The Poetry Marathon

#2 Kill me slowly.

1. To whom does your heart belong?

If not to me; the rose, nor to the thorn?

Into the wilderness, my dear,

the solitude, in which it was born.

 

2. Past be done,

long gone forgotten.

Breathe in this free air now,

I’ve chosen for you.

Oh my dear,

you touched my heart.

I am free with you,

or so I thought?

 

3. I saved you from storms,

I healed you scars.

I loved you when you were,

nothing but a broken heart.

 

It’s true you saved me,

and I owe you my life,

But sometimes I still wonder,

if I sucked you in my strife.

 

4. It doesn’t matter to me,

I only live for your smile.

If that’s what it takes,

I will walk with you in the aisle.

 

It might not to you,

but you do matter to me.

I will not let you deprive,

yourself all the love you need.

 

5.  Oh leave me alone now,

I got my answer.

You just don’t love me,

the way you loved her.

 

Oh my dear,

I do love you.

But I don’t know if as a friend,

or rebound from somebody I used to know.

 

 

 

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.

Haiku #4

Love is true when I

Hear my name spoken aloud

And I’ve returned home.

(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

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