming to know more than you know
now that I know you do.

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I Shrink Down Next To You

Blanketed by darkness
that nestles itself
around my heart –
probing my brain
with foggy tentacles
for light left –

Leaden arms and legs
that feel unlike my own
and a voice that speaks
through my mouth
though I can’t hear the words
or stop the sound –

Did the world always
turn so slowly?
Was the light always
this dull?
How come you don’t see
the changes
while I shrink down
next to you?

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As the World Forgets My Existence

A scorching summer’s sun
sinking
making way for
pale pink ribbons
flailing
disappearing
into inky bluish black –

We stood here once
your back not turned –

Do you remember
who I am?
Did that memory
fade
or does a trace –
at least –
remain?

A faint ribbon
dancing
vaguely through your brain –
doomed
to fade.

I feel myself fade –
I dissolve
swirling into the pink
vapour
that vanishes
with the sun
as the world
forgets
my existence.

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The Darkness Approaches

The darkness approaches,
I struggle to fight it –
it prods and it pushes –
deny it; deny it!
there’s part of my soul
that it clings onto tightly –
I cannot escape it –
release me; release me!

The sun brings its light with it
back in the Spring,
but it has no power
to scare off the night
that lurks still inside me –
fight it; fight it
with all of the cold
and the darkness of winter.

I may or I may not
be acting like others;
my strife may or may not
be easy to see –
I don’t have the energy
to bother hide it
with all of this turmoil
inside of me.

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The Prospect of Ageing

Time heals,
time mends,
time lets you
comprehend…

That grey hair
wasn’t there
yesterday!

Don’t fight
with nature,
you are it;
ever sure –

Indestructible,
unbreakable –
intertwined with nature
you will endure…

But that wrinkle –
too early…
Isn’t fair!

But YOU, you can relax;
you are not me,
so I am free
to tell you all is well –

I say to you;
embrace the cycles
nature binds us to –

And just ignore me
quietly
dyeing my hair
over here –

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The Restless Wind Rustles the Wheat

The restless wind rustles the wheat
today; sunshine – yesterday; sleet,
a sun that dares to show its face
for once
and deigns to filter through the branches’ lace –

A lazy tune that’s being hummed in vain
with nobody to hear it – save the grain –
a person moving slowly, lazily
for once
and taking in the ambiance and scenery –

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The Known vs. The Felt

I know you’re gone
and I am left alone
to carry on.

But how can you be gone
when you take shape
time and again
within my head?

Do you live on
within the neurons
of my brain?

Do you have shape
that could be seen
on a brain scan?

Did you not die
but simply transition
to another form of life?

A dull response
passed along
the neural networks –
determined to carry on?

I know you’re there
knocking on my skull
from within
time and again –

It’s just that I don’t know
if you are aware
that you’re there
anymore.

And so I’d better try
to let you go
anyway.

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The Poet Takes Pains to Reflect

Grasping at the strings attached to everything in life –
seeking out the meaning wishing that it wouldn’t hide
(or that at least I knew that it existed)
writing down my findings – although I first resisted

The good, the bad in everything –
composed, compressed, compiled –
I smile, I hurt; yet through it all
I only search for words
so that I might recall –

And filed away beneath it all
is the humanity that brought it forth
– against my will, according to my nature –
for what it may be worth

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The Words Don’t Wait

The words don’t come
when I want them to –
they drift through my mind
there, then gone.

I can’t remember them
as soon as they’ve moved on –
a spark of inspiration
there, then gone.

Then one drifts slowly by,
slow enough for me to grasp
and examine, and the words
materialize at last –

and the very first sentence
has made its way to paper
when somebody knocks the door…
And then I stand here later

Looking at that paper –
but the words couldn’t wait,
they’ve moved beyond my reach
and again it is too late.

