ABOUT POETRY, ART, AND SOCIAL JUSTICE
Throw that syrup up the wall
Nothing sweet! Not at all.
The fields are shred to open wounds,
chopped to cost-effective chunks.
I, who had been running from my years…
No haze remains…if…
She looked up into the clouds
Asking for continuity…
The snow that floated down on the years left memory puddles dried in the sun…
At dawn she stood in front of the door, steaming cup inside of her hands, she noticed a star in the eastern sky. It was dancing brightly towards the earth,
(for my mother who would have turned 85 today) Betwixt the primal automn air I stroll along on worn out fields; I look for her in glowing leaves that tumble
Little petal’s white on the grass They have been thrown – simply to pass Noble peacock’s call in the grove They have been reared – only to rove Tender lamb’s
…they even went and sold their proper shadow, I have been told.
… I long for an Angel to help us through
Be the sun…
“Press on, press on!”, a wind gust was urging, “life lies before you and regret’s left behind”.
The angels are flying low today, Looking for life to begin, Life to end…
She did not know how to abandon a past nor why she should carry a future…
My garden has been awaiting dead-frozen-still silent foliage, overwhelmed, ceding to chillwinter’s will…
Kindly put that disgust away There’s no where to march And no one to blame…
Be the gardener of your own little kingdom; be the poet of your own bestseller list; be the librarian of your own bookshelf; be the guru of your own school…but most of all…
In front of my bedroom window Pine trees brush against the horizon Triangle shades in a waving distance They stand tall in front of existence. They have not asked to
Today I hear a thousand voices aired “Woman are equal, woman are free!” Today I read a thousand words written “Women can do it, women are strong!” Today I see
Beyond any doubt the curtains are drawn the wounds are spread open to dirt and to hurt one eerie lie is disclosed after another. A pile of dead leaves has
No fear of ever being left.
No doubt of ever being lost.
Autumn slowly casts a softer light into the garden that now sheds its weight. The sun is tired, waiting to set, and trees and hedges forget their leaves. We grew
Life will continue its wondrous perpetuity while what it brings forth, will die in small fractions, for yesterday’s stories to fade in the sun. None of the remaining souls will
The garden had been prepared from winter frost for summer dust by hand and by machine to look as humans expect it from a patch of soil bought with a
My latest collection of poetry is now available in bookstores as well as online throughout the world. This booklet is dedicated to my friends and colleagues at Médecins Sans Frontières, the United Nations, and other organisations for their heartfealt enthusiasm, idealism, and tireless efforts to make this world a better place for us all!
Recently I have been taking up painting again. Well, let’s say this is a bit experimental as I paint on an app. I either draw from scratch on a white
She lifted her head and noticed the clouds bringing snowflakes from the East. And while an old song was playing she thought, with a certain amazement, that snowflakes had always
(for all women who fight to live in dignity) I turned around and years had been swallowed and nobody told me life would hasten to judge me again reluctant culprit,
I realize that bearing the consequences of my and other generations is a perpetual mea culpa. Our race has plundered, exploited, and killed for hundreds of years and still we
Cotton ball mountains
across the sphere
rain giant figures
march on the pier
I have small rabbit Caged in a box A lone little creature With one floppy ear It maims but the carrots, and salads, and roots And still it’s imprisoned on
Yaaaaay! One of my poems was accepted for publishing on this site for social justice poetry! It is on their site now 🤗 My poem is called “A Swansong for
Somewhere, this morning, I read that Generation Y is burdened with fear. They have grown on digital satisfaction, a cyberspace world quite at their command. They hardly ever had to
Snow weighing heavy on the world hiding the dirt, the ugly, and the grey calming down the hustle of a life less lived covering the wounds of a soil battered
Christmas is looming around the next corner; cards and parcels sent and received. At the post office (I wipe off my shoes) I send off a present to friends in
…imagine that, white spoiled stuffed trash: tomorrow you’d wake up broke, syrian, lame, or black, imagine that…
how could i not be myself? how could i not listen to what earth was telling me? nature pulled away and i disappeared in appearances i lost my laugh between
(because every now and then I ask myself: is it still there, the willingness to choose the less obvious path?) When fog has slid off the up-rolling hills, Will I
in the shade of splendid words we hide our fears & shed our guilt defend a house of cards we will in the nook of sparkling phrase we burn our
Morrow calls the late sun to rise to carry away the raw nights of ice I failed the riches in bleakest of life and buried the poorness in crustiest glaze
Where have you been the son of the wisdom The home was abandoned in mighty old storms Where have you been the daughter of patience The garden ran riot in
What is up – is it down? What is left – is it right? What is red – is it blue? What is dusk – is it dawn? What is
ABOUT POETRY, ART, AND SOCIAL JUSTICE
Life always keeps moving, whether we want it to or not. We need to keep moving with it.
Kreativ text, annorlundaskap, poesi, bipolaritet, Aspergers syndrom, fotografi
I'm on a life changing journey to 40. There will be ups, there will be downs. I'm like a roller coaster but with more agoraphobia.
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