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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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Just a Drop of Water

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

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Thoughts. Slipping.

’bout what?
No knowing.

What for?
No knowing.

What for?
No knowing.

Too early.

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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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Evening Dew

A trembling tune of blended birdsong
in the wood at nightfall –
the setting sun, the rising mist,
the thoughts of what today’s been done –

Your graceful poise out on the porch
as you observe the fading beams of day –
it must’ve been the evening dew
that stained your cheeks – and then you’d say;

“the world is changing all too fast, and so is I,”
and turned your saddened amber eyes to me –
but I will not believe that tears could be
the substance trickling down the face of you;

the foremost of this world’s now-living men?
It cannot be – it was the evening dew.

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HER 3: The Art of Knowing

That head reminded her of something. Something she knew she’d seen before, but at the moment she wasn’t able to accurately match it with anything in her memory. All the same, that ruffled golden hair in front of her seemed familiar. So familiar that she felt like stretching out her hand to touch it, even though she knew that the owner would probably throw a fit if she were to act on her desire.
The head turned slightly when the owner motioned to look out of the bus window. It belonged to a young woman with milk-and-honey skin and long eyelashes. A ripple of sobbing motions ran through her mind. That woman reminded her of someone, but of whom? When she turned her head a whiff of perfume was blown in her direction – sweet, flowery stuff. Like a large bouquet she just wanted to bury her head in to better sense the full fragrance of the moment. The sweet smell mixing with the humid, dank smell coming from everyone else on the bus. The smell of rain.
The young woman got off the bus at the business college. The moment’s gone, she thought to herself as the bus rode on, leaving another nameless passenger behind in the rain. She felt like crying. She had a feeling that she too had left someone behind in the rain somewhere. In fact, it all seemed so familiar to her, as if it had happened before.

Continue reading HER 3: The Art of Knowing

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Et suk

Jeg drømte ikke om at blive digter –
jeg drømte om at blive menneske.

Ja, jeg ønskede faktisk
at udskifte et fuldtonende hjerte
med disse klangløse skaller
med deres hule mislyd
som andre mennesker
sådan værner om –

Men er man først udstyret med et hjerte
kan man ikke sådan uden videre
give det fra sig
når ingen vil bytte –

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My Antiquities

The things I valued
not so long ago –
the things for which I lived
and the ones I left untold
are all now piled together
into one close-packed rhyme
for all now share in fate:
They’ve fallen out of time.

Those things I used to care for,
and those I used to hate,
are all now out of store;
oblivion their fate.

The school I used to go to
has left the Earth and passed.
The town that I grew up in
is breathing at its last.
The people I once knew
have disappeared from view
and it’s no consolation
to think of all the new.

The things I once believed in
is history today.
The earliest of my paintings
is buried under rubble;
nothing is to stay.

But who cares for my words
and who cares for the truth?
The world we live in now
cares only for success and youth.
To say that nothing lasts,
to say that all’s in vain
is not to be expected
to strike a common strain.

And that is why in silence
within my withering heart
I ponder my antiquities
alone and in the dark.

What others will forget
for me alone remains.
What others want achieve
for me is what’s been had
and cannot be again.

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All There Is Left Now

An open, empty field
covered only by the grass
where something used to be –
well, something had to pass

I stare at the empty space
and cannot fathom this –
all that is left is emptiness

Passing shooting stars
and you’re asked to make a wish
though the thought of that wish
is as short as shooting stars –

I stare at this face
halfway expecting a caress
although all that is left now is emptiness

An open, empty field
where our time was often passed
in a building now torn down –
nothing is meant to last

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The Road Into the Wilderness

What do you know
about the road
into the wilderness –
framed by the pines
in silent lines
of endless loneliness

The road, the road
which trails its track
through miles of forest-land,
without a destination,
void of end, beginning
and of any plan

The only travelers
traversing this way
are the likes of me –
they are the ones who stray
out of the beaten track
wishing to truly BE!

And when they reach
this almost-empty road
they know what there’s to know;
the world is void,
the meaning’s gone;
there’s nothing left to know

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The Wait

I waited for the snowfall
but finally when it came
the snowflakes melted in the air
before they reached the ground
and all remained the same.

I waited for the sunshine
but when I finally caught a beam
it had no strength against the chill
so seeing how it came and went
might just as well have been a dream.

I look ahead, now void of hope
and wonder: What might stay
if anything at all.
Why bother grasping anything:
It comes and goes away.

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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?

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New Poem: “snow angels”

There was a girl
with name unknown,
her face was blank
and blue her gown

From where she came
nobody knew
and she disappeared
like the morning dew

Vanished at the sight of sun
its warmth could not
reach to her heart,
the doors were shut

And all she left behind
was angels in the snow,
melting in the spring
at sun’s relentless glow