Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
I’ve arrived at a stage
when finding most ‘news’ canard
of small use at my age
being somewhat a blowhard
What merely simulates
no longer stimulates
The wide world no longer
entices with what’s out there
While pulsating stronger
my heart & mind both right here
Staying calm around home, so far unbarred
while feeling wayward beyond my backyard
As loosen my Life’s moorings
I watch flowers unceasingly
awake in early mornings
my awe deepens increasingly
Long since I sailed close to capsize
on choppy seas of rancor
Now til blurry shores of demise
not long til weighing anchor
Until comes such time, veiled in mystery
striving to live now, not in history
Time, it’s being said, ‘flies’
passes too quickly
or rather perhaps ‘flees’
cowardly prickly?
For where’s time when we need more
what’s the story on that score?
Watch that tempus
as it ravages
in fierce tempest
as it savages:
Possesses our minds
our lives it mocks
Time never rewinds
as do our clocks
So just ‘fugit about it’
there exist no loopholes
We may sit in the cockpit
but not at the controls!
+)
-tempus fugit = time ‘flies’ but seems rather ‘flees’?
-‘fugit’ about it = here: forget about it
Narrow roads edge dusty deep ravines
up & down, contorting, twisting
slicing faded cliffs more brown than green
Curve following curve, persisting
With tenuous roadway traction
cars squeezing mere feet apart
no place to indulge distraction
where driving a martial art
Just guessing at what’s up ahead
heedless of ravine-plunging dread
Cresting cliffs, mindless of ravines
in youth we indulged aspiration
silly fantasies, hopes & dreams
Then woke up from exhilaration
On whatever life’s journey bestowed
winding roads shall turn less thrilling
Time, strength, guts & prospects all erode
aging’s rain drizzles bone chilling
Just beyond the very next bend
awaits too soon our journey’s end
To the grocery store goes the hike
after writing a daily verse
Then rolling several blocks by bike
All his adventures short & terse
All gets squeezed in between breathing
finding glasses, wiggling toes
admiring a baby’s teething
plus doors to open & close
Still time before dinner calls
steadfastly without fail
to (just before darkness falls)
take out the garbage pail
Life’s rich feast has turned thin gruel
what a feeble, dismal show!
How’s retirement such a jewel?
Would you tell me if you know?
Finally, at long last
done with my past unfolding
slammed the door shut, steadfast
without regret or scolding
For the wizened dawdler
is not life’s true bestowment
as for the rushed twaddler
peace of mind in the moment?
When focusing on a worthwhile current chore
we may find peace now & the next twenty-four
+)
twenty-four = 24 hours
This verse was inspired by grandson Mikey when as a small boy he romped on top of the windlass in the bow of HMS ‘Queen Mary’, moored in Long Beach, CA since 1967. Of course ‘sic transit gloria mundi’ ship wise, while Mikey is still in his prime as a young man.
On polished upper decks: splendor & light
a display of power, riches & fame
while in the ship’s belly toiled crew out of sight
Times past like today, remaining the same
In her day the flagship of empire
enterprise, industry & might
albeit were it soon to expire
based more on arrogance than right
Many a storm howled around the crew in the con
No longer sets her bow in huge waves rushing on:
The windlass a stage for a toddler’s romp
as parents watch by gleaming gunnels
Without fail shall fade circumstance & pomp.
The ship a play field with three funnels
Now an amusement park in a disparate age
the ‘Queen Mary’ languishes moored in a zoo’s cage
+)
-funnel = smokestack, especially on a steamship
-gunnels = the upper edge of a ship’s side
-the ‘Queen Mary’ held the ‘Blue Ribbon’ speed record across the Atlantic after averaging 31 knots in 1938, between New York and Southampton
Worrying, wobbly & old
his eyes bleak, heart & body cold
Integrity long since sold
a life story not needing told
Shifty much like a sand shoal
covered with tears & mold
dark & shallow is his soul
No hope getting re-souled
Locked away in old age’s cage
stowed & forgotten backstage
With each & every breath
we are descending
the very stairs to death
for me impending
My erstwhile sensory clarity
in old age has begun shading
still beckons brightly integrity
while my mind & body fading
While integrity, that ever upright bouquet,
an aspiration that shall never wilt away
My toiling life for years
just kept on grinding
Now soon out on my ears
time for unwinding
Lowering unseeing eyes
down from the horizon
earnestly trying apprise
I found much surprise in:
How poorly I have paid attention
how feeble, faulty my retention