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The Stranglehold My Soul Has On My Body

The silence that chokes me
is the stranglehold
my soul has on my body –
kept captive and fettered
it smolders inside
it longs to burn through
its containing hide –
It answers my call
that it alone hears
since I can’t make it heard
beyond myself at all –
It burns unsteadily,
colder, then hotter,
dimmer, then brighter
and sooner or later
it will cause me
to burst into flames.
But what might be seen
as the breaking of chains
is really just the end
since the flames cannot burn
without the fuel
my body provides them.

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The Seer – The Seen

She sits alone in darkness
around her there is light
and she hears happy voices
but they are out of sight –

There’s many degrees of darkness,
there’s many shades of shade,
there’s much to be absorbed by
in the absence of the light –

A life in an eternal night –

And she is right beside you
but hidden in the shade
that neither sees the other through –

I see – I see – I see you –
I see you thinking I don’t see,
I see you thinking I miss out
on life –
And yes!, All that I do is see
since that is all I am allowed
but I am not the one who’s
missing out –
I am the only one of us who sees –

“What do you see?”
“I’d rather keep you happy
by not letting it
shine through.”

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The Cure

I am not depressed.
I am realistic.

Your idea of curing me
is to make me sick.

I would rather see the truth
than soak in fake happiness.

I would rather feel pain
than imagine fake joy.

I would rather live
whatever that entails –
I would rather know
than fake beliefs –
I would rather think
than fake agreement –

I am not depressed –
I just have sharper vision than you.

You can’t cure me
since you spread the disease.

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Just a Drop of Water

I am nothing unique, really –
I am a drop of water
in the river of society,
unsatisfied,
unfulfilled,
like any other.

We’re headed somewhere collectively
but that is not a place I wish to see –
the fear is always there;
being hidden in the stream of history,
drowned among the others and forgot
like so many – most –
who lived and shaped our lives today
but still, whose thoughts and names were lost.

I am nothing unique, really –
just another drop of water
that evaporates eventually,
meaningful,
unsuccessful,
like any other.

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On the Nature of Faces

I am what I am
and nothing more
(yet nothing less) –

a faceless voice
praising a world
made out of faces –

always scorned
for things I can’t control,
alter or make undone

but never praised
for those things that I can –
not for a single righted wrong.

The faces of the world
never turn my way –
they do not heed my words.

But I praise myself to say
that I don’t turn from anyone
since I don’t have a face to turn away.

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For All the Flaws of Our Life On Earth

Could I earn a place in Heaven –
by what means
and what might it do to me?
What if I found that once there, then
not only had I ceased to be
but too that Heaven isn’t as it seems?

That is to say, what good is to be had
cut off from everything –
what good to learn when nothing
resembles a chance to ever meet the bad?

For all the flaws of our life on Earth
I must say –
I’d choose this life, right here and now
over a place in Heaven any day.
For all the dreary, and for what it’s worth,
no other place provides a chance for growth.

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Lightblinded

Light creeps in everywhere
to burn away
its detractors –
the shade runs for cover
and I with it –
the day struggles
with the night
and only reluctantly
allows it life –
the day recuperates
to resume the fight –

Too many colours,
too much light –
it drains one’s life
to sustain itself –

No, give me night!
Give me winter’s cold
so that my thoughts can clear –
this light muddles it
and hides the thoughts
that I must want to hear;
the fears, the doubt, the questions
that define me –
this light blinds me
and hides them from me –
Now who am I?

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Reality Check

Liberated consciousness,
self-realization –
not really.
Somehow realizing the “self”
always has consequences
for others –
preventing others
from realizing themselves.

Escape your comfort zone
(to boast about it)
forgetting in your haste
that your comfort zone
does not exist
in a vacuum
but overlaps the comfort zones
of those around you
whom you may not
have consulted
about the escape –

Your dream.
Someone’s nightmare.
What makes you think
your dream
is what’s more real?

Humans are flawed –
more so because they
ignore the real flaws
and invent other –
unimportant –
“flaws” they’d rather improve.

