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Fjord Fisherman at Dawn

Wave after wave, come carry me away
from home on shore before the break of day
my nets to set, my duties to attend,
(revisiting the ones who earlier went
whose ghosts now hover in the mist at dawn
above the waves who stole and hide their form;
I breathe mist in, I breathe it out again
in silent conversation with you now again)

Fish scales that glitter on the deck below my feet,
a pace away the sea awaits me – cold and deep –
how many of you fishermen before my time
have fallen for this childhood love of mine
now resting on the bottom of its shrine?
I hear your voices on the morning breeze,
in splashings when the boats the surface tease;
I sense your presence, you who are long gone,
but it’s not yet the day for me; I’m heading home

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Fragile Dawn

Fragile Dawn – I barely see you
as you shimmer through an eyelid
halfway gone before you’re here,
halfway gone while you are here –
You bring promises with you
that, forgotten, fade with you
in the bittersweet gradient
of morning sky and clouds –
A barely registered pulse
of colour and of sounds
that goes unnoticed by and large
and passes at a glance.

A single bike whirrs by beneath my window
with the buzzing of a fly.
A factory chimney across the bay
spews rosy haze.
The sound of rustling leaves,
suddenly turned up high,
reaches me as you set the world ablaze.

Your beauty lies in this
ability you have perfected;
to make things beautiful
that normally
go undetected.

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to the girl

are streams of music, tones of rain
and moisturizing breaths you share,

are a song that comes and goes –
unnoticed though by most –
that follows me asleep, awake,
and lives inside my palms

breathe out tenderness and contours,
breathe in life and dance
and paint a life with nothing
that has meaning


curls of heat that stir the air
on a hot summer’s day
and fuses floral scents
with everything, everywhere

are everything I see –
you are in flowers, are in trees,
are in valleys, are in hills,
in the earth and in the sea

a breath of freshness
yet to be renewed
in waves that lap these
strands of welcoming seas

and a continuous harmony
playing its soulful airs
of tension between sea and sands

and YOU
as you recline and you observe
the ordered mayhem you create –
that is created from you –
spiraling outward from you
in its warm, entangling curls

a softness like the finest silk,
a moisture like the thickest mist,
a penetrating scent of life and light

and YOU
who just perpetuate –
who just persist –

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Gold Stripe

Gently tuned clangs from the ivory
of the piano keys –
a breath disturbs the dusty air,
the dust grains now break free –
amidst the tunes they dance
as if by music struck,
awoken into life
where now they run amok –
the golden stripe of sunlight
enlivening the keys
and the frail and tender breath
keeps them alive and free –
lit by the sun they sparkle
like particles of gold,
accompanied by Chopin –
what beauty does it mold

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The Memory of Music

Don’t play it – no more melody
reminding me of you –
don’t play the song we used to sing,
don’t sing it like you do –
no sound to ruin what my heart
is hoarding, true and pure;
there is no singing that today
is better or more sure.

Don’t play those notes of piano chimes
I used to play for you –
I will no more be reminded of times
we spent on those, me and you.
Whereto you have gone and wherefrom returned
since we last played this song
I do not care – I do not want to know –
by leaving me you did wrong!

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Only This Lives Forever

a rhythm,
no, a beat –
but in-between
the sounds
it rests,
a string
makes music
without sound –

a pulse,
again, a beat –
an un-tuned,
fine-tuned air,
a seed
of music
in its latency,
each and every
property –

only this
lives forever –
only this
the beat
out of need

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When It Was

When it was, it all was real,
today it is a shadow –
the lush green grass, a lonely cloud,
the daisies on the meadow –

When it was, it all was real,
but felt unreal to me –
then how much more unreal today
when I’m across the sea?

When it was, it was: It was!
Today it is a dream.
A dream that sweetens present days
with its soft, warming gleam

A welcome, numbing dream I dream
when the present seems too real;
when it was, it all was real –
today it’s just a dream.

