Satu Kaikkonen

dream'less

I confound you by our evry part,
          we shall changed into  birds
and the sky is a blanket
     from which the light dives its naked shadow.

Dreams eat us the same way
as the flowers are eating their way through the earth.
Waking up is a risky oppoturnity, a measure,
which painfulness is forgotten
               time after time more easily.


Your face will be dearer to me day after day altought
I forget  the continuums of  your little details.
I touch you through my dream
- you are far away, and near,
so near as the length of the breath,
under these same
clouds

at the place I don’t know
yet, maybe never.

Gerry Boyd

the rapture never comes too late

the seductive regret of scarlet lipstick late applied

is easily erased by the chartreuse ferns of a feathery dawn

and a woody prayer of silver moss that is perfect in its worship:

when your flowered skirt is breathlessly lifted

over the variegated heaven of your musky thighs,

ah! there the firm blossom issues, and causes us to climb-

baptized so surely with a rainy spring of hidden desire,

this precious bulb so long buried, in a fashionable arcade,

by the distracting drifts of bleak chatter and snowy bores

has burst through the dam that was always too weak to hold it.

so ecstatic to take the waters, in the roaring way of alpine cures,

from the holy torrents, once reserved, for stark liturgical glaciers:

in the graying cloud of snow melt, an edelweiss has blossomed,

delicious, at the summit, in its white and dusky innocence.

Gerry Boyd

murmurs from a perfect afternoon

i. drifting into that hermetic seal

the picket fence stands proudly unwashed

in the three trunk hemlock afternoon:

it is all held together by wispy cables

and the dreamy embroidery of soapy eyelets-

those painted threads of yellow, green, and rust

that are all inside a glassed-washed afternoon:

the clearing fog of then and now and when.

a tempting little drip will propel the suspect elders

to wander into the white promise of the warping slats.

ii. the trifurcation is an amusement that briefly matters

she dances in the chartreuse lemon spring,

is the green summer of our frothing joy-

she flutters again in orange leaves,

that, saintly, burst and burn in autumn:

ironic words of appreciation always seem to fail

in a way that is pervasive and, oddly, geometric

on the tear-stained Appian Way of patio pavers:

there are many things that cease to matter

in the Euclidian formulae of wind-swept leaves.

yet, we try, and try again, to simply find the point.

iii. back to the idle rust of dropping cones

each shadowy dot of near and distant leaves

is bartered by the tricky once-washed slats,

traded for a moment that waves good-bye, well met:

saplings proudly foil the coniferous quivering-

the compost can, always, existentially blue,

a calming retreat from the obscenity of now

that is telegraphed by this obstinate relic-

boasting of a clarity almost reached

if, indeed, it was reachable at all.

the rest just freezes,

impotent in the set of choices and meanings-

what is the course beyond the fence?

through the unwashed slats there is only:

the soothing green of the distance mown,

the windy rhythm of dappled seed,

the promise of pale berries, lush and sown.

Satu Kaikkonen

so light that I would be

the moment will be yours who fly away
                     I will fall trough the wind so light
that I would be
without you lightweight, non-existent
a water-cutted leaf, spat into the darkness of the night
a fleeting leaf

                     I do not want the  time passing over the trees
as a foreign

Satu Kaikkonen

the will of the mind

the dreams are owned by strangers.
                   if I had men they would be he.
he lives far away, in a place, where all the windows are beginning from letter a.
in a place where the nights are under the stars, and
                            dates are speaking eyes smelling as coffee.

he is gone,  and for ever here, as the will of the mind
sticking the bosom of a dream  early in the morning.



                                                               unable to catch I hold his hair through my hands
his smile, his eyes elsewhere
which are seeing another way.

                                                                 so tenderly I would been quiet, quiet, quiet.

Andreas Andersson

Man leaving his ships behind


Wet sand as you reach land, the prow
making an incision in that smoothed out surface
but this new earth, this terra nullius,
won't bleed, like the old
never bleed. The ship in the roads
like a cut umbilical cord
the end of a rope.


You don't turn around.


You make deep imprints in the sand with your feet,
as if to say: I was here
or maybe you stake your claim
the way children do with every touch.
Oh well, it's harmless enough;
when the tide withdraws
they'll be gone - not a sign of you.


Inland you do greater harm,
cut down trees, strip mine the mountains,
build, first a church, then a shopping mall, a parking structure.


As night comes on it's so bright
the stars can't be seen.
If night is like day, when, oh when,
will we get to enact our play
our well-rehearsed pantomime.
And what's worse, how will you find
your way home, how will you know for sure
earth's end and heaven's onslaught.

Gerry Boyd

What the Mocking Bird Said It's Just a Little

Some time after that season of keening rain

blanched the bleached slats of blue-gray siding,

the gutter's low scrub bloomed shortly once-

just before the blocked and frosted jalousies

shuttered the lime-streaked porch for life.

Inside the nod of flowers drifted away

drowning out pool filter chlorine whines

behind dapples on dry buttery siding

where once the rain had flowed in sheets

over a withering brown oak's low branches

and vibrant figs coaxed from depleted earth.

A table plated with unfinished eggs gives

a circus of coffee aged evidence of lift

in a place where nothing uplifting is left:

no mouth in the greasy skillet entices ears

with a low sizzle that has long since passed

into a torn curtain obscurring cloudy skies,

ripples form on the pocked aluminium shore

of lidless guardian service with steamy

gradients of starch under the striped rose

hanging a shadow over the newsprint news.

Puckered lilies would rather smooch the moon

than greet the apricot rise of morning stalled

long since a quartered acre of silence arose,

arose for a sun that only after stabs next door

and only after an early breeze shakes uneven rain

from other sun-drenched leaves of maple.