Lemon Pepper Poems

Bjorn Bengtsson 

Dec 6 2020



Velvet texture of my thought streams

Honestly speaking i’m no poet

Probable best on pretty language

Worship, blessed eye

Answer why with love

Active hand who’d found a 

Probable better future today

Changing minds, changing hearts

In acceptance

To love




Loose verbatim –

We in the flower field

Watching the flowers really grow

Glowing in the setting sun light

On your face.

Nature shows us as we are

Illustrates our truth in and out.


The sun flickers in the tree leaves

Blowing in the wind

Dancing colorful light all over your face.


I don’t know

If i’ve ever been here before.

All the flower fields

Feel the same.




I sit outside Lux Cafe

On a green bench;

Light changing in the leaves

Playing colorful shows, plays of transcendence.

Sends me into the present.

Music drags on. Woman on the phone –

“Everything helps”


Purple dissonance scattered 

New light through my veins.

Pulsing forgiveness – for i know nothing;

I feel everything, everything helps.




Lonely shifts, perspective bliss

Blowing steam from my coffee,

Girls “smile” for the picture.

I’ve been here with her

Before this life, the love light.


Suns setting smooth cast cool shadows

Leaping yellows and dormant blues

Shift on the old metal seat.


“Does my hair look good”, cars hum.

Music for improbable time.

And my space, the lighting so good

Ripples and waves from nothing

Intellect could cohort.


So feeling abstract

Supports the lonely seat with me

The people on the otherside

Posing for photos, thousands of shutters 

Love on the shadows, the good lonely lights.




Berries from the bush tumble

Tumble and roll along the earth

Little sienna chickadee chirps;

Flutters branch to branch in the berry bush.


A drunken clap wine glass clicks another at

The empty bar.


One and two and three – and pause –

In the cafe music beat

But someone steps on a sewer cap – four.


Sun is swinging low 

Birds solemnly singing, 

“Shes so very lovely”


Cars whooshing along, tumbling

From their bushels of hope

Into the night.


I write, putting the last lights

Into word, flickering on

Thought to thought;

Stumbling alone. In this universe.




They save me a seat

In the sunlight, i collect fractals

Of dismantled angel drops of light

Left like dimes ringing

And ringing like music 

In my head. I remember us

The togetherness in soliloquy:

But i hold forth tears

Dripping on my page,

Like last lights of sunset.


White, black, joy and jubilee –

A languid lyricism, steps up in

Up on a speech

About tranquility.

The sea of shades.

Me, a sunken suns swoon.


I just reach and reach. 




I pray God meets me

:On the seventh;

Here. In shattering sand smelts

And stupid swirling hour glasses –

Swift, see me here in the desert – 

Alone. Cactuses are green and long

In the garden. It’s a party;

The cactuses wear styrofoam cup hats.

The bulb lights flicker. Pink sunsets

Stuck in the autumn grove. Lady 

In the pink chair

In the tan corduroy 

Melts in the light,

And I

Try to build a sand castle

Use the skies turquoise

Atop the timeless pyramid

Build into the silent desert gold sound.

Another hour stilled




Karla behind the bar’s

Wore a sun tattoo on her back when

Her shirts up. Off and through

The rectangle, pink eyes voided.

Cafés lively! World’s best dads black

Wears all black, and it’s not even yet

Night, and it feels like night.


Now i write about writing lonely poems

In a book of lonely worlds – with

Or without myself. So pray

The Lord my soul to keep, please

Entertain me, oh my this discord

Don’t let me, go silent. 




Let me occupy this soliloquy

Sounding my paginated life – 

On page infinity?

The colorful world of sound, 

Better now then not nor never

I’m alone: when God is love.

And i do that which most stirs me to love.

Writing, but i feel all alone though.

Watching just the evening sky purple

Just for me;

My mind cries, fucks a star, sleeps

Western yellows stroked about blue,

Dappled her with red.




Sun shines on an oriental boy

Walking a dog named cowboy because

It looks like a cow.


And there are pink clouds, poesy in the streetlamp.

Yellow horizon, slow steps, worlds

Again. Man in a motorcycle helmet smokes

Straddles a bench by the bush and he nods.


Curb stops are city lilypads, the floor is lava. 

But i’ve got fireproof spirit, a 

Skip step and spirit sound beat. 


Oranges in a green basket 

Hip hop music, a sun necklace, eye ring

And checkerboard black and grey flannel.

Starlight in my pants, shooting stars 

For a mouth, lips eternity wet. A

Rounded line, oval feeling and

I’m circling the room, twirling my hair,

Sitting sideways, feet up, in a green chair. 




Green white, blue yellow.

Oh! The same feeling, so old in

That shrugging flower field mouth, smile,

That leg cross.

That southern rhythm shake, 

She writes me in japanese art history.

Cuts me deep in trance, she is grace.

So the hazy angels are singing on sunday.

Everything is as it should be.


She’s playing light, silently smiling to herself:

Does he see at all though? With eyes peeled

Back into an echoing soul

Crashing along the insides of my mouth,

I let out a sound – 





Lemon pepper poem

History is art

Nature truths physical and heart

God speaks through people

Masks only slow backward vocals

Tilling a garden prepares.


Too much fruit, green ladder into the red sun.

Breasts squiggle a body moving, section era

Sort of piece titled nirvana, bell chimes

And boy whistles pays off, flips a

Word into the well. Light ripples.


Is both a wave and a particle,

Is comfort physical and mentally

I’m all spiritual alone in the cafe.