Light in its Natural Habitat

ABC poem.

Another day has begun,
brighter than the one before.
Cool breeze whispers on my window,
dew glitters on the grass.

Everything seems easier now.


Giddy as a child, I
head for the woods.
In a day like this,
Jesus is in the trees…

Kidding, kidding!

Let us find peace amongst those branches,
moss-covered trunks and the little flowers.
No light is as fragile as
on the leaves and the
petals of those flowers.

Quiet and calm, but still bursting with life.

Take this day as it comes, it will.
Under every sky is a
vulnerable flower and a
witty companion to take you to it.

X many mornings from now,
you will find yourself exploring the
zoological existence of light, in its natural habitat.


Wish I Could Get Lost

Dawn breaks,
white mist hides the
familiar shapes of houses, trees, mountains.

Kid awakes,
the air is damp and
chilly as I drop’em off to daycare for a while.

I crawl back into bed and
convince myself I have nothing better to do
but be comfortably hidden under sheets and covers.

For a couple of hours I’ll not be here, I’ll have no voice, no presence.

I’ll greet the day at noon.

My phone rings and I
can’t sleep with it screaming for me
like a desperate reminder of my whole life of responsibilities.

I guess I’ll be here after all.


Here´s a little story for a contest over at Writer´s Round-About. Hey, If you don´t try you never succeed, and the prizes are yummy :)


The door was open. Light streamed into the room like a waterfall, or so it looked from the sideways-on-bed, head-hanging-off-edge position I woke up in. I pulled myself up, cringed as my neck protested loudly with a crack and pain, and sighed heavily. There was noise in the kitchen. There were people in my house. There were kids in my house. The tiny kind, with diapers and sticky little hands and headache-building whining. Why were my sisters here, and why… Crap.

Suddenly the door wasn´t as much open as filled with faces. Horribly, uncomfortably happy and excited faces.

Happy birthday Lily! They announced like it was the best thing ever. Crap.

Crap crap crap. (How old am I again?)

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(a Poem a Day) -góðan dag-

í þvottavél á bak við hurð
nógu nálægt til að
radda niðinn í hnakkanum á mér.
Herðar stífar,
hugurinn ekki kominn á fætur þótt
fæturnir séu það.
Danskt barnaefni.
Mjólkurblautar litlar hendur og
glaðvakandi ungi.
Mjólkurpollar á borðinu.
Góðan dag.