Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
Quatrain if lazily loiters
must wheeze, wobble in puncture
While when bravely reconnoiters
shall blow through any juncture
From leisurely spinning cadence
let’s shift up from latency
go cycling with verse’s maidens
with unrestrained ardency
Expressing lucid elation
if ably so in crisp rhymes
may cause to flow a narration
stringed with ethereal chimes
She’s so superbly kinetic
stands ready to whack the weed
Stillness a painful emetic
she functions best at high speed
She’s perpetually Joyce
when invaded by task
never knows another choice
but in busy to bask
Takes off in a blaze
her face stern, drained
in hypnotic daze
to task ordained
Hers is always total focus
until all the effort spent
Then changes in phone booth locus
back, but briefly, to Claire Kent
+)
-Claire Kent = superwoman in civvies, equivalent (at least) of Clark Kent
Mortal Socrates and Jesus Divine
left behind not a single written line
Since then many others have rather
penned in infinite profusion
Much, be it elegant, still blather
compounding human confusion
Swift, countless like birds
in shrieking flock
failing, flailing words
of squawk & schlock
Awkward sentences churning
leave us achingly yearning
Money shuffling arcane
all for power & gain:
Even when usurious the result
of their speculations financial
The Rich will find little time to exult
as their entitlement substantial
While you’re not having enough to eat
they are densely hard of hearing
they are just so happily effete
How quaintly sweet & endearing!
Still hoping get things changed?
Aren’t you callow, deranged:
As no One Percenter Nonsuch
does ever stoop to exploit
merely endowed with golden touch
while responsibly adroit!
Petitioning the Power Elite?
How naive & hopelessly odd
as they shall never concede a tweet
They own media, gold & God
Groveling at feet of the greedy
likewise shall never ever work
The Rich are the ones feeling needy
such charming, disarming a quirk!
In plush executive suites
tinny hearts with profits flutter
while you’re walking those mean streets
They got Congress, you got gutter
Of course if you cannot take the heat
get up & off the side walk grate
and sleep instead on the bus backseat
Or get a climate controlled crate
For most of us are at best a statistic
in this world Casino Capitalistic
+)
God = Goldman Sach’s CEO reminds us they’re “doing God’s work”:
http://www.businessinsider.com/lloyd-blankfein-says-he-is-doing-gods-work-2009-11
Life’s hilly road winds abstruse
sometimes circuitous
Of what befalls we’re obtuse
shall seem gratuitous
Perhaps fortuitously
not by divine keyboard?
Events evolve furtively
warnings often ignored
Aren’t we oddly innocent of what is untoward
as when what seemed ‘punishment’ later turns out ‘reward’?
In human commotion
the fledgling thought crisp & clear
soon blurred by emotion
tears us between hope & fear
That’s why saved-by-the-bell distraction
shall always hold such sweet attraction
Some time ago Yana, our neighbor, emailed that “in these mean dark times my energy is momentarily diverted into a self-administrