Many apparitions of cold don’t bother me:
I don’t care for the cool of the glass
against my feverish head,
nor the breeze in Summer
that makes the night bearable
but the windows clap,
nor the frost in your eyes
that don’t look me in the face
as I ignore the icicles from your breath
when you feel the need to speak at last;
I have learned to dress warm.
Never though I get used
to the dog’s indifference
now you are his boss
and I a pedestrian walking by.
In the heart of the flower Rose
may be the end of my journey,
the reason for poems and prose
is just waiting there to be found.
Why we live, and why we die,
what follows up when all is over,
the Rose must know and doesn’t lie,
she promises the secret truth.
Should I open up the Rose now
and find all answers lying there?
If I do, will it tell me how
I can make such a rose myself?
I’ll leave the Rose alone to grow,
her lovely petals stay intact.
I do not really want to know
the reasons. Let me wonder them.
I got a rose, a red one,
she’s standing in a vase
where I watch her die
some more each day.
This flower, given out of love,
is making me more sad
as all you felt for me
is dying with her petals.
A plastic rose, a red one,
is what I need to get,
and if I’ll close my eyes a bit
we found a love forever.
We shelter each other from the world, you
and me and this cat that closes his eyes
if you and I love, but keeps purring, nights.
Your hands warm my skin when they both hold my
face in them, your lips know my neck and thighs.
When we sleep, I feel the cat stretch himself.
We only need this bed, but we must leave
to go back to this world of our white lies,
the truth known to a cat with both eyes closed.
This loving you is not about me now,
when I don’t see your eyes nor feel your ways,
it’s present in your absence where somehow
it turns up as a mastodon who stays.
I see its eyes at night, before I fall asleep,
it groans so friendly while others ignore
the fact it’s in the room, a love so deep
perhaps can not be dealt with anymore.
The hunters that are luring just outside
and want to kill my mastodon of love,
they have no chance, it knows in time to hide
from them. The love and I find this enough.
The last of species may this creature be,
but it lives here. It is the love of me.
This week I signed a contract for my second poetry book in English titled “Amor”, that will be released in August by Winter Goose Publishing, they also published “Vertias” last year. I am looking forward to that. Have a nice Sunday 🙂
Flowers have no feelings I assumed,
indifferent as they go with everything,
a funeral, a wedding, Valentine.
They stand on graves as numb as those of plastic.
Some colours make the eye wonder
what nature can think of next.
No flowers ever objected to being painted
in absurd stripes or polka dots.
Yet I saw Snowdrops shiver under snow
and daffodils mourn over their reflection.
When a rose loses her petals one by one, her pain
leaves a memory in the sweet-scented air.
Every swan knows this:
bow your head,
split the dark water
of the moonlit night,
as you approach her
silently in majestic beauty.
Fly away now and then
to spread your wings
but never leave her.
Few items mean so much to me as the moon does, or
a sunrise, a pet’s photo, smiles with crackling lines,
the smell of tea, contours of old castles. Cathedrals,
relieve after a storm, surviving all,
Clean sheets. Our family. Standing by the sea.
A hand on a shoulder. Our sons. Your letters.
The silver and green shamrock hanger I got in Dublin.
A Christmas tree. That happy feeling on a ship.
To be alone. Write. Read, or days in May. Violins.
New notebooks. Your body, and the verb to be.
Chocolate and train trips, walking, old cities, Norway.
Perfume, days after giving birth, getting published.
That I can see. A good bed after a long day. Fresh morning air.
Daisy chains, sweet white wine, an April shower.
The blue of the sky. Snow maybe. Sense of being free.
Morning light touches the kitchen table,
memories of the night before
are dancing in the dust,
ending in the glass you raised
to drink to lust and loving
in the present continuous tense.
I don’t want to think of the future.
We’ll continue our love with this present.
I sense you in the morning dust
that never falls down
but stays dancing in sunlight
over yesterdays wine.
Your lovely hands are falling in your lap,
another day has passed away
that takes you closer to your final nap.
Heavily the night is hanging on the houses
but your lovely hands are still so light,
they arise, birds from your apron,
their shadows playing
with the last beams of the candle.