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Autumn

A brown leaf frees itself from a tree
and dances through the autumn air,
rejoices in feeling profusely free
until the wind rests it on my hair

I stand in a park full of autumn shades
watching the leaves and chestnuts fall
as the colourful surroundings fade
I reach out my hand to catch it all

When I was a child, at autumn time
I used to collect the fallen chestnuts,
figures thereof was a great pastime
but today they’re left on the ground to rot

My hands outstretched I greet the breeze
and all it carries and brings to me
down from the tall, soon-naked trees
and out of my fading memory

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I Left My Soul Up On the Beach

I left my soul up on the beach
as I dove in the sea of poetry
and as it lay there – out of reach –
it was grabbed by a wave and returned to the sea

And now I search – and mostly in vain –
for that which I once left behind,
and glimpse it momentarily now and then
when words of poems show for me to find

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The Changeling

When I was born, I guess nobody knew
that I was born to be an artist too –
for when it was announced much later on
my parents answered little else than scorn –

I stretch the boundaries I am confined in –
I have to, if I’m even to begin
expressing what I sense around me – I am free
from expectations born by anyone but me –

However nice it would be once to hear
appreciation from my source of being, it is clear
that what I am I have become alone
and what I do I must do on my own –

So here I am – a changeling I guess,
who didn’t quite fulfill my parents’ wish
(whatever else they wished their only child),
a failure, such I guess they’ve got me filed –

Yet who are they to blame or who to cry;
I cannot be another than this “I” –
whatever else they may have wished of me,
delusions were on them, never on me

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Wayward Ones

We are wayward ones, the lot of us
who pile up riches in little rooms
and search the roadside for clues
to nature’s bountiful fortunes,
aspiring to capture the spirit who bestows them
and rob it of this much-coveted gem

With eyes that gaze heavenwards
our souls aspire to fly,
and we waylay all grounded, earthly thoughts
of things we can’t beautify;
vagrants on life’s ruthless way
we are; the pagans of today

Intricate wording and inspired awe
for which we would gladly trade body for soul
is never guaranteed to wash ashore
our minds, and sometimes in the cold
we must wander wayward
unable to distinguish between gems and dirt

And wayward do we often trace the trail
of giants who had better minds than ours,
when we (and we do sometimes) fail
we seek them out, and pause for hours
to behold spectres of the sentences
which defy our all-too-worldly senses

We aspire to become what we are not,
and such can never like that which we are –
we want to reach out and take a shot
at the tiny, white-hot, all-too-distant stars
whose mere existence, without flaw,
for hours keep us locked in awe

Withhold our dreams we can’t – achieve them neither,
but still we hold our breaths in sweet suspense
for a glimpse of inspiration, if not, rather
a sight to produce one all-saying sentence
which makes clear for the world what we
don’t understand, but still pen down with glee

It’s like a never-ending pilgrimage
where, once you reach your yearned-for destination
you realize that lost without a trace
is every reason you had for the expedition –
wayward you were, and wayward you remain
as long as from beauty, art and dreams you can’t
refrain

Each follows each on this un-ending trail,
and all we fellow-travellers are lost
in our pursuit of this, our Holy Grail,
which no-one values anymore, no host
willingly will shelter from the cold;
it is now just a relic from the days of old

So what shall we do – we wayward ones
who value lost grandeur and hopelessly aspire
to live up to giant’s work, and find our homes
in dreams, in nature – on a funeral pyre?
We nonetheless embody hopes that stay
for future happiness to pave the way

As wayward as we are – we’re still imbued
with abilities to see past superstitions and facts,
and show the world itself in such a hue
that nature too looks awestruck on to these, our texts
(that nothing have to do with reality
and therefore contain the most serene beauty)

So let no fear deter us from our designated path
although the road is long and not sufficiently marked,
though our deeds may seem so small and easily dwarfed
and we often feel like groping in the dark;
for remember: The bridges that we cross today
were made by ones who went before and knew the way

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World-smitten

I exist within a hollow
in this world,
whereto nobody else would follow
even if they could

My poetry exists within a void
in open space
which other people still avoid
in their breathless pace

The world itself is surrounded by
a void of emptiness,
a void which people passing by
do not know exists

And if they knew, they’d pause to read
the words I here have written,
and when they don’t it means they are
severely world-smitten

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So Tired

I am tired of searching
for something I’m not sure to find.
I am tired of writing
words I am not sure I even understand.
I am tired of editing
poems written years ago and try to make amends
for visions I once had
that I barely remember, and much less comprehend.

I am tired of attempting
to believe that my writings have meaning –
but what else is worth believing in?
I’d drop the pen and do something better,
more meaningful and worthwhile
if I thought that it existed – I am dreaming
of a contrubution of some sorts
beyond writing.
But I fail at visualizing
what they might entail
when everything besides my words
seem out of sorts.

I am tired of searching
for meaning that I’m certain I will never find,
I am tired of dreaming

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A Writer’s Plight – Preface

I will attempt to tell you all
and will attempt to tell it right
the story of the secret Fall
and of a writer’s hidden plight.

These stories I am to unwind
are alien to you I guess
and ignorance of them, you’ll find,
was once my biggest wish.

But as a writer nonetheless
to this task I feel obliged;
to bear unto you all witness
and on these secrets shed some light.

So listen please and listen well
as I will bring these things to light
and as I will attempt to tell
the stories of a writer’s plight.