Slightly more, slightly less


I have something I do not have.

Maybe it was lost in the waters

The depth of which are still unknown;

I do feel something slightly more than a halve

Not that in this late fog it truly matters.

Perhaps in the forest I have grown

Deep within and inside out, around the edge

I stand, staring into the folly of the age;

Perhaps yet in the wind, scattered in many a pledge

Made to the new and the old, the easy and the sage.

Seeking for I tread this night, perhaps sleep shall whisper

Yet I search for a stronger voice,

One that comes and goes whether I care to make my choice

Or keep staring at the flame until blister.

That is not dead which can eternal lie

Yet is one alive if there is none to try?

What questions come when I be seeking for their sisters!

What grand orchestra plays as my Muses remain silent!

They listen when not speak and not speak when I listen;

To the skeptics of my follishness I ask where is the proof

That that which I am lacking

I even had before?

What would be but a spoof

Which I have been tacking

To the fro and the fore.

I do not have something I have,

Is whether it is found what matters?

Having stepped by so many a milestone

I am, on the whole, slightly more than a halve.


Halve I what I have? And have I what I halve?

The sweet scent of summer fading


Running is dying.

There is no middleground, there is no workaround,

There is only one lane circling this arena,

No greater battleground to ever run around,

No better master; oh gentle regina…

To love is to suffer.

Whether, slings and arrows, and a sea of troubles,

In the heart of the apocalypse, last man left standing,

It has no true reason yet it may never lie

Even in the beyond where everybody sleeps;

Memories are our voice.

My name is to be known from under the rubbles

Once else has closed the door and gone for the landing

Only to those ears shall descend to imply

Our smile and our tears lost in those bounds ans leaps.

The wind of change is warm.

What mystery remains to capture in thunder?

All may have been written and torn from these lone eyes

Yet, what is this ocean that within may still rise?

Maybe such in a song someone shall remember.


In all that can be said and surely in all that is, there be so little of what could.



I know I must away for the sun has long set behind the hills,

However this night is one of those that nevermind my own

Keep shining beacons and blowing wind in my sails.

I feel above it all, up high into the heavens, light on my wings

Hovering at the top of a world of new and interesting,

Wherefore am I bound to today, I cannot say without a smile

Of merry curiosity even when in my heart of hearts,

In the waves of my soul, I know I must retire and rest

This weary body of mine. I bid you farewell my friend

Of today, enemy of tomorrow, I shall see you later

And perhaps we shall converse some more of the same

When I am better and whole again? Yes, whole again.

How else do you figure that I could soar so high up?

My wings are large but feeble, barelly enough to glide,

And they encumber me when walking among my own,

Yet would I give them up to run within the wind often?

Only the new shall say, the old is too hesitant to dare

He would regret too much those furtive, passing joys

Of wonderous colour and vivid tastes. Now, now, don’t fret,

This aged one shall go to bed, my dear, I’ll see you in the morn

I can promise you that – ah… the night may be getting older

But never so as me, and the day shall be young, and too I shall be free.

Sleep tight, dream well, and above all, come again to see me.


Ashley Eriksson – Island Song (Remix)



Like a fateful cry in the unending night

Like tears upon smiling cheeks

Like hair of sand into the wind

Like the sweet smell of syrup first thing in the morning

Like loneliness in the silence of the world

Or the chatter of the heart among the tombs,


Like a strong word thrown against coarse stone

Like the running turtle and the walking hare

Like nothing ever before yet something ever since

Like a two faced mirror with no eyes

Like a bad metaphore or an ugly allegory

And the right to be the first to finish last,


Like finding something that was thought lost for so long

Like the second taste of it after the craving

Like “I mean, like like, not like like”

Like an angel wing sunk deep under the sea

Like those times one runs to them for comfort

But with the knowledge that everything ends,


Like Peace and War but teenage siblings

Like two plus two will always equal four

Like there is more to music than can be heard

Like a familiar presence in the empty spaces

Like what should be said and what shouldn’t

Yeah, like I even know what I’m talking about…


Like this or like that, but never quite like then.

An elf on the shelf is thinking to himself


One book, two books,

are standing on the shelf.

Three books, four books,

he’s thinking to himself.

