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Mats Risvold Poem
An individual is the blueprint for majestic art.
In unison with other souls, that person is greater than god.
A pure orgasm of colors sees the act of creation recreated in a renaissance.
When white horses race for their life through red moss, you get pulled into euphoria and see it all.
They scratch your back, and you feel it now: an angel has been bestowed on earth, it is they.
Behold that wonderful stone, which has been thrown into the halls of Pantheon.
Copyright © Mats Risvold | Year Posted 2025
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Mats Risvold Poem
I can feel the gentle push
A yellow hue claims the blue
And I’m looking directly at you
At the end of April
Sunlight streaks down my neck like bugs
As they crawl to my back
Sifting their juices on my pale skin
Turning me red with embarrassment
It hurts when you touch me I can see the pain
It leaves a mark where your hand caressed me
And when I laugh it off thinking of you the same
You’d refrain and start doing it all over again
Have you ever felt a caterpillar crawl
Have you ever felt the need to bawl
For your eyes are one of many connections to the sea
When I almost forgot that you tried to stick with me
I wasn’t sure if you were going to do it at all
We were the only two people left at the ball
So when I say it clearly and you stall
I can feel the effects
Of some of the last days of April.
Copyright © Mats Risvold | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Mats Risvold Poem
It's as if someone was talking to you
Deep reflective inspiration got the best of you
What you're thinking now doesn't matter
When you travel it is all up to those who
Decide in rash rooms if your life matters.
I see you've started thinking about it
Good it's time you did
Explore this deeper crevice of your mind
And the possibilities you'd rather keep hid
There's no one to save you now, history repeats.
Alas, another soldier will die and grovel at your feet.
You'll have to shoot him, stab him, or kick
Whatever's left of them at least.
So when you tell me war is a game I sigh
Because no one that young deserved to die
And no one in a country should have to lie
Only for the false hope of possibly staying alive.
That's through my eyes, blistering cold
But with the warmth of humility so old
That when someone goes to war they scold
At me when I tell them they shouldn't be there.
Copyright © Mats Risvold | Year Posted 2025
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