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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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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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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 –

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New Poem: “Present Past”

This new poem is contemplating the history of humanity and how we came to be – and for that reason it has been excluded from my up-coming poetry collection “Light Requires Darkness” as it simply didn’t align with the rest of the content. It is way too philosophical and not nearly personal enough, one might say.

However, despite that, I’d hate letting it go to waste, as I really wrung my brain attempting to write it in the first place. So, here you have it (and the collection will start to follow one poem at a time in the near future).

Continue reading New Poem: “Present Past”

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SPREAD

1.

Does the cell think of the purpose of its existence as it wriggles its way around between its many brethren? Does it ever consider how small and fragile it is, or how and why it exists? No. It just exists. It moves around because that’s what it does. And that very action in inaction is the foundation of life. Thinking is disastrous on lower levels – it is a privilege of accumulated distance to one’s roots.

Continue reading SPREAD

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Those Humans

You know them, those pesky two-legged creatures who constantly bother you when you try to work and just won’t respect your privacy. When you plan a trip to finally be alone with yourself in nature, they might even suddenly decide to tag along.
It is as if they think themselves the most important thing in the world, and in your life. It is as if any proof to the contrary is invisible to them.

Continue reading Those Humans

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Lace

SPRING:
The buds that unfold and grow,
the dew that resumes at night,
droplets in beams of light,
dispersing remnants of snow.

SUMMER:
The skin on the back of your hand,
the sunshine through the trees,
the veins that pattern leaves,
footprints in the sand.

AUTUMN:
The wrinkes around your eye,
the dispersing remnants of mist,
the creepers that turn and twist,
cotton wool in the sky.

WINTER:
The dust in a beam of light,
the hoar frost on the leaves,
icicles hanging from trees,
your breath in a winter night.

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My Questions

I have so many questions;
at least one for every person I have met,
both the ones alive
and the ones who are dead.

I have so much to ask everyone
because I want to understand
my life and its connections;
something I just can’t!

I have questions for my parents;
grandparents (now all dead);
and family members I have – or haven’t – met.
For teachers, classmates,
partners, friends;
for cleaners, lunch-ladies, janitors,
secretaries, bus-drivers, waitresses,
hairdressers, yes,
even the creepy guy who stocks shelves
at my local supermarket.

I have so many questions
that I’d like to ask them all
but all I ever say is: “What a weather!”,
“Got my e-mail?” or “On which shelf…?”

And besides, the most important questions
are the ones I ought to ask myself…

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Dust

It gathers on my drying lips –
the dust of our lives.
The dust of repetition, lives
of dust that we must live,
and dust-related lies as well
that turn to stories which we tell
and name as “memories”

Lives of dust – they dry us out,
they suck us dry until we die.
And all the dust, the day we die,
turns out to be what’s left behind –
an endless cycle of dust-lives
where only dust itself can thrive –
what is not worthy to be “lost”?

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The Movement

Our lives are an unending movement –
sometimes rhythmic, sometimes not –
a stirring springing up to fade away,
a ripple in the fabric of the world;
just one continuous movement
carrying us underway,
complete with a beginning and an end
and a drawn-out intermezzo in-between
as were it in itself a poem
or perhaps a brushstroke drawn
by sure or unsure hand across
the fabric of space;

it can be smoothly, swiftly made by certain hand
as the finest works of art and science,
or turn into a broken, unsure question-mark
awaiting time to solve the mysteries of its existence

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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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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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in sunlight

on a hillside in the sunlight,
heated only on one side
while the other remains cold,
you stand, covering your eyes
with your hand, watching the skies
growing paler all the while
they approach the horizon

so dark and yet so bright,
so cold and yet so warm
you are in the sheer sunlight,
seemingly your body’s torn
into two different entities –
your one-side skin is painfully white
to view with the naked eye,
the other side coated with shades of grey

in sunlight your united being
seems torn from outside, not within,
but as I hold my breath
awaiting the death-awakening split
tearing you in two,
a lonely cloud with silver lining
floats before the sun, and you
then seem united with yourself again