selvbiografi

The Conductor

He steps onto the floor unnoticed,
Pauses for a moment, then
With humble dignity he takes
His place on the great stage.

The orchestra is silent now,
Though moments gone they were bedlam,
And now so void of movement that
You hear him turn the page.

As though to his fingers attached
Are notes and treble clefs and staffs
The players keep their eyes on them
As every song is played.

Their sheets of music are useless
As he commands the tubas play,
Yet picks out delicate notes and
Then sends them up the harpists’ way.

Though he has only two hands and
One baton vice their multitude,
Each player knows exactly what
The conductor conveys.

And even in the audience,
And though his back is turned to you,
You feel his passion, though you can
Deny it as you may.


The Cause of Death

The cause of death, morticians say,
Was poison in the ear.
From all forensic evidence
This conclusion was clear.

But I know truly how she died-
I was the sole witness.
A peeping Tom was I to catch
Her steal from death a kiss.

You ask if I was present then
Why not I come forward?
You see, I have, but naturally
Nothing I say is heard.

The only telling that I do
That gets notice is time.
The only noise I can make is  
On the hour, to chime.

I saw the woman lying there.
I heard her sobbing cries.
I felt her gaze upon my face,
And also felt time fly.

Could this be the same little girl
So happy yesterday?
But no, I did not see the child
Who loved to laugh and play.

Instead I looked upon a rose
Too mature for the vase.
The kind one throws away after
Another takes its place.

She had saved every rose received
And hung them upside down.
And on special occasions used
To potpourri her gown.

But as this flower wilted there
Her face turned up to God.
And silently in answer to Him
Smiled and gave a nod.

One last tear rolled down her soft face
As her eyes closed their last.
Her features ceased to hold her thoughts.
They turned into a masque.

The cause of death, morticians say,
Was poison in the ear.
But I know that the woman's death
Was caused by her own tear.

Matter

Nothing is at rest at all
Even the dead still move
Each molecule a bouncing ball
Potential yet to prove

No energy is made or lost
It is only transferred
So how much is in every thought
And every written word?