Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
Phrases swift, glib, bouncy & cheap
cascade in bombastic profusion
pile up in bewildering heap
fueling cacophonous confusion
While the lucid sentence garroted
(amidst clamouring derision)
the cliché-like phrase pours parroted
heard as expression elysian
But who among us pays heed?
Let uptight linguists accede
In Ballard bicycle tires don’t puncture
Streets are ballroom smooth with curbs of foam
Cars wait politely at every juncture
Welcome to where electric bikes roam!
It’s where perennial tailwinds blow
and helmets won’t flatten your hairdo
+)
Ballard = the Seattle neighborhood where our e-bike shop is still located
This verse is about those among of us who routinely ‘report’, i.e. who monopolize what otherwise might pass for participatory conversation, and instead provide a mindless stream of unsolicited, tedious accounts of personal trivia. ‘They’ are those who indulge themselves in such fashion. ‘We’ refers to those among us who pretend to listen rather than speaking up.
Inane silliness they propound
oblivious of how they do bore
running colloquy’s ship aground
prop churning in air, bow stuck ashore
Brusquely do they choose to fail
noticing some snoring
while they sweat every detail
Hot air balloons soaring
We’re dragged through verbiage’s marsh
put-upon minds splashed numb
In knee deep slog, soaked & harsh
our hapless hearts splotched glum
While silently we’re imploring:
“You blabbering, boorish bum
please plug that oozing outpouring
grant us mercy! Try out mum!”
+)
prop = propeller; here: image of a grounded ship
Watch him, in comfy chair, swivel:
Pontificates, pronounces
Spouts such tiresome piles of drivel
ridicules & denounces
Regurgitates like a pup
one which hungrily licks
up the breakfast just thrown up
in never changing fix
You’d think had he his wits
he would’ve called it quits!
From the workforce now retired
but otherwise unexpired!
While in earlier years, prior
I had the fleeting notion
of hearing the Heavenly Choir
filling me with emotion:
that toiling away in the bike shop
would prove my life’s blowout puncture
The terminal ‘end of the line’ stop
with no transfer at that juncture
For now my mind keeps inquiring
although more & more misfiring
+)
the bike shop = my, at the time, place of work
Heavy breathing, hoarse wheezing
Lungs pumping, thighs in pain
Gripping handle bar, squeezing
Stretching the squealing chain
Guts, strength & stamina explored
Cresting the flat road my reward
Din of metal pushing through air
nostrils flared from tail pipe spew
Tires squealing, engines roar, horns blare
as traffic mounts tempers brew
Snug in ‘my cell phone booth on wheels’
who bothers about traffic?
Electronic Heaven appeals
am perfectly seraphic!
Til someone cuts me off of course
purloined civility shorn
then I turn deep-rootedly coarse
hanging dumbly on the horn
+)
metal = here: vehicles
Youth’s breezy wide grin:
‘Have got it handled!’ look
Chiseled upbeat chin
behold the crisp paged book
Aging’s wheezing scowl:
‘Can’t figure it out?’ look
Sagging dangling jowl
behold the well worn book
So act while you’re still a prancer
when got every quick, right answer!
Try bring up that with which we won’t deal
we’ll turn slippery like a wriggling eel
disingenuous with zany zeal
skipping away in a fierce tap dance spiel
Try mention what we won’t hear or face
we’ll spout anger quite invective
putting the messenger in their place
unguarded, jaws clenched, reactive
We’re shouting ‘arguments’ deflective
reasoning flawed & defective
then retreat in silence rejective
stuck, adamantly protective
Mere inches from apron sliver
impatient cars stream, squeeze by
Pedaling & sweat in quiver
we’re a balancing bull’s eye
In their ‘behind the wheel seduction’
impatient, sometimes arrogant
drivers may view us as obstruction
at best a minor irritant
As their foot the gas pedal kisses
do drivers know what he/she misses?
edited 06/24/22 0905