En sommernats drøm.

Afrodite ligger og bager på at få et varmt forhold til Auroras broder og overvejer, hvordan hun vil forføre ham. Hun er netop blevet skilt fra Hefaistos efter at have haft et syndigt forhold til Ares. Et forhold som blev opdaget, idet de blev grebet på fersk gerning. Og det var dråben for Hefaistos. Afrodite bærer dog ikke nag over at være blevet opdaget, for hun er sikker på at blive gift med Ares, da han har friet meget grundigt adskillige gange. Men hendes blod pulser livligt, for at sige det mildt, og hun bliver aldrig klog af skade, hvad sødmen ved forførelse og elskov angår, og solens evner som elsker skal testes, før hun gifter sig, omend uformelt, med Ares, som i øvrigt er en rigtig flot fyr.

Denne aften og nat bliver tilbragt på stranden, for vejret er mildt, og det føles, som om alle Auroras sønner holder ferie. Der er i hvert fald næppe en vind som rører sig, og Auroras søster er heller ikke på himlen. Hun er nok i ”næ” for tiden. Ellers kunne hun have underholdt sig med hende og få lidt hjælp til at smede sine rænker. Men i morgen tidligt vil Aurora stå op og kaste en gylden løber foran sig og hen over havet direkte mod hende. Så kan de få en kvindelig passiar, og Afrodite kender Aurora så godt, at hun føler sig sikker på at få hendes hjælp til at møde broderen personligt. For Aurora har også lidt af Afrodites natur i sig, så amourøse overvejelser er ganske ophidsende for dem begge.

”Aurora Polaris er vist ved at varme op,” tænkte Afrodite, da hun fornemmede nogle flygtige, grønne bølger i luften over havet. ”Kommer hun nær nok, kan jeg sikkert også få en lødig passiar med hende. Hun bakser jo ind imellem med Ymers afdøde krop, som hun ikke nænner at begrave. Jeg har hende dog mistænkt for at være blevet besnæret af hans blik mere end af hans legeme i øvrigt, når han betragtede hende, da han var i levende live. Ellers ville hun vel ikke have bedt Aserne bygge dette smukke, bølgende gærde på himlen af hans øjenvipper. Hun siger altid, at gærdet udelukkende blev bygget for at beskytte menneskene mod jætterne, men bortforklaringer har jeg ikke længere vanskeligt ved at gennemskue. Men Aserne er nu underlige, synes jeg. Vi andre er mere eksotiske.”

”Mon Solen tænker på mig lige nu?” Det kriblede i hende ved den blotte tanke. ”Aurora fornyer sig heldigvis hver morgen, selv om hendes dødbider af en mand bliver ældre og ældre i al evighed. Stakkels Tithonus. Ja, sådan kan det gå, når man ønsker sig evig ungdom og glemmer at tage alle de forholdsregler, sådan noget kræver. Godt det ikke er mig, for selv om alle siger, at jeg er evig ung, ved jeg da godt, at det ofte bare er noget, folk siger, fordi jeg ikke er nogen årsunge mere og stadig ser knaldhamrende godt ud fra alle tænkelige vinkler. Blot jeg får lov til at føle mit hjerte smelte igen, når Solen tager mig i sin favn, skal jeg ikke klage. Så får jeg overskud til at blive en god hustru til Ares, og herefter vil jeg gøre mere ud af at pusle, nusle og hygge, end jeg plejer, og jeg vil også sætte mig grundigt ind i, hvordan man laver et gedigent måltid mad, så Ares kan få nogle komfortable dekader, inden han drager, ja guderne må vide hvorhen. Det er der vist ikke mange der ved. Zeus vil ikke snakke om det, men jeg har indset, at der er mere mellem himmel og jord, end selv guder og gudinder kan forstå. Men i morgen er der atter en dag, som en eller anden Valdemar har sagt i nyere tid.”

Chinese boxes

Waking from a dream

recall it clearly.

Thinking about

what happened

in the dream.

Remember some persons,

conversations

and environments.

Waking then ... and marvel!

The first waking

was a part of the dream.

This time it must be real

and it probably is.

Spirer.

”Mon små børn kan forstå digte,” spurgte han. ”Eller skal de have enkle, nøjagtige beskrivelser af, hvad man mener, før det giver god mening for dem?”

