hate
HATE
A vicious cancer
That eats your joy
Saps your strength
Blinds your sight
Takes your mind
To Sheol
Beech Mountain Wasn’t Meant for Me: Here’s Why
My dream was to move to North Carolina some day;
Lucky for me, in Texas I did stay.
It finally became clear our paths would intervene;
Mine and the boy who had lived down the street.
His boots he wears with pride, this Texan love of mine;
Though I still would like to see Beech Mountain, staying here is fine.
The lantern of love took 30 years to light;
I asked him one day if he knew why.
He looked above the piano at the pictures of my three kids;
“So they could be” he proudly said.
The journey
The path we take
A journey we make
When times run slow
Don’t feel low
You may stumble
But roads are humble
To find your place
Stay with the race
The sun will rise
You will be surprised
Watching through tears
You will forget your spears…
Kajsa Sjunger
Kajsa sjunger om kärleken
Det är den vi ser när de bygger några meter till på murarna mot det mörka hotet.
Den vi hör när de långsamt tynar bort
Med utsträckta armar
På robotjakt
Kajsa sjunger om friheten
Den vi känner mellan nattens utmattning och mobilens vägran att pipa
Den vi känner när kortets orangea blink och arga pip bildar is i våra magar
Och gör oss fria att göra något annat istället
(Det var ett fel i systemet. Det är därför du måste dö nu. Var vänlig kontakta administratören.)
Kajsa sjunger om solidariteten
Den som förenar oss i breakdance och i filter och i klick-klick-klickande bland de randiga fanorna i precis rätt färger
Och hon sjunger om hoppet.
(iv)
soft -stepping gazelle,
in woods turning brown;
lambent eyes and lustrous skin,
she wears a diadem of sorrel keratin.
mottled fingers caress slender hands,
soft like her name,
her lips – and the dulcet tone
when she speaks in a shy,
halting susurration.
soft curve against the teak and timber
of a bench; riparian setting,
for pulchritude clothed in the purple of passion….
…and unclothed by a piercing gaze
Read between the lines
Touch me,
Run your fingers up and down my spine,
No room to be misunderstood,
You must read between the lines.
Wipe away that naughty look!
Although you are in love with me,
Keep in mind, I am only a book!
Five word musing
In a clearing, in a forest
Sprites still sing and dance to an enchanted melody.
They have done so since time immemorial.
They were never delusional; they know the ills of the worlds they choose not to inhabit,
But they have created havens:
Grew ferns in the closing days of the Stone Age
Made music before the dawn of the piano
Lit lanterns when the world was wrapped in darkness
And echoed laughter down the wind when all was waste and worthless, and sorrow bred in every home.
You can go there still if you deem it necessary, but first you must deem it possible.
The Windy City of Big Shoulders
They call us the Windy City What for, yes we know, you know
The politicians play smoke and mirrors
The Second City because,
I guess, NYC is where it’s at.
And now a new name has popped up—
Not even worth my pen’s strike.
They use it to describe what they think happens here.
That’s far from reality in the grand scheme of things.
They call us the City of Big Shoulders, for what precise reason, I know not
My only guess is because we look out for each other.
Come here look for yourself
We are Chicago—six words not one—The Windy City of Big Shoulders
~.%
Breathing life in death
Blissful state of dreaming.
Sleeping wake
under northern star.
Pale, cold flesh.
Tiny shivers.
When death whispers your name;
this sacred rite,
will hold the answer.
Tear apart the chambers,
cut out
blood from bones.
Bathe in sunlight.
Wish upon a star.