Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
As nostalgia torments
in downpour mistfully
then anemoia augments
in dankness wistfully
Yearnings seize us listfully
churning in eerie whistle
Longings languish fistfully
pounce in zinging sizzle
But why to murky feelings abide
when today awaits saddled to ride?
Så kortfattat som möjligt
men utförligt uttänkt
trovärdigt å oböjligt
helt nyktert fast beskänkt
För det kan ju bli upphetsat
över epigram tillspetsat
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-beskänkt = här: emotionell, känslofylld, känslosam
-nykter = här: sansad, förståndig, omdömesgill, klartänkt
Strident pretentious criticism
drips superciliously
even with purloined witticism
it bursts out biliously
Due to mere facile silliness
or to our own hearts’ chilliness?
Ord försvagas när för många
blir alltför lätt övermodiga
släpper otåligt ut ånga
mens hovsamma när fåordiga
Ändock för upp frimodigt
så länge tålmodigt
men se upp med saktmodigt
numera urmodigt
bland oss fångar i aningslöshet
i jordelivets förgänglighet
makes us viewed ‘opinionated’
But glossaries too overweening
& leave us intimidated!
Are words merely something we say?
So might as well be snappy
no need for syntax to obey
Let them roam free & happy!
Are words just something we utter
in verbose clutter & din?
Let them frivolously flutter
& cascade freed from chagrin?
Have words gotten just something we say?
Besides who are listening anyway?
If it requires boundless words
then is it worth saying
bar for literary nerds
conceitedly braying?
But when needs to be addressed
then let’s articulate
Let it be tersely expressed
avoid pontificate
Dazzle us not with harsh Kliegs at night
but bathe us in morning’s soft sunlight
On the election of Donald Trump:
Why not a Prez buffoonish
for this Nation Exceptional
where politics cartoonish
discourse rarely conceptional?
Weary World, do save your breath
Trump shall keep up wreaking death
Trend chasing & smart phone prattle
sound to me like empty rattle
It keeps fading my persistence
feeling drained & depleted
Asking haven’t I gone the distance
or am I just conceited?
May I just be left alone?
Chances of change long blown
feeble, soggy my backbone
Hope, once stout, long since flown
In what small time may still be left
please let me not crumble bereft!
In 2016 Hillary Clinton treated voters like neglected dogs, which even so should somehow be expected to happily wave their tails at her. After all one of her slogans mightily presumed: “It’s her turn!’. Some of these long suffering dogs bit her instead.
While low were voter expectations
So what? Been so for generations
Bleak, tawdry that election
discourse stuck inchoate
while she was the selection
of Israel, Kuwait
Worn people like soggy dogs
tails tween legs, buzzed by fleas
on muddy slippery slogs
shook off Hillary’s bees
Campaign’s debates were largely disingenuous
the candidate’s grip on Reality tenuous
Since been blessed to know stillness
are we not now sensing squarely
as agonizing ‘shrillness’
even when dough rises barely?
Clasped in stillness each moment
entirely abounds
ethereal bestowment
eternally astounds
Though clear-cut answers may prove chimeric
resting in stillness is found mesmeric