”Det afhænger da vist helt og holdent af, hvordan man fremfører sine ting,” svarede hun. ”Børn er måske endda bedre til at abstrahere end voksne, fordi en del af deres udvikling foregår som leg. Legene er ofte små udgaver af, hvad voksenlivet senere vil bringe, men der er også meget eventyrligt involveret. Deres sind er stadig så plastisk, at ting, som voksne har opgivet at tro på, forekommer lige så virkelige, eller måske mere virkelige, end ting som udelukkende er betinget af afmålte, fysiske love.”

”Her er et par ældre eksempler på nogle af de digte, børn har stiftet bekendtskab med, og selv om de måske er lidt sludrevorne, tager børnene dem let til sig, og det giver dem et fundament for selv at turde udtrykke sig lidt abstrakt og metaforisk:”

Ole Bole gik i skole,

med sin søsters røde kjole,

kom hjem klokken fem,

gik på hovedet i seng,

Ole vip, Ole vap, du slap!

Birgitte, Birgitte Bergøje

fik ond i det ene øje.

Hun smurte det med fløde,

så begyndte det at bløde.

Hun smurte det med tjære,

så blev det meget værre.

Hun smurte det med blæk,

så gik det hele væk.

”På et tidspunkt tager en del børn afstand til det og får behov for at blive meget nøjagtige i udtrykket, men fundamentet er lagt, og frøene er sået til nye digterspirer, som undertiden springer ud i fuld blomst.”

Additional Now

When the sounds of seagulls, cars, church bells, children laughing, dogs barking, plus any other sounds, reminiscent of a bygone era that is so present that it moves the heart, weaves the elves new, beautiful flower wreaths.

 Closed or open eyes with a mental vision of the surroundings that are recognized as own performances, evoking the elves attention, and they embark on the road again. They bring together decorations of the golden autumn leaves and add beautiful contrasting colors with magical pigments.

They have always worn special portraits in medallions, made ​​of ethereal gold, which is only found in the river that flows in the midst of the crow flies between the legendary bird Rok's eternity mountain and Shangri-La.

Sig nærmer tiden.

 Når lydene fra mågeskrig, biler, kirkeklokker, barnelatter, hunde der gør, samt alle andre lyde, minder om en svunden tid som bliver så nærværende, at den bevæger hjertet, fletter alferne nye, smukke blomsterkranse.

Lukkede eller åbne øjne med et mentalt syn på omgivelserne, der genkendes som egne forestillinger, vækker alfernes opmærksomhed, og de begiver sig på vej. De samler buketter af det gyldne efterårsløv og tilføjer smukke kontrastfarver med magiske pigmenter.

De har altid båret særlige portrætter i medaljoner, fremstillet af æterisk guld, som kun findes ved floden, der flyder midt på fugleflugtslinjen mellem sagnfuglen Rok’s evighedsbjerg og Shangri-La.

Med hagesnor på hatten.

Det blæser udenfor, eller rettere, det stormer. Blæsten stormer af sted, og griber fat i alt det, den kan få fat i. Regnen kobler sig indimellem på. Den nyder at få disse gevaldige rutsjeture med vinden, som veksler mellem blæst og storm. Skyerne er også med på den, og deres formationer bliver ikke skånet, hvilket de ser ud til at nyde. Det betyder, at solen også bliver hvirvlet ind i det, for lige som den skal til at slappe lidt af, bliver tæppet revet væk for øjnene af den, og så må den lyse for fulde gardiner. Det nyder regnbuerne godt af, hvis de ellers kan nyde at blive gennet frem i tide og utide. Det ser det ud til, at de kan, selv om de ofte bliver afbrudt, lige så hurtigt som de bliver kaldt frem. Paraplyerne er ikke meget værd lige nu. De klapper op eller i, og leger forvirrede faldskærme, der vil opad i stedet for nedad.

Men som man har set det så mange gange før, bliver vinden træt, og når det sker, holder regnen også ofte siesta. Kun solen kører ikke træt, heldigvis. Snart er den alene på himlen igen, og så nærmer den tid sig, hvor den sprøjter guld på tæernes blade, så de kan blive til gyldne tæpper, hvor det nu må falde sig. Men inden da, kan den godt finde på at mindes og savne sommerens storhedstid, og skænker så en periode med ekstra godt lys og ekstra god varme. Det er disse sidste, og meget smukke, afdansningsballer som bl.a. kaldes, Indian Summer, og som mange håber på nu.

