DRAGON RIVER (in the little gorge (juvet) that goes through Flatdal)
11th June 2011. Margaret Ann Waddicor.

I can see this as the Dragon of the river charging down, 
shaking all its water off as it goes, and bellowing, 
snorting waterfalls at each descent, flowers 
growing in the rocks on the side, a kind of saxifrage-family flower, 
vibrating with excitement, they are something like virgins 
or wedding veils in name in Norwegian. 

subways screaming in
the bitter light
like a party lamp
overturned

my retina burn
and this hot rush of wind
stinking of city
and office bodies
the restless and
the chosen
wandering in their week
old skins

the walls lucid crawl
in a flash of stainless
wet like a putrid worm

The eyes, of a soul,
yet to seed more poems,
To help humanity see through
the ailments,
which are not man-made

We may perhaps inherit,
in our genes
But to brave the calamity
and let it not become fatal,
Ere its time,
is the way
one lives a full life with dignity

In your case it,
draws like steel from a furnace,
the tenacity most folks lack.

You are, if I may say,
the epitome of a suffering man,
though the bravest of his brand.

Footsteps On The Staircase.

Hearing footsteps on the staircase
a young boy is silent in his room,
only moonlight from the window
brightens the darkness and gloom.
His heart beats fast, fear increases
as an angry father opens the door,
staggering drunkenly towards him
to inflict violent cruelty once more.