“Move fast and break things.”
Why is it
that I always have the feeling
of trailing behind
the rest of humanity
alone
with a broom –
trying to tidy up
at least an inch-wide path
through the mess
you all leave behind
for future generations
to struggle through
or drown in?

I am Chiron –
I can make you feel better
about yourself
at the cost of myself –

I am Cassandra –
but wise enough to not speak
and only write
since most people
are too lazy to read
and even fewer
intelligent enough
to understand –
whereas if you speak out loud
everybody thinks they understand you
even though the smartest
only scrape the surface
of the words
obscuring meaning –

I am King Midas
(dressed as a woman)
with the exception
that I don’t turn things to gold
but to poetry –
equally impractical
but much less lucrative –

I would much rather be myself
but the rest of humanity
cuts the queue
and butts me out the way
declaring their right
to self-realization –
(it must be a lonely search -)
and I have not the arrogance
of humans
so I stay quiet
and write –

Stay in the heat –
Play the game –
Oh, I’d do it for inspiration!
But only because
your idiosyncrasy
makes for good poetry!

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Does Chaos Count as an Emotion?

Does chaos count as an emotion?
Or is it just another lie
we tell ourselves to hide
the fact of holes in our understanding
of the workings of the mind?

I look at you and all I feel is chaos –
a mingling of what is and was,
what could be had and lost
and what I truly feel hides there behind –
an answer that my mind won’t let me find.

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Light Requires Darkness

I carry with me a darkness
that prevents me from taking flight,
a burden of thoughts that possess
and bars me from the light.

I thought that I should name it
to understand and will it away
but names tend to bind things
and so might make it stay…

Instead I tell myself
and the whole dispassionate world
that light requires darkness
in order to ever unfold.

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I Have No Voice That You Can Hear

I heard your question.
I strove to answer.

The words swelled in my throat,
they got stuck, wiggling their way out,
writhing, tearing at my windpipe –

You just stood there.
You just stared at me.

But the words were there –
it wasn’t for lack of trying –
it’s just that I have no voice
that you can hear.

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On the Verge

I am waiting to disperse,
I’m almost on the verge of dissipating –
let my components find rest
if that’s the only kind of rest to find…
I’m ready to slip past
the past, the present, and into the future,
a future waiting in the dark
in which I may or may not play a part…
I will flit away someday –
I will run with the sun
over this small globe
on light feet, light-headed, freed
from the chains my body imposes
knowing neither joys nor pains –
would that be happiness?
Or would it simply be a change
from one form to another,
yet again, and yet again,
proving once again
all higher thoughts in vain?

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In the MAKING –

The desire to MAKE –
that is the human curse I carry –
the MAKING of art
in a futile attempt to carry
myself into a future
without me –

My hands want creation –
if my mind wants peace
it has come to the wrong place –
this world is ours
for the MAKING –

For those of us who have
sufficiently little of ourselves
to value art
that’s what we MAKE –

For those who live instead
they MAKE themselves
and others in their image –

And we shall MAKE
a world without us
through our restless creation –
a world in our image
as barren as the average mind
that brought it down –

Meanwhile I’ll MAKE
some poetry and hope
some sense might yet be found –

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I Am the Poet of Transience

I am the poet of transience.
I am a voice that shouts unheard into a wall of noise.
I am a light that flares up, indistinguishable in the face of the sun.
I am a leaf that unfolds only to wither.

But then, aren’t we all?

I am the voice of distilled thought and feeling.
I am an experiment of Nature –
I am a being attempting to be more than I am.
I am a longing, aimed at unattainable truth and certainty.

All in all, I am human.

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How I Long To Believe –

How I long to believe in something –
how the world lets me down each time I try –
everything I believe in
seems destined to wither and die –

My heart remains full of visions
as my mind stays full of songs –
but the words die on my lips
when I ponder the past gone wrong.