With chin string on the hat

It’s blowing outside, or rather, it storms. The wind rushes out, and grabs everything it can. Rain jumps on. It enjoys getting these tremendous ups and downs. The clouds are also in on it, and their formations are not spared, but they seem to enjoy. This means that the sun also gets caught up in it, for just as it needs to relax a little, the rug’s pulled out from under the eyes of it, and then it shines for full. It enjoys rainbows if they may otherwise enjoy being herded up all the time. This, it appears that they do, although they are often interrupted as soon as they are called up. Umbrellas are not worth much right now. The flaps open or close all the time, and playing confused parachutes that will upwards instead of downwards.

But as we have seen it so many times before, the wind gets tired, and when it does, holds the rain often siesta too. Only the sun is not running tired, thankfully. Soon it is alone in the sky again, and approaching the time at which it syringes gold on the trees leaves so that they can become golden carpets, where they must now fall out. But by then, the sun may well find to remember and miss this summer's heydays, and bestows so a period of extra good light and superior heat. It is these last, and very beautiful, final dance bales, as inter alia called Indian summer, and many hope on them now.

Soaring expectations

As Cloudia was young and shy, she felt often gray and sad because she thought that everyone else was much prettier and smarter than her. Then she met a young, beautiful cloud which was extremely attentive to her, and he turned upside down on everything. The threatening clouds on the horizon disappeared like snow in the sun, and she floated on a pink cloud, as long as it lasted. From one day to the next, he lost interest in her. He had fallen for a small, white lamb-cloud, and then she was suddenly high and dry again.

She rained and rained for a while, and when she was nearly run out of the rain, she met a cloud named Cowmulus that courted her so fine and gently. He was both better and better looking than her first love, and they lived happily together until the end.

However, this should only be considered as a figure of speech, their days are not ended yet. They are both looking forward to the autumn when they have big plans and soare expectations. Right now is Cowmulus on a little trip with his friends, but just the idea that he will soon come back, get the glow forward in both her body and soul. When the foliage is golden, they will marry,

and his companions will form large cloud formations, so the wedding-picture is given the right atmosphere.

But now became the lamb-cloud “The Little White Cloud That Cried.” Her boyfriend got jealous of Cowmulus and found it hard to concentrate on her lambs-legs more. Her boyfriend had noticed Cloudia together with Cowmulus, and it was more than he could bear. Memories welled up, and now he felt Cloudia was Alpha and Omega. He even began to take Analog Asteroids to swell and take out, but he could not match Cowmulus, who was just himself.

"Though thou pumps you up, rains or hails, you can forget me," said Cloudia. "My Cowmulus and I have been destined for each other ever since the condensing began, or at least from the day we started to pull up. So the hot air, now you come with, you'd be better comfort your little lamb-clouds broken heart with. "

It was actually from here, or maybe first after the wedding, you should say: "And they lived happily together until the end of their days."

It was enough about Cloudia and Cowmulus destiny. The other two in this history, nothing more is written about here. But if it is too difficult to forget them, you can write poems about them, and shape their destinies as you want if you feel better about it.

Celestial?

Creatures develop evolutionary, according to Darwin’s teachings. It is interesting standing in relation to some religions which have trouble getting it to fit together. Ideas like soul, heaven and hell make it difficult for them. 

If you sit with your little devoted pet and think in the fundamentalist way, that only humans have a soul, you should look it in its eyes, and receive inspirations that hopefully lead to intuitive, mature, warm-hearted and intelligent considerations. 

I could imagine that one and another, or many would think: 

“If my pet can’t go to heaven, I will not go there either.” 

Here is a few words of Paul Brunton: 

“The Overself is present in all people - no, in all beings - as their original reality. We not only know, but FEEL it. Therefore, we can’t be indifferent to the lives and destiny of others.”

Is it cool on the top?

The kings of the icy areas of the globe may feel that their monarchies are in meltdown. Climate change takes place, it’s nothing new.

The new is perhaps that even Mother Earth greedy children now rebelling against her body’s and her aura’s needs to maintain her health, thereby making it more and more difficult for her to support them and keep their mental and physical health.

If Mother Earth gets mosquito bites enough, she may scratch herself and perhaps gripping a flyswatter.

Sensommertid.

