Friday, February 18, 2011

Happy Birthday Olja!

To you Olja.
My dear Sister:
May every birthday be better than the last.


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Put all the stars back in the night sky.
Raise the sun from its resting place,
And call the moon to see its lover,
Eternally seperated, by time and space.

Call upon the mountains to kneel,
Halt all the rivers and brooks.
And Order the ocean to stop,
its rapid current to now seal.

May the wind stop its sonorous yelps,
And may the air lay steady at this hour
May all blossoms not fall to the ground,
And may the honey never again be sour.

May the trees lay in trepid wake.
May the birds stand ceremoniously of withered branches.

Call upon the gods from the sky,
The mountains.
Or wherever they may lie.

Let Zeus kneel and hand you his intrepid wit;
His lightening bolt,
Let Aphrodite offer you here beauty,
Upon which all shall halt.

Let Hera happily surrender her cunning,
Her intelligence and wit,
Let Athena,
Bath you in her loyalty and grit.

May the Angels sing their hymns in your name.
Those sonorous calamities with rhythm so beautiful.
And may Dionysus himself with self-possessed ecstacy,
Dance to the rhythm of your life;
Lamenting, enviously glaring at his maneads in strife.

Let all the lions know to keep silent,
No roar to be heard,
All prided muted.
And let all the eagles know where to circle
Upon which sacred ground you have once passed.

Allow all beauty to rise from the dark corners of the globe.
And Melody to flow through every enchanted grove,
Allow Divinity to sweep the streets clean,
Of evil, melancholy, and anything inbetween.

For you, my darling,
This world shall rise to its feet,
And those of great honour,
kneel at your majestic seat.

Time shall stop,
Clocks shall not tick a second forth,
And all will stop stare,
As it is your day of birth.

Happy birthday Olja!

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Remember That Wishing-Bone?

For those that have been forced out of familiar territory.
May it be a home,
An idea,
A life.

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I will not tread upon that soil, that soil over yonder,
That you now call your own.
I will not shed a tear on that soil, that soil over yonder,
That you now made your own.

Nor will what I spawn ever walk the valleys,
Or climb the trepid cliffs,
Dig their hands into the dirt,
And spread their little finger tips.

Nor will the sun rise on my cool roof once more,
Over yonder,
That you have now made your own.

I will not, ever once more,
Feel that familiar zephyr through my linen shirt,
I will not! ever once more,
Consider a compunctious act for those friends I once hurt.

Those friends no longer linger on that corner over yonder,
That you now have made your own.
Nor do they now ponder,
Of what you have done to their home.

Friends which now lay deep in soil,
Because of your malice!
Your selfish turmoil!

I will never now, walk the boulevard of memories,
Over yonder,
That you now call your own.
That boulevard that we together,
Lay brick by brick,
The one with the buried wishing-bone.

Nor will i blissfully dream of a return,
A Future; For which i eternally yearn.
Nor will i feel love; happiness; joy and passion,
For anything new that you and your friends may fashion.

I will not -
as much as my heart aches me so -
In that abode over yonder;
Love. Laugh. Cry!
Now long desolate,
Bodiless and devoid of a love once so familiar to its whitewashed walls.

I will not be able to share mutual aspirations with my children.
Nor will they ever delve into the deep blue forest I once loved.

I will not!
They will not,
Love that soil,
That soil over yonder,
That you now declare your own.

My Home.
My Backbone!
My Life,
Which you now call your own.