I admire the certainty heard
in the voices of other people –
so sure of themselves they drown out
my voice; so frail and feeble –

How I long to believe in something –
but life has taught me – and harshly:
no truth stays truthful for long;
there is no such thing as certainty

So I maintain my silent vigil
over dreams buried and gone
and scoff at the people around me
who thinks they are right and I’m wrong

How I wish that I never believed –
that I never allowed hope to stain
my mind with its reveries…
How I wish it hadn’t all been in vain.

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Spring Burst Forth

The Spring announced itself today –
the 3rd of April –
with a flash of light
and an angry roar
it washed the winter off the ground
as it were –

And underneath the winter
suddenly the flowers, tough,
exploded from their hides
announcing: “We have had enough!”,
with birds in happy chorus chanting with them:
“Finally! Now we may live again!”

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The Arrival of Spring

Spring arrived
or so I decided
today.

The dark fog
hovering in my head
I willed away.

At least for now
the sun shines
and the air is clear –

the cold awakens thoughts
and silences
the nightmares –

The snow of yesterday
already melted,
disappeared

it took with it all traces
of our movements there –

the sludge seeps through my shoes,
no longer waterproof.
It’s good,
it helps me stay awake –

I hung away my winter coat
this morning
since I choose
not to allow the winter to go on –

and if the winter disagrees
so be it –
I’d rather catch a cold
than stay inside

My feet are freezing
but it helps me breathe –
it helps maintaining focus,
not to feel

and I will walk today
and stay outside
and try to think

and I won’t sleep until
the thinking
has been done

Spring arrived today
because I need it now –
I cannot wait two weeks
for clarity of mind.

I’ll air out my brain
and will the darkness away
and see what I can find –

perhaps some energy
that I thought lost –

perhaps a way to will away
the nightmares of the past –

perhaps a flower sprouting
in a pool of half-thawed
ice-encrusted mud –

perhaps to catch a cold –
that would be something new to think about –
perhaps I could –

perhaps a beam of sun
that cannot yet be felt –

perhaps a stray thought
that could help me write a poem
again –

perhaps some lungfuls of the air
might help me sleep
a healthy sleep
with no nightmares –

My feet have led me
out into the park
where they sink
into the thawing soil –

the earth seemingly knows
that I need to feel grounded –

With feet like icicles
I proceed
ahead –

the Spring of my making,
right here and now,
a stuttering breath –

an interlude between darkness
and darkness –
light, cold and wet –

alive –

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I Have Not the Arrogance of Humans

I have not the arrogance
of humans –
mine is not the voice
of presumption –
I walk among them
in silence
and they do not sense
my presence –

I have not the bearing
of them –
not their arrogance,
pretense –
not their wild-eyed fury
at ideas
that scatter in the wind
around the bend –

I have not their beliefs
and dreams –
their hopes and fears
and follies –
I won’t purport to understand
their ways.
I understand enough
not to try –

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Thoughts. Slipping.

Early.
Spring.
Fog.
Walking.
Sad.
Tired.
Drops.
Dripping.
Cold.
Thinking.
’bout what?
No knowing.

Tired.
Foggy.
Silhouettes.
Fading.
Distant.
Laughter.
What for?
No knowing.

Isolation.
Distant.
Yearning.
Mind.
Working.
Tired.
Still.
Thinking.
Changing.
Life.
Weather.
Season.
Planning.
What for?
No knowing.

Too early.
Thoughts.
Slipping.

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Early Morning – Fog

Heavy dampness in the air,
whiteness everywhere –
muffled sounds from far away
as morning wakes to day –

Tentative light that tries to poke
its fingers through the fog of sleep –
the war of Spring on Winter
leaves everything to soak
in clouds it dragged down deep –

The sun fights with the whiteness
and wafts it gently by –
yet something still remains
to cloud my mind and eye –

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You Called Me Forth

You called me forth
and I stumbled out
into this light
that blinds me.

“Well, here I am –
what is it that you wanted out of me?
Not what you get?
I see.”

Well, here I stay
mindful of the glares
that no-one dares
aim at my face
directly –

If only they could see my mind –
there’s truths in there they cannot face –