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Soft Breeze

I smell wet grass
and mosses from
your hair as you pass
by my door,
soft breeze who plays
with the sun’s rays
and dances on

Restless, joyous
in your movements,
not constrained by worries
like my world.
On you dance, forgetful
on you dance, so joyful
with no constraints
you swirl

Curls of smoke adorns
your hair and
shoulders, old and worn
but lively young,
twinkling drops of moisture
smelling of green pastures
shines in your eyes
and to your lashes cling

Fresh breeze – my dear
I present you
with a solemn tear
of thankfulness
for your tranquil beauty
and for your sensitivity
when gently you
my cheek caress

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A ray of sunlight escapes the clouds
illuminating everything in its path;
the red, yellow, brown autumn foliage
is set ablaze
as the withering leaves sponge up, consume
the heat – the foliage turns luminous,
sending incendiary sparks with miraculous
mind-healing powers to you.

With an air of the utmost defiance
the sunlight illuminates the hindrance
in its way,
and turns the clouds yellow, orange, pink instead of grey
as the sun’s golden orb, overflowing with light
kindles fiery beauty in nature
on its endless venture
to prove to the world its might.

The sunbeam, interwoven with the plants
seems to subtly, casually dance
and as it hits the dust with flares
the world is chaos
of overflowing beauty encircling every living thing,
but then the clouds get envious
and close in to destroy the tempestuous
joy, which sunshine to the world’s mind brings.

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Green, Gold

The grass alights with stripes of green and gold
as sunlight filters through the trees,
and light and shadow divides the ground beneath
in asymmetric patterns – green, gold, green, gold –
of stripes, triangles and an occasional circle,
disappearing and re-appearing with the clouds
which thoughtlessly roll ever on above,
not giving a care to the beauty they periodically
green, gold – darkness – green, gold –
darkness. The dualism of tears and joy.

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Streams of Water

Running from your hair, emitting from your eyes;
clear streams of water does appear –
spouting from your curls, and lighting up your eyes
with their translucent light gives you a share
of beauty unknown previously to me –
engulfing now your body everywhere
the streams of water flow, uniting you
with the stream in which your feet appears
disfigured seemingly by water, greenish-blue;
and throwing back your head you laugh in cheer
as if you know not, never knew, of any care;
the silver curves of you, enriched by water
appear in snakelike movements, as another
being than I normally consider you;
the streams of water have transfigured you
into a nymph, a Naiad, and it seems
as if, in this form, you should appear in dreams
and not in my trivial reality, but this you do!
And had I known this waterfall was all
that it would take to see this side of you
I would have brought you here before,
and never would have left for want of you;
of seeing you as I now see you through
this stream of water under which you writhe
your body in exquisite, liquid curls
of such a shape that I could not have dreamt
up something half as beautiful as this.
It’s such a moment as this one
when beauty seems to have become
the raison d’etre for my life; and you
no more than sunlight, clouds or morning dew.

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The air is full of solemn song
though no human voice uplifts itself,
much more than hearing it you sense
the wind through leaves and grasses dense,
probing tentatively, playing along
your face and dancing with your hair
as you become absorbed in silence’s lair
where everything is clearer than you
previously knew;
the deep blue of the sky,
sweet smells of flowers
and the twinkles in the dew,
the wind caressing you, you couldn’t notice before
when mouths were spilling stories, gossip, lore.

Now the whole world
dances, plays, unfurls
before your eyes, and with wonder and surprise
you embrace the re-discovered existence
of the peaceful silence
which enables you to see
the smallest, yet most wondrous
miracles that can be.