Five books, six books,

all written in small text.

Seven, eight books,

what book shall he read next?

What about number nine?

What about number ten?

What beautiful story

should thou be making thine?

What about the captain

and the road to glory?

Or what about the boy

that flew down from the stars?

What of the old princess

and her lost golden toy?

Or the witch without scars

whose name you’d never guess?

So many lovely tales

to wrap around thy head,

so many small details

deserving to be said;

he knew it all so well

yet but as the sun set

he muttered to himself:

“It is not good to dwell

on what’s already set”,

and lightened the old shelf.


You’ve heard of elf on the shelf,

now prepare for twelve m in the poem.



Des monts et des vaux attendent à mes pieds

Que l’immonde de mes mots se pare ou soit purgé,

Mais que voit l’oeil qui regarde depuis le trône ?


Nulle réponse n’est vaine mais aucune ne me sied

Car alors que le monde répond à son démiurge,

Il rit et ne regarde même pas l’aumône.


Echoué sur le parvis d’une église dorée,

Profane que je suis j’observe sans faire un bruit,

Puis-je entrer ou ne dois-je appeler?

On ne saurait déranger l’entité qui y vit.


Que faire alors de ces flammes qui persistent à brûler

De leurs pâles reflets dans les bassins d’eau-de-vie ?

C’est dans cette étrange forêt dont s’efface l’orée

Que repose le scient, la tête sous le fruit.





I believe nothing is more complex than the simplicity of life:

What reason is there to our steps other than one without?

What purpose has our soul in the burning of our beings

Other than shining out a beacon to all those lost

And to refuse to be found if not to be given a name?

When the prickles of this icy wind roll through our veins

And crystalise the roaring flame of what it means to be of breath,

Has come the time to understand the source of what may be to feel

Or has it taken to the sky once more, yet to become but desire?

In a slow walk along the beach whereupon the ocean leaves for good

Only the words remain of it, ashes of a fire gone cold

Blown from the hearth of dreams into the bleak beating of the heart;

What shall remain after I sleep? And shall I step without a skip

Through the threshold of floating wood into the hall of many songs?

Once awoken there is not time and yet the stars are eternal,

Such is life before it drifts into the cold wind of morning…


If I am found then am I lost?


Ma vie


Ma vie est un joli poème et je ne peux l’apprécier

Car je ne suis que le même et nous sommes liés,

“Mais…” me dit la dame Chance au sourire émacié

Sous le bel air dansant des feuilles peu pliées.

Et si à défaut d’en être l’écrivain

Je serais bien lecteur de ce morceau batard,

Voyez tous mes sursauts et mes cris vains;

Me voilà défecteur car je le lis trop tard.


D’opale, reflet amer.



Un ange de papier, de musique et de nuit,

Aux ailes d’argent recouvertes de suie

Ne peut voler bien longtemps

Car la rouille du monde le rattrape à grand pas;

Il a beau chanter et se jouer de l’onde

Mais le sel toujours finit par piquer les yeux

Et ramener à la mer les secrets qu’elle contient.

Saoûle et terne, elle regarde; et si eux

Ne peuvent réparer le monde

Des orgues oeilleux à qui il appartient,

C’est au céleste enfant d’entamer le repas

Et de briser le pain de l’Homme nilpotent.


Voguer entre deux eaux cause débat.

Dos au miroir


Dos au miroir, je ne vois mon visage.

Que sais-je de ses formes

De ses recoins, ses replis,

A présent que les années

Ont lissé mon portrait ?

Face au mirage, vois-je que ne veut croire ?

Il est temps que je dorme

Car avec soin le temps délie

Et ce qu’il avait condamné

Se dessine trait par trait.

Est-ce à mes yeux destiné ce reflet?

Ou est-ce destinée reflet de mes aïeux?

Ne sachant quel chemin

Emprunter pour survivre

Le gardien se défile,

Il remet à demain,

Se résignant à suivre

L’avenir qui s’effile

Par l’interstice étroit d’une haute tour d’argent

Qui ci se fait l’agent du vieil oeil maladroit.


De cette âme un peu perdue

Le miroir se fait la plaie

Que le long temps a mordu

Car y lisse le reflet.