From A Cafe Table

In this hour
they called it the French lace minutes
the sound of autumn leaves falling
unbearable to the ear
I slip out in the
echoing space
between now
and then
it's an insect like feeling
that buzzes around
too fast
to be recognized

then a coat slides to the ground
heels are clapping hands with wooden floor
ashtrays are laid to rest

and on a bus ticket my pen is scribbling
you are here
you are here
you are here


© Gry W Christensen

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Brewing Sunsets In Teapots

I brew sunsets in teapots
I drink the dawn from a mug
and in my bicycle basket I have seduction in a jug
so now and then I take someone clean shaven home to my obliging bed
when I guess I should sit quietly pristine,
with my legs crossed instead
but each day is so fragile
they black out every evening in the west
and all I got is these frail minutes
and I only want to live them, as if they were a fest.


© Gry W Christensen
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The Anchor

I once loved
an anchor
one of those
that sails
on skin
one of those
that has
a rowing heart
and pelting blood
within


One of those
who blows
mussel covered
kisses
one of those
that tells
mermaids salty lies
one of those
who'll
go down with
rum and shackles
the day he finally
dies.


© Gry W Christensen
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My friend, the German poet that
has vanished from my poetry site...--TYR