she doesn’t want to, but she does.
but she does, but she does.

there are no eyes to look at.
no greens or blues or any kind of hues.

there’s no face there to smile at me.
no glance, no chance for feeling relieved.

…..shamana, mystic, healer, distant.

and birds are a subject she knows well.
she has a special affinity towards them.

she sees them fly, way up high,
way up high, she sees them fly.

…..shamana, mystic, healer, distant.

we are intense, she says,
kindred spirits.
we are children, i say, growing.

we are sensitive, she says,
i say, yes,
we are honest, we are, and we have to.

…..shamana, mystic, healer, distant.

she talks about something in the north.
she talks about leaving her sister.

and she doesn’t want to, but she does.
and she does, and she does.

…..shamana…..

dear lady you seem,
although i wait here all night long,
so strange and silent.

you catch me unawares
as ever further does the night removes herself from you,
ever on and on
through the timelessness of circle and spiral.

even now i favour more the night,
although now past,
than to welcome you with open arms.

a nights tale in the telling,
a poets scream through the silver seams of a giant web
as the spider watches,
waiting patiently to pounce.

a cresent moon said hello
and smiled.
is this the one they talk about in the Films?

i asked her but she didn’t answer.

thought about you
with a picture of your face behind my eyes.
could see you,
could see who you were
and thought…
she’s a good person.

tried to compare,
no identify,
myself with you but nothing came
except a feeling of
… who am i anyway.
thought i knew till i met you.

The cresent moons still there,
still sitting like me here,

just waiting for the dawn.

one says yes,
another maybe,
and yet another no.

no she says,
but you say yes.

a smile that just enjoys,
a tear annoyed,
a maybe dance on eyes that fill the Carnegie Hall tonight.

a ramble of words on this mornings dark, dark sun.

Tea in a cup tries to wake me,
Warm, strong are the words i use.
If you could see me now you would doubt my sanity,
Sitting naked in the silvergrey screen light.
But be that as it may
My Tea is good.

Time flies,
Duties call,
Erands to be run,
Money to be earned,
To do my part in a play,
Today to shine.
Today to shine.

A grabbed sandwich compliments the Tea
But it is me who has to put my trousers on.
It is me who opens the door and walks cautiously down the street.

It is me who longs for another hour or two in my sleepy bed.

Hello sweet Monday morning,
How are you?

This grey in grey

That stands before me now.

 If you could feel the cold of the morning

You would come now for warmth.

Wishful thinking you say,

True as true may be.

 But all this coldness has its place

In the coming of this February.

i shake with desire at the prospect of a coming christmas and another film in my head called “missing you”

she doesn’t know, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t dream of the colours i miss.

december days are long days,

simple rainy, grey and very ethusiastically calling winter my way.

even the trees are sad.

they seem so sad, so sad.

Katie, Katie, Katie

i call

but no answer, no sign of life in these december days.

Then she calls and I do go on the phone
And all that I feared happens.
I say things like
I miss you
I need you
I love you
And when we are finished I shout aloud for the stupidity of it all.

The next day the procedure continues.
Don’t want to talk,
Please don’t make me,
Cut off the phone,
Change the number,
God help me
Say things like
I can’t, i wont
I, I, I,
Aye, aye, aye…..

I stumble between two worlds
Of a love – hate thing,
A continuous beating of the heart on one side
And on the other a heart attack of emotions that paralyse
Not only my left side,
But also
The whole of my body.

Is love like this?
I ask.
And we both reply,
Yes, no.

Outside it does start to snow.
It’s early this year.
Must be some sort of a sign
But I can’t decipher it.
I decide to start the day again and go back to bed.

Mother,
Daughter,
Ex wives, ex lovers.
All ghosts,
All thin and whisperery in my head.

An arm passes round my shoulder,
Creepy crawly fingers stroking my skin,
Brushing, touching my hair.

I need bed,
But bed holds no comfort.
Bed is empty with more ghosts.
Hover, hover, hover,
Spinning in formation.
A “Come Dancing” for spirits.

I need Tea.