Island in December

Cold air entered first
as the door opened wide,
the man coming in
brought in mist from outside.

For a moment he stared
after shutting the door.
No one  had ever seen him before,
he seemed lost. He seemed tired.

He walked to the bar
and ordered a beer.
We, the girls, ignored him, him not being
from here and alone, from afar.

But an old man approached him,
and asked who he’d be.
He didn’t answer. He got his drink free
as the old man went on

with his questions of how
had he managed to get here
where no living soul came.
This put him a bit of his balance we saw.

“How do you mean?”
“We are dead, see.” And all of us nodded.
“So what is your name?”
He did not answer, but knocked over his stool

as he ran out the door straight under a car.
Who could he have been? And why was he here?
His glass remains on the end of the bar,
and is never removed. But dead is his beer.

Innocent eyes

Before I had glasses the world
was simple to understand
in shapeless colours
which could mean anything,
left to imagination
and voices had a life of their own
connected only to scents and perfumes.

Once I did see the stripes between bricks,
the individual leafs on branches
and actual faces of relatives
nothing was easy anymore
as all seemed to matter. The unpredictable
pattern of cement-roads in walls,
the telling movement inside Autumn tree tops,
the way wrinkles fold and relax, matters.

The problems of dealing with others
begin when you can see their hidden intentions,
begin where it shows that the mirror has cracks
in between what is real and what not.

We should aim for the polar light of our
minds at best, the journey being the goal
not awaiting an ending, if we find.
Why anticipate such, does it have to end?

We see the beginning of friendships
sailing through calm water, later in storm,
moving from one heartbreak to another,
stranding on rocks or unknown distant shores.

Unexpectedly blinded by the green
all ends. No, there is no more. This is it.
Had you known, would you have bothered to go?

Dead thoughts

Unlike a romantic painting
Dead thoughts underneath have no lines in between
Where green decay has sunk,
No shape to control the sailors who went.

All that remains are some bones and some teeth
And the rest flows post-mortem ashore of your brain,
In miniscule quantities,
Fog-silent, fishy-disguised.

But you like to put your feet in the water
And think about beauty and poems.
How could you link your toes
With rubber blue fingers,
Eyes staring up where the water begins?

With your straw hat and waving blonde hair
Your thoughts dance to life. Come and join me, you sing.
For a moment you are the poor sailor’s wife.
For a moment your thoughts are for him.

The calmth sensed only by the ones who die
Like oceans live in waves and foaming tears
The last wave lands in understanding sigh

It saw the low, now ending in a high
To close the eyes of he who drowns, who hears
The calmth sensed only by the ones who die

And us as well as craziness goes by
When we have buried kin and friends and peers
The last wave lands in understanding sigh

For it was love that made us steal, we try
To deal with sin as good as it appears
The calmth sensed only by the ones who die

Is ours, we watch the sea move on, and I
Know well that moment to be best in years
The last wave lands in understanding sigh

Our first encounter and our last goodbye
Remains in echos over misty piers
The calmth sensed only by the ones who die
The last wave lands in understanding sigh.

Fooling around

I could easily fool myself
(this matters in a case of love)
and never realise
the truth, and would not care if so.

I could easily care for a fool
(which in most love cases happens)
and never be aware
he realised my truth and would not care.

My foolish truth is easily realised,
(as my heart is most foolish of all)
And I shall always care
For my well-loved fools anywhere.

Words to think away

Words bind us with shared values:
You know what I mean, yet we have never met.

Although not everything can be said,
We can tell about the weight of light,
The sound of colours, the dance
of mountains seen from a train.

Confront us with our past in words
and we will cry again.
Give comfort using the same tools.

In grief lies the darkness that can be lifted,
Its weight can be turned into light
In words said by others,
In thinking away. I love words.

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