Petrichor lugten af eftertænksomhed.
De dage hvor du åbner dit vindue en lille anelse
minder dig om alle de store dele – såsom du er en lille del af en del.
Universets uendelighed som er uendeligt ubegribeligt og uhåndterligt.
Tid og tider, som kan betænkes i større uendeligheder en selve stjerners hjem.

De stjerner som minder dig om at almægtige ting findes uden at prale.
De lyser jo kun når alt andet sover.

Fortæller dig alt uden egentlig at fortælle dig noget.

Kun fra åben himmel mindes du om; at storme og solskin, ravmørke og blændende lys eksisterer under samme åbne tag.
Kun fra åben himmel mindes du om; at verden skal erfares ud fra din erfaring om at erindringer skaber erfaring om eksistensen.
Den smukke eksistens, som du kender men kun eftermæles når du åbner ud til og ser med mere en bare blå små nethinder.

Jeg byder CO2 og alverdens støj velkommen, så længe at reinkarneret regn og vild vind trænger gennem mit vindues sprække og stjerner fra tid til anden praler for mig i mørket, når man som jeg synes at natten bruges bedre med en Marlboro cigaret og halvkold kaffe i hånden, end dagen med stress i sindet.

Mit vindue står ihvertfald åbent, fordi eftertænksomheden skal erfares.

The Goonies
is an underrated movie.
Sloth
is pretty groovy.
Ryan Chisholm
***** ****.
The Goonies
does not.

WOW, isn't that lovely?
Would you call your child that? Would you leave them there,    
   hanging without a piece of    
   identity to clarify just what  
   *they are?
Would you leave them there
   without a beautiful name that
   suits them dearly like: Grace,
   Hope, Joy or Micah, Joe,
   Ben?
Would you call your child Untitled?
No?
Then why would you call the
   poetry that you've raise from
   an idea and helped it to
   develop Untitled?
Be careful, poems have
   feelings too!

A warm embrace from city grates
combats the colder breeze
How then should I continue?

A further stroll might treasure hold
But of this, none assures me.
Then why should I continue?

I might have stayed and soothed my pain
My legs had faltered for the thought
Why then should I not stop?

In short, I kept on in my walk,
But often now I think of how
I could be different now
If only I had stopped.

I once knew a watch-thief
Who stole for his own
He wasted the time that he
Stole on the road
But this gypsy boy finds
A young girl one day
With a garland of flowers
And a red satin waist

She came from the highway
That led to the city
Her garments conveyed
She was wealthy and pretty
The gypsy boy wore
Some old slacks and no shirt
And he would not have seen her,
But she introduced herself first

Before hellos were said
Or greetings exchanged
Years later he said
He could feel something change
As she told him of ease
That she left behind
He fell to his knees
And praised God’s good design

If love is a lifetime,
Then lend me your hand.
The sparrows are witness
That my promise stands
And now our gypsy wagon
Is off down the road
And we’ll never stop moving
Cause this is our home.

This small band of gypsies,
Now larger by one
Trundle the pathways
and roads they call home
The watch-thief reclines
with his girl in his arms
they fall quickly in love
‘Neath the light of the stars.

But if hindsight goes further
And time teaches true
There was blood in the water,
If only he knew.
She came down to his level
But took it too far
She went too far in revel
And slowly, she broke the boy’s heart.

The gypsy boy stood,
Still stock still in his shock
He ducked under the hood
Of his caravan-rock
He walked back to the city
She’d said she was from
He put it in a bag
And he drank in the slums.

If love is a lifetime,
Then when will you come?
The sparrows, our witness,
flew too close to the sun
And now my gypsy wagon
Is off down the road
And now I’ve nowhere to go
because you were my home.

Time is just a burning fuse
What’s burnt is burnt is gone
The water beats the boat I’m on,
This bustle- what’s the use?

The stern is sternly, surely set,
Turned ‘round ‘till North is found
The ubiquitous Now is still somehow,
A measure of regret.

But how I wonder, weight the pain
Consider- is it wrong?
Regret is often, after all,
The fix for work in vain

I keep the future full in view,
And oft I ask ‘how long?’
I’ve much regret, but none so strong
Than time I spent on you.

I'm writing you a poem,
not to boast of my eloquence
but because your very existence has given me a lifetime of inspiration.

You are not a mere muse,
but you are every word spoken softly,
gently.
In my ear.
But if spoken loud enough everyone would hear.

So I will speak for you.
I will say it in a room that echos
so it can be heard again and again
until the words return to their original form,
a whisper.

You beautiful creature.
You beautiful boy.
I saw the honesty in your eyes.
**Like I heard your whispers.

Lightning must be the original shock treatment:
Ben Franklin
100 greed worth thunder
Spoke 6 kinds of precipitation
fingered Zeus