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Best Poems Written by Mik Fjeld

Below are the all-time best Mik Fjeld poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

Where My Dead Body Rots

Child, child
Listen to me
Where the wolves were about
Near the screeching a wild hog’s snout
Never enter the arch where the vultures scout

For the darkest of tales come true in the woods
Of a devil; a demon drinking unicorn blood

Child, child
Listen to me
Where the flowers do not sprout
And voices scream and shout
Never enter the arch where the rats go about

For the darkest of tales come true in the woods
Of a trader; a killer drawing first drops of blood

Child, child
Listen to me
Where the dead trees leer
And the people disappear
Never enter the arch where the gargoyles cheer

For the darkest of tales come true in the woods
Of a body; a corpse rotting for good

Child, child
This is a message from me
Here where the wolves were about
Near the screeching a wild hog’s snout
Where the flowers do not sprout
And voices scream and shout
Where the dead trees leer
And the people disappear
A devil; a demon
A trader; a killer
A body; a corpse
For the darkest of tales come true, yes, lots
Never enter the arch where my dead body rots

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

Fall To Spring

The leaves flutter down
Down to the fall floral ground
Winter Wind is here

Small little pirates
Stealing acorns for themselves
Scarce Food knocks loudly

Better bundle up
But come Spring soon, yes, she will
And flower again

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

The Candlestick Maker

A short, old women entered 
my shop and asked for indigo 
candles. I did have indigo 
candles, but there had only been 
three left, and I had reserved 
them for my wife’s birthday. 

The woman said, “I understand 
what you mean, and I hope you 
live a long, happy marriage; I will 
take four bishop candles instead 
for your sake. I’m sure indigo is 
her favourite.” I smiled at her, 
exchanged her money for the 
bishop candles, and she was 
on her way. Then, I wondered if my 
wife actually fancied indigo candles.

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

A Tree

Sticks
Twigs
Breaking
In the wind

Leaves
Rustle
Blow
Without showing

Passing
Away
Recurring

No one
Ever
Knowing

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

The Butcher

The boy said he had 
come for some sausage 
for his mother’s stew. 

What fine sausage for 
simply a stew that could 
be hunted rabbit meat! 

“How old are you, young man? 
Do you not have any parents 
to guide you? Are your brothers 
and sisters alone, as well? 

You do not have any peoples 
among you. How come you 
are so alone? Do you know what 
you are doing out here? 
May I help you home?” 

But the little boy said that he 
grew tired of my questions, so 
he left me alone, and I had 
started to wonder who the 
questions were really for.

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

Broken America

Red dwelling, blue exhaust
White fire of conscience
Patriotic departure
In a home of isolation
See the banner
And know we live
The only mass of allegiance
The ones who take free

The only affirmers
Of the American way
All else does not take
After the wants of the founders
Beautiful country
To wretched cover
What’s the citizen
Done to this land?

The dear departed
Has left breath decisively
Now no one will love
In the American pride path
We must bring back the patriotism
Because all here has gone
The American way cannot perish
Under the rubble of execrable

America is broken
And needs a fixing
By the hands of
All of the devotees
Stand for the way of good
And the path of leeway
The home of rein,
And the home of the brave

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

The Baker

A young girl had stopped 
in my shop earlier, asking for 
some bread pudding and cakes. 

I told her that I did not have cakes, 
and she simply refused to talk to me. 
I offered her rice swells for half price 
instead, but she threw a fit and walked 
out the door, threatening to break my 
windows, and I cursed at her. 
She hissed back through the glass 
windows and pounded one with her fist, 
but not enough to break it, still assuring 
me that she would, one day, break my 
windows, by the braided ribbon in her hair.

Details | Mik Fjeld Poem

A Cleansing

The sun brushes my face
And cleanses it of all unrighteous shadows
The sin of all that darkened my past
Shall not touch another soul again
As long as they believe
That only He cleanses sin