Glass Walls




The way
Far far far

Why does nothing
feel so hard
As it’s meant to be?
Why are all things
Not quite here
As my eyes can see?

All things going down.
Away away away
Far into the dawn.

Invisible walls
Glass-thick air
Touches barely
Skim the surface
Of what lies deep down

Let the ground
The throes of night
pull you in
pull you down
to the place where
barriers will fall

Where the glass is just a lie
High upon the clouds
Of mist inside your mind.

It’s only but a lie.


Florence, 03/05/14

New-generation Hippie

I usually don’t write any social criticism, but the attitude of many of this generation’s youth has annoyed me and inspired me to write this…. Enjoy!

Share the love
Nature rocks
The new-generation hippie talks.

Money’s nothing
Life’s got no aim
It’s the new-generation hippie claim.

Of these the hippie nothing knows.

Build with grass
Recycle wood
Hippie does as hippie should.

Yet when it comes
To daily life
And not just abstract ideas and thoughts
Show, not talk:
The new-generation hippie baulks:

Lights turned on under the sun
Energy flowing whole day long
Organic; free range; the price is high
This Trivial Money cannot buy
Food flows down the rubbish chute
But that doesn’t matter if you look good:
Right clothes, right smiles, right façade
It’s the modern-day hippie passing by.

Spread the love
A smile a day
I only do anything
My way
Nature’s great
On a walk
The new-generation hippie mocks.


Florence, 12/05-14



I disappear into the night
The frosty stars hide me from sight
I disappear into the night.
In the dark it is my plight
It’s my burden shining bright
It’s my friend and yet my fight
I’m invisible in the night.

Twister Eyes

My mind is swirling
Winds are whirling
In the bottom of my heart

My eyes are closing
My brain is pushing
My eyelids heavy into the dark

I hadn’t realized
What went on in my mind
Until the twister turned
And swallowed all my thoughts
And spit them out again
All in different places
All in different shapes
Bashed into the frontiers of my mind
Pressing out into my eyes and the corners of my conscience

Now my eyes
Will not remain open
For the Brain has commanded them to close

Funny enough it is
That when pressure comes from the twister inside
The mind needs a rest from the outside world.

Tick, tock, time

Tick, tock, time:
Time clicks the clock ticks
Raindrops fall and ice melts
Tick, tock, time.

Birds sing and eyes blink
Hands touch and looks avert
Every thing
Is a second
Long gone in time

Tick tock time:
Sunrises sunsets
Laughter and footsteps
From cradle to deathbed
Tick tock time.

Time goes
As water flows
In the curve of a smile;
But look —
It’s already gone.

Creepy Crawly

I learned a lesson today.

Lack of knowledge and preparation may cost a high price.

In some situations, even another’s life.

Especially when that other being is solely dependent upon you.

The alarm sounded as I walked in through the doors. Twice. Thrice, by the time I reached the reception desk. A blonde woman in her mid-thirties, with a friendly look in her eyes asked me if I needed any help. I told her that I’d been there the week before, that they had offered to help, and that that is why I was here again today. I brought them up from the canvas bag, and she took them carefully in her deft, expert hands. “What is the matter?” she asked.

“I don’t know, they seemed to be fine a few weeks ago, but suddenly they became so sad and began to droop and I think they are sick, but I don’t know what to do! And I don’t know what kind they are, either,” I said, all in one breath and frowning slightly in exasperation.

“It’s ok, I’ll ask one of my colleagues, some of them are experts and will know what to tell you”

I thanked her and watched her nervously as she carried them away through a serious of doors down a corridor behind the desk.

The seconds ticked by very slowly, and I silently hoped for the best. Finally, she came out the door, and before turning to me, handed them over to the receptionists’ nimble hands. He murmured something; “I think so”, and she received them, walking over to me this time.

I sensed things weren’t good, but chose to ignore my intuition, benefitting positive thinking. Half a disease is cured by positive thinking, they say. She told me that it was indeed as she thought, and that they were premature. They cannot survive the Scandinavian Winter’s cold. I looked at her, concern furrowing my brows. I waited for her to say something, anything, to save them. But she remained silent. The silence kept going, and I did not hear any wise words of advice leave her mouth. Her face slowly melted into a concerned, seriously empathetic expression, and my heart felt heavy in my chest as I recognised it from films in which nurses are waiting to tell their patients the worst. Her words cut the silence and my heart at the same time: “I don’t think you can expect anything”.

There. She’d said it. Such a mild way of putting death.

She handed me them, and I looked down and opened my mouth, staring blankly.

I could not contain my feelings and without even realising it, I exclaimed in desperation, startling everyone in the room, including myself. Her face quickly morphed into one of surprise and even further concern.

“Is there nothing I can do to save them??” I asked, desperately clutching them in my arms, as if my embrace could save them from that fateful end.


“ANYTHING! I’ll do anything, what if I take better care?? Individual care, support, more space??” I was grasping at thin air, grasping at the turf on the edge of a cliff, but I wouldn’t let go that easily.

She hesitated. I could see it in her expression. “There is something you can do… but it’ll be difficult, a lot of work”

“I don’t care!” I interjected, “I’ll do anything, as long as they live!”

“They grow fast, they will need new things every day” she added, weighing my determination. I was steadfast.

She told me then, what I’d said was right, individual care, more space, don’t keep them in the same space under any circumstances, plenty of sunshine  — the last was especially important, sunshine heals the sick, it has always done — but she hadn’t come to the key point yet:

“You won’t be able to keep them. Once it’s warm you’ll have to let them go. Into a forest, or wherever it is, be careful about it, but it will be necessary”

“I don’t mind.” I replied, determined, “I am willing to sacrifice our bond, as long as they live on in happiness, even if it without me.”

Suddenly something seemed to click in her mind and she hurriedly reached for a bag. She shoved it into my arms; “Here, this will help, there are eight”. I thanked her many times and she smiled at me, eyes twinkling. An honest smile. There was still hope.

I made my careful way back home, torn between running and moving slowly and cautiously, so as not to disturb them.

My roommate opened the door for me, and the first I exclaimed was “I know how to save them!” I didn’t wait for her answer, choosing to rush into my room and start the process.

After hours, here I am. I have just moved them into the living room, because it faces sunward the whole day, contrary to my own room. Each of the twelve has been separated, and I have given them water and apologised, many many times, giving them hopes of a better future. I also went looking for curling twigs in the yard, as they need some for support, since they apparently are the creepy-crawly-vine type. Not all of them will survive, I realise bitterly. But now at least some will have a better chance at the future. So I sigh in relief when I look at all twelve of my plants upon the windowsill, now saved from imminent death by lack of knowledge.

I learned a lesson today.

Lack of knowledge and preparation may cost a high price.

In some situations, even another’s life.

Especially when that other being is solely dependent upon you.


Florence, 31/03/14


Tears fall down from the sky
Bleed into the ground
Spring has come around.

Winter’s death is now long gone
Purple yellow white
Bloom by blessed sunlight.

How many have survived
To see the changing lights?

How many of the dead
Survived beyond their dread?

How many of the ones
Locked behind endless doors
Hid away behind the curtains
Closed behind the shuttered locks

How many of those souls
Have stayed despite the tolls
Which time has taken on?

If Winter is the knife
That poises above the shoulder
Then Spring is the hooded brother
Who cuts a slow, grueling end
Into the hearts of men.

Florence, 14/03/14