Nu er det efterhånden et par dage siden, våren gik gennem Nyhavn, og nogle dage siden Sigfred Pedersens skærslipper flikkede sine gamle sko. Frugttræernes smukke blomster er gået til og er blevet erstattet af mirabeller og æbler, hvis der ikke har været afholdt cølibat, for mange steder, hvor man kunne plukke modne frugter i rå mængder på denne årstid, er der ikke groet noget som helst frem.

Måske har træer og buske behov for at holde et sabbatår en gang imellem. Sådan kunne det godt tage sig ud, men spurgte man den gamle gartner, fik man måske en anden forklaring. Det har dog ikke været af mangel på solskin, som gartneren har plantet meget af i år sammen med sine smil og sin sang, så foreløbig får cølibatet og sabbatåret skylden for de manglende frugter.

Og så lige rundt om hjørnet står et enkelt æbletræ, bugnende af smukke æbler. Individualister... måske.

Der kommer Gustav med sine gåstave på en af sine korte, daglige ture. Skulle man spørge ham? Nej, han går så determineret, at det kan se ud som om, han har svært ved at stoppe. Så, vi lader de manglende frugter ligge i denne omgang. Måske skal han hjem og have en lille én til næsen. Han siger altid en lille én, selv om de sjældent er små. Det er sikkert blot en talemåde som er beregnet til at udtrykke beskedenhed. Hans stavemåde, at gå på, er ikke velegnet til de lange veje, som venter forude med morgenkulde og middagsglød. Eller også er de det.

Snar kan hyldebærrene plukkes, og saften er fyldig og hyldig. Fortyndet med en passende mængde vand, bliver det en himmerigs mundfuld. Hylden holder ikke sabbatår i år, for Hyldemor har fødselsdag, og en af skærslipperens bedste tøser, som har en åre, har skrevet et lille digt i den anledning:

Da hyldens blomster blev til bær

hun plukked’ løs til saft især.

Søde og sorte med svagt skær af blå

fyldtes i glas med et skruelåg på.

En pæn lille samling til amagerhylden

og mange nok til næsten at fyld’en.

Så fyldte hun år satte blomster i håret

det gjorde hun altid én gang om året.

Hver eneste dag hun drikker et glas

hun tilføjer vand… sådan lige tilpas.

Saften er dejlig hun elsker at drikke

og drikker det hele helt uden at hikke.

Hylden fra haven var sommerens gave

den flyder nu lifligt i hendes mave.

Af kæresten fik hun lille safir

smukt pakket ind i hyldepapir. 

Remembrance

Sambucus nigra’s time

The elderflowers become ripe berries

Then she plucks them to make juice.

Black and sweet with a slight tint of blue

Every morning she drinks a glass

Adds adequate amounts of water.

She loves it and it gives her no hiccups.

On her birthday she puts flowers in her hair

Her boyfriend gave her a beautiful sapphire

Fine wrapped in indian Summer leaves.

The berries are one of the summer’s gifts

Flows sweetly and gentle in the stomach.

She is a Dryad, and she is called "remembrance."

She lives in the elderberry trees tops

And when the wind blows, you can hear her whisper

Beautifully fairy tales.

Remarkably

"Hello, good old moon. Tell me, why have you bought yourself seven-league boots? You are not exactly known for wearing shoes up. Become, however, by your reading and don't change the color moons should have, stick to your lane, your pace and your circles as usual."

"But I haven’t acquired seven-league boots. However, I think I know why you say so. You think I have become faster so there is less and less time between I'm full. Like I’m new one day, half full the next and complete full the second next. But that's just because you have become older too, and it feels like time is accelerating. My pace has, largely, not changed since the dawn of time."

"Anyway, you are one of the few creatures that I know who become more and more beautiful, the fuller you are."

"Thank you. Yes I know, and many are drawn by me. I carry my own secret burdens with a smile, and between you and me, I can reveal that Leonardo, you know, was inspired to Mona Lisa's smile by me. But I have also a dark side, which I keep to myself, because I would rather show me from my most appealing side. Sometimes I’m not visible. Light is costly, one must save on it, so I keep my monthly saving exercises, but otherwise I'm a shining example of the sun's profligacy. Perhaps one can say that I decorate myself with borrowed feathers, but it's still not entirely fair to say that I only am decked when I'm full. I am who I am, and the version of me that you see and honor have birthday at the same time as you."