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wave after wave come rushing in,
in slow-motion I watch the stream
of sunshine’s glittering gold reflected
on their perky tops, erected
over the following hills and dales
streaming silently over the shoals
until they finally reach their goals;
murmuring over the sand before my feet

every time a wave comes in –
each tiny little, harmless being –
I hear it speaking softly to me
like all my life I’ve heard them speak,
but never understood I quite
the language of their silent speech,
so what it is they wish to say
remains a riddle today as yesterday

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My Ocean v2

You are my ocean,
no grander destination do I have
than to rest in your bosom

Your currents take me
far asea until the coast is lost to sight
and deluded I believe to be free

Your waves rock my life
my life, the rickety boat that carries me
through your eternities

Your voice brings comfort
and peace to my wandering mind
as I seek the luxury of truth

You are boundless
you speak speechlessly, whisper in my ears
till I drift to sleep

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The Drawn-out Note

The impulse sparked in me by your pulse –
a pianist’s long drawn-out note,
a tune of soulful melancholy
revolving around love

Vibrating, trembling in the air
the note, materializing here
in this soft, rhythmic atmosphere
struck by your pulse to keep pulsating

Lingering for a moment with us, then
dispersing, and dismissed we breathe again

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Let us roam the Earth together
with no plan or destination,
travel inwards with eachother
with no fear of deviation.

Volatile and agile in our pursuit
of every height and elevation,
entwined by dreams we will endure
and go beyond our own cognition.

Order and chaos are rendered senseless
as we approach a new distinction,
the world for me is rendered worthless:
To me You alone are the crown of creation.

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The Sun Is Floating in a Sea of Mist

The sun is floating in a sea of mist
with two pale cloud-boats in its wake,
and all the sky irradiates as it emits
its golden light to mist and clouds alike

Then sinking in the sea of its own home
it dips its redding globe in the horizon
where silhouettes of trees, instead of foam,
await to drown what others let arise

And for a while two lonely clouds float on
lit up from underneath by fading embers
until the red fades from them too and they are gone;
only this poor rendition now remembers

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To Be Drawn

’Stretch out your leg and bend your arm,
look to the left – sit still.’
I stay poised in front of you
while you the paper fill.

And then a new pose, and another
on and on again –
what heat spreads throughout my form
as you draw yet again.

What strength of passion do I feel
while your mind’s bent on art –
while you draw my naked body
and observe each separate part.

Can you not see my heartbeat through
the skin you solemnly draw –
do you not feel the heat in the room?
No? You just draw and draw.

Still poised for your artistic pride
I wonder here, alone,
how strange and how mysterious
a feeling – to be drawn.

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landscape lost
in a humid cloud
of nebulous mist
that moist descends
upon us

dispersing white
mist, seesawing –
what a sight
to behold
before us

fog twirling around
pale smokestacks,
we are found
within this world,
swirling around

droplets condensing
on your cheek and brow
now start flowing
further down
moistening your clothes

moisture becomes vapour
as the nebula disperses,
the air clean and pure
washed, surely greets us
welcome home

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Hanging on its Stalk

glistening petals, pearly skin
as white and rosy as a memory
of fairytales told to me long ago –
but somehow they don’t seem to be
the lasting objects of veneration
that I have sought, (that I came here to see);
they droop as if caught up
in some sad moment’s melancholy,
and from the silky petals fall
two pearly drops – signaling fatefully
the doom of yet another worshipped object;
the fate of each and every thing of beauty

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The Rise and the Fall

Out of the ocean rises it, transparent in its beauty,
cocks head in joyful majesty and marvels at its power,
then bends its neck when nearing land, in curiosity –
consumes itself in foam and then
collapses on the sand;
retracted to the sea by subtle strings it disappears –
and re-appears and disappears; and yet and yet again

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Sunset at Sea

On such a pleasant evening I rejoice
in the ocean’s waves’ ancient-old voice
as they their thuds against the ship let sound
amidst the vast, blue realm which us surround

These waves, these North Sea hills and vales
which I was taught to fear
from childhood days through songs and tales;
but now they seem so dear

And the beauty is quite overwhelming
as blue sky and ocean blur the horizon
so the sunset’s golden stripe, glimmering,
remains to separate them alone

How odd it seems to muse today
over this stripe of gold
that only ever points my way
with beauty manifold

As centre of the Universe I feel
when seeing this arrow point to me
with never-faltering constancy and zeal
over much-less-constant deep, blue sea

I near forget my destination
as this I observe;
and feelings of emancipation
eases quite my nerve

