Denmark is known to be grey in February.
I follow the grey to paved and trodden bike paths,
And find the orange bulbs of crowded wine bars.

A traveller knows the warmth of old friends,
Learns to kindle medium-old friends,
And shakes with the embrace of strange lovers.

Questions like: Sourdough or Rye?
Who are you? Where are you from?
Seem to fall like thickened sand –
Breadcrumbs from a blunt, serrated knife.

Nothing to know, yet you are stubborn, Dear Self.
A whisper against the noise of your everyday. Wake up, Dear Self.

Tangled in the mind and far from the heart,
Where to start? You look and look; nothing is missing, Awake Self.

No fact un-checked, no stratagem unfollowed. The truth is not hidden –
Like autumn rot in crunching leaves, you feel you lack, Dear Mind.

Lack is resistance to what is here. Not sinister thought –
Or hidden truth. Simpler, Dear Self. An ache, a pain, an unexpected change.

The images in your mind are not true love. Evanescent, yet -
Sharp and Obsessive. They strike your heart like a nail. Let go, Wanting Mind.

Fall in love with patience. Only she is your eternal consort.
Wait until the moment births a something. Then rejoice, Patient Self.

Drizzle the gravy like a fat king. But only for a moment.
Then return to your bed warmed by your lover and rest.

Rest with patience who has chosen to love even your unsettled mind.
Fettering like falling leaves, you fear trust, Dear Health.

In your country the distance between ‘want’ and ‘have’ is short,
Like the rush of blood from your heart to your head, Dear Wealth.

Distraction is the true curse. Remember the seeds you have sown,
Your whole life you have tugged at roots, now you must wait, Dear Seeker.

Dear Self. Dear I, Me, You, Us. I invite you to dance. Do not waste time listening to words. Find poetry in the fabric of your everyday. Untether, unfurl, and knit it your own tapestry. Eat on it, shit on it, wipe your chin on it. I dare you to be sad, feel lost, like the waxing moon unsure of its place in the night sky. And then sit in peace. Realise that the canvas you have been gifted may be dark, but it is the contrast that gives your light sharpness. Too many lose their lives in a blur. Too many drink the poison of sadness and resentment, unwilling to make patient friends with them.

But if you listen closely, you will notice I follow you in the silence.
You are the time and place of everything, Dear Self, remember that I do not exist.

Welcome back to here and now the roofless house,
Dip in: the walls protect you from the wind.
Lean on them if you aren’t strong enough to stand,
And tesselate into the patterned paper.

Sink in. Let yourself become the mirror,
That tells you stories truer than your skin,
Floating on the ceiling of the roofless house,
The host of hearth, the mirror welcomes you in.

Pour in tea to calm the chattering mind,
And drink. Remind yourself that you are home.
Wrap your hands and knit your fingers ‘round the mug,
With each sip warm yourself under a rainbow rug.

Never had you left. Just tried to find,
A home. As diggers try to find a -
Hole. In shifting sand you sought, you looked,
Inside only to deepen sides and size.

Welcome back here. Well, come back here. Remain?
An infinite well deep to dip your toes.
All you have to do is welcome back,
Like the roof, you open. Open mind and heart.

I write as prophylactic. Pro-, before,
-Phylactic, going mad. Fizz like lactic
Acid, lacking tact, ideas turn rancid.
But written down mix like yeast and barley,
Words pop the fizz, no longer seek to harm me.

I write as self-expression: sometimes the only lesson,
Is fessin’ up inner worlds. Word doc my Charon shepherd,
Traversing verses in herds. What needs to be heard,
Wrangled in adjective, stories and words. Subjects, sharp and thorny,
Aloud, never allowed to bore me.

I write as therapy. Realise with material eyes,
Materialise pain to pixels. Breadcrumbs to schnitzels.
Something to crunch, copy and prick through. Therapy for my kinfolk.
If words wrote stop another’s choke. Turn tears into laughing notes -
Then when I’m dead I’ll still have a throat.

Be a present to yourself,
Be present for yourself.
Don’t be a prison or a cell.
Put the prism on the shelf,
And bend your own light.

Too much time has been spent on the mind,
Chewing up mulch burrowing in a mine.
Don’t pay rent for losing all the time.
Put the prism on the shelf,
And bend into yourself.

You’re a painting already framed and hung up,
Not pain, you’re complete – neither framed nor hung up.
Glimpses in the rain are the same space when the sun’s up.
Put the prism on the shelf,
And bend your own light.

When I close my eyes,
And I picture my insides,
To my surprise this enterprise,
Is difficult.

I hear a dull thud,
Must be my slow blood,
Quickens to lub-dub,
In the pits of my stomach.

In this orchestra, organs float like clouds,
Nothing piercing sharp or loud,
Nothing hated, felt or proud,
And apart from the sound?

Slick oil. One atom thick –
Enough to conceal and reflect.
Not enough to suffocate.

Nothing held, my fists clench tightly,
My veins want color, not pallor.
Claim a crisp breath. Let go. Lightly.

Pay attention to the child who glides blithely,
I broke the camera at the Taj Mahal for you.
Nothing held, my fists clench tightly.

Safety belts buckled me down; I knuckled down defiantly,
Your woes are soft blows that fostered in me fear,
Claim a crisp breath. Let go. Lightly.

My hollow halls granted moments pause in ivy.
Do I hear an echoing applause? Was this a reckoning cause? Or –
Nothing. Behold my fists, clenched tightly.

Losing all I return home where defeats icicle nightly,
Your dew so thick it resisted the sunrise.
Claim a crisp breath and let go lightly.

Your boyish shoes skated on my carotid vein,
My son, peace to the crease on your brain. You have
Nothing to hold with fists clenched tightly,
Claim a crisp breath then, let go lightly.