The Fourth Symphony

She used apparently the moon's rays as harp-strings and generated an so far unheard subtle music. How she dealt with playing at these intangible strings was puzzling, but you did not wonder long about it, the music changed your state of mind, and the mind turned into butterflies that flew in and out between each other, rose higher and higher and finally disappeared into the night sky.

Then was the music set free, absorbing all memories and expectations, so only emotions seemed active. Emotions soon gained their original purity and interacted virtuously with the magic from the strings.

The colors became more intense and present, moving as newly composed poetry that wrote itself with a natural ease that made finer and cleaner descriptions, than the northern lights, rainbows and Menuhin could deliver together. Colors, emotions and music seemed not as separate phenomena, and at the same time was the symbiosis vibrant and engaging as the sublime essence of reality.

Sleeping Beauty:

"What a liquid dream you have poured me:

Beauty and horror, laughter and tears,

rain and fire, war and peace,

love and aversion,

light and darkness, heat and cold,

childhood and old age,

vastness of space, countless solar systems

with black holes drinking of the light.

You dazzled me with your kaleidoscope,

but you knew, that after a hundred years

I would wake up from that dream

and afterwards never dream like that again."

Thunder-coffee

Deep in the woods was a small mountain. It was without vegetation, except lush grass, and could well resemble a Danish burial mound from the good old days. Or at least from the old days.

However, it was not a burial mound, but the troll's dwelling. He had hollowed out the mountain, and propped it on the inside with wood. The ceiling consisted of thin tree trunks, and at appropriate intervals they were supported by stronger oak logs. It was good and solid and, with a little good will, cozy. On one of the walls hung a sign he had made of clay, and in capital letters, scratched with a troll splinter, said: kinsman's kinsman worst. Sometimes rose a column of smoke from the top of the mountain, and it interpreted the forest animals and little people as smoke coming directly from inside the earth.

The troll woke up as his stomach rumbled. He had slept a few months, and now his body began to require energy to continue to be able to deliver in body weight and horsepower. Before he had gone to bed, he had made a pile of homemade dream-cakes by his side, for he knew from experience that he was booming hungry when he woke up. He also had a barrel of homemade apple cider on hand, made from fermented thorn apples, Adam's apples and laburnum. So there was just good stuff to wake up to.

He fumbled fumbling with his hands to grab a cake, but even though his hands were searching increasingly areas, they found nothing. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Where the hell were the cakes?" But there was no one answering, and there were no cakes and no cider to see. The stomach rumbled and eyes shot lightning. He thought with disgust on his fawning, double-tongued and thieving half-cousin who resided in a mysterious and mythical garden, which was situated in a time warp.

There was certainly nothing else to do than to bake and brew again. He had to go into the forest and gather, because all he needed was here: Horses pears, thorn apples, nettles, laburnum, lumps of clay, red and green fly mushrooms, sour rowan berries and a bit of salt of the earth. Adam apples he had to go on apple shots to get, for they grew only in his half-cousin’s garden, where the troll had no legal access. It was situated very close, but you should have a special eye for it, otherwise you couldn’t spot it. He had that, fortunately, and it sat in the middle of the forehead, but it also meant that all he met fled in terror. For such an appearance was completely out of the woods.

Well, these ingredients were crushed and stirred together while gradually added water from the clay pit to get the right consistency.

All the time, while the cakes were in the hot oven, and apple cider fermented, bumped his stomach as waves of ocean surf, and his eyes shot fiery lightning. He was frustrated and angry that there had been hungry and thieving visitors while he slept on his green ear.

At the same time grind forest animals and little people beans and brewed coffee for dear life. They knew that when it bumped, so the floors rocked and lightning crossed here and there, it was time to grind the beans and put water over. So tickled it expectantly in their stomachs, because thunder-coffee was the world's best coffee.

Now sleeping the snake, its wife and their brood, paradisiacal in the famous garden under a bountiful apple tree. With their stomachs full of delicious, stolen cakes washed down with glorious apple cider. So they were refreshing rested when the sun rose and set turbo on the day when Eve should make-up to her carefully rehearsed and announced act, in which also Adam's apple played a role.

Forest animals and little people wondered a bit about, that no rain came, but they settled elegant satisfied with the words, that there were more between heaven and earth, and that thunder-coffee anyway always should have that taste and strength, thunder-coffee was supposed to have.