But even now, in the back of my mind
I know with certaintu
that the freedom and openness I find
on the sea; lives only out at sea

The coast that comes in sight
soon takes it all from me
so that the sunset’s golden light
alone will linger – in my memory

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Descending Moon

Thin whirling veils of pink and gold
are intertwined across the sky and dance
in slow and graceful motion ‘round
a perfect half-sphere, cold and white and drenched
in mist that makes it wobble slightly to our eyes
as it descends through wisps of pink and gold;
the ribbons killing off its final, fading light,
to let the golden sunlight oversweep the world

Oh, whereto do you wind
behind the ribbons of the rosy mist,
the vapour veils that twist in wind
obscuring you, by moisture kissed?

When they shall fade, so shall you too;
you, misty silver half-moon cold
whose fading glow now only woo
your own scarred face, your memories of old.

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Rainy Night

Luminescent night-air,
walking in the dirzzling rain.
There’s no light yet there is light
and rain like mist
with silence in its noise.

Mid-autumn leaves cannot decide
on letting go or holding on.
No wind is there to help them choose
just steady, weightless rain.

Drenched in the water
and the sunless flooding light.
Another quiet, airy,
bright and rainy night.

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In curls and ringlets, dark
yet vividly expressed like broken brushstrokes
it bends and stretches out
across a piece of sky
that blotched in turquoise, purple, pink and orange
bids the day: “goodbye”;
this oak tree, curled as if asleep already
and yet stretched out too
as if it’s waking, stretching, yawning,
anticipating dawns that shall be coming.

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The Thunderstorm’s Approach

The pressure in the air is full of birdsong.
The heat declares its presence everywhere.

The faintest smell of apple blossoms and of grass
comes greeting through the window on the swell.

The cooling breeze comes to caress my hair,
to lighten up the air and tensions ease.

We’re waiting for the thunderstorm’s approach;
it let’s us wait – uncaring for reproach.

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Spring Coronet I

Come and remove this crown from my head;
a laurel crown whose leaves are dead
and replace it with a circle of flowerets
with spring’s brightest colours and shapeliest shapes
which your timeworn hands over my hair shall drape –
a life-reaffirming Spring-coronet

Let’s go out together through the forest green,
pluck the prettiest flowers human eyes have seen –
daisies, cornflowers, buttercups –
while we take in the birdsong greeting us through
the twigs over our heads, the Spring-birds will woo
us till our hearts burst, soaring to the highest tops

And let’s dance there together under the trees
to the sound of the birds’ soulful melodies –
it is Springtime, how life-reaffirming the word,
let us praise it together in song and dance
with an air of unmistaken romance
aided by sweet-smelling flowers and a wooing bird

And when the long, joyful day comes to an end
we’ll gather the flowers we plucked and descend
from our private Heaven to a humbler abode
with the coronet glowing with pride on my hair
waving in the warm, sweet-scented Spring air
as the sky darkens, and the birds now sing in Aeolian mode

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Spring Coronet II

The light has faded over our days of victory
and in my hands I hold the only remnant left to see:
My well-beloved, faded Spring-coronet
wrought with loving hands by someone dear,
and placed on my head with a joy so sheer
on the day we danced. Oh, sweet flowerets!

My hands grasp it tightly, then suddenly let go
and watch as the coronet above the world flows,
then I lay myself down in the grass
and breathe a breath of pain, then of relief,
at last relieved of hope, fear, happiness and grief,
and in the church they light the candles for the
midnight mass.

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Warble birds your sweet, sweet song.
Never stop. Go on. Go on.
My heart’s heavy, my song’s spent.
My head’s heavy, earthward bent.

Sing a song of sweet delight,
send it upwards to the light
while I wander in the shade
waiting for my song to fade.

Warble birds – it’s soothing balm,
warble and instill some calm
to the evening I pass by
from your hiding in the sky.

But don’t ask for sing-along,
I have lost all joy in song;
My song’s spent, my head hangs low –
My love went; where did she go?