The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Stokmarknes, Nordland, Norway
If you have comments or suggestions for Kim Nylund, you can contact this author at:
Pul1i1@excite.com (Kim Nylund)
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A beach without an ocean
is not a beach.
My life is a desert
and dry winds
bear no comfort or release
from the omnipresent sun.
The horizon offers nothing
since there is no waterline
and I walk aimlessly
in whichever direction
knowing I'll always have
more than I can find.
Yet there is peace.
My heart moves like a dune
whereas the wind
and shifting tides will change
fates in seconds.
And one can survive pleasantly
on morning dew
and a promise of rain.
A shape which in itself
is too cuddly to be true.
A shell like a psychedelic armour,
red as if to defy its surroundings,
black spots to tell you: Here I am!
laughing in the face of evolution
under this ridiculous cover
that hides fragile wings
barely large enough to support my weight.
A stubborn preference
for landing on your hand,
leg or face
with the grace of a crashing airplane
only to climb the highest point
and fly drunkenly away.
Clubbed sensory antennas
which can only give the sensation
of an unhappy Martian
drawn by a child
and stunted, sticky-feet
gluing to everything
implying that it's not fucking going
until it feels like it.
you have not seen the true face of life
unless you have been walking
alongside a ladybug in full,
following your own pace
for no apparent reason.
I live on,
it seems to say
between the random flapping of its wings.
I live on,
and nobody knows why.
Momentary lapse of coolness
From today I'll be a child.
Let my impulses run wild.
Do the things I want to do.
Be myself and let it through.
Sleep the wrong way in my bed.
Cut from both sides of the bread.
Wear my t-shirt inside out
so they'll know what it's about.
Cross the road and trust my luck
to a forty feet long truck.
Let the metro stand and wait.
Come to work five minutes late.
Nod my head and say hello
to somebody I don't know.
Pick my nose in public view.
Stand the wrong way in a queue.
Smile to people in a crowd.
Think a thought and say it loud.
Tell them jokes they've heard before.
Look at girls a second more.
Chew some gum and call it lunch.
Buy a candy bar and munch.
Read a paper to the end.
Act as if I don't pretend.
Say to people how I feel.
that will be much too real.
So I guess I'll stay the same.
Play it safe and hope for fame.
Keep my cool and stand erect.
Act the way that they expect.
They will never see the truth
in the craziness of youth.
The Candle Light Effect
A word that's made in candle light
is not born false or true
and does not come as black or bright,
but a softer hue.
Cause even if the air is still
the flame will move and shift
to its own heat, and people's will
must surely likewise drift.
The light takes trips on moving lips
in an eternal chase
for shadows, but it often skips
the details of a face.
And restlessly it flickers off
to hide a paper sheet,
a syllable or apostrophe
that eyes will never meet.
Thus words conceived and born to us
at night in candle light
are neither true nor false and thus
a truly fairer sight.
Last nights' insight
Last night when I opened my mind
and looked in there was nothing to find.
Sure, there was knowledge all piled up in heaps,
wee bits of wisdom and some quantum leaps,
but to everything else I was blind.
Last night I could not fall asleep.
I was sad, but could no longer weep.
I tried to be angry, but could only smile,
and then went for care free and cheerful a while,
but nothing in me could run deep.
Last night I discovered my child
had been starving to death and defiled.
Questions I ask in acceptance of truth
without the critical fervour of youth,
and thoughts lick my hand that were wild.
Last night I looked in at the hole
that at one time was housing my soul.
It was empty of passion, and more like a grave
calmly awaiting this reasoning slave
that is always in perfect control.
Face to face up to
The heavy eyes,
the shallow gaze,
the wrinkled brow
and flaccid face
are all the signs
of one bereaved
of rightful love
as he believed.
He cannot see
all what is left.
He sees but this,
the greatest theft.
I smile at him
with cheerful glee.
He doesn't look
a bit like me.
I see you
"I left you what matters.
This is it.
That was it."
On jungle-paths, don't ask me why,
I see this creature flutter by,
so colourful beneath the sky,
so pleasing to the human eye.
A butterfly they call it, though,
a name I simply can't bestow,
as blunt an crude as it is slow
and nothing like this thing I know.
But if you take the fl- in fly
and add to utter as you try
to put the b before the y,
you'll end up with a flutterby.
This name I feel is much more right
for someone who can catch the light,
create from just the colour white
a beautifully coloured sight.
A flutterby in guise and grace
which fleetingly will flaunt its face
and fly with ever-changing pace
to greet the sun and summer days.
The stars slowly slipping in the softer silver sands
is in the mournful morning mist
and still silky and shining.