Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
hur illa det fars i världen
men måste vi endast förtvivla
och kura vid hemmahärden?
När som svag vår egen åtgärd
måste vi leva cyniskt
bara fordra egen välfärd
som numera tidstypiskt?
Inte alls, att avstå från åverkan
är i sig själv en gynnsam påverkan!
Om vi anser vår åsikt
en storartad synpunkt
ett starkt inlägg i tungvikt
varje debatts höjdpunkt:
Då är vi förvirrade
så bäst att betvivla
förrän helt förirrade
får oss att förtvivla!
Blir vi alltför lätt uppblåsta
å sen bär oss åt urblåsta?
These days words abound
while seldom soar
blow along the ground
just mostly bore
Today’s sentences short
kept snappy to score
to zing sharp in retort
been sharpened to gore:
Used like arms to quell
Get someone conned
Letting fly to sell
Faking a bond
Ought we instead worry whether
words forge commonality
by drawing us all together
beyond triviality?
Pretending we’re riding high
on puniest ponies
while not asking ourselves why
how come we’re such phonies!
We’re lacking in self awareness
whining about life’s unfairness
With feet barely
off the ground dangling
only rarely
lets up our wrangling!
We gallop gallivanting advocating
with our deprecating mouths agitating
In cowardly beat-ups
Hope hangs on the ropes
pummeled without letups
by heedless dopes
Humans are on the tightrope
while mouthing learned response
same old soap opera trope:
Escapist nonchalance
If we truly wanted out of this loop
why do we still chose this lowly to stoop?
The Kakistocrat Elite
goes for People’s jugular vein
narcissistic & effete
cutting oxygen from our brain
so we cannot think clearly
which is costing us dearly:
We let them control how we’re entertained
what frightens us, how we’re distracted
How come so casually unrestrained
when to inanity attracted?
I’ve gone bald
too often galled
mostly stalled
no longer called
Turned too old
no longer bold
feeling cold
soon now I’ll fold
and were it not for those wondrous jokes
would think life might be a horrid hoax
Like amongst butterflies
in balmy winds blown
Embraced in warm sunrise
midst melting rays flown
In ascent
freed from ferment
Am content
without lament
Donito Trumpolini
that orange odium
backbone like spaghettini
on bully podium:
Under blustering guise
of Reality no sleuth
makes up, as-he-goes, lies
Knows not much about what’s Truth
As he always needs to prevail
accordingly he trims his sails
Issues themselves furled
left for you to react
Your sneering lips curled
no need to deal in facts
Self-described as ‘optimism’
while flimsy delusion
as well a glib euphemism
for ‘gutless collusion’
Your consuming in a fool’s paradise
leaves the rest of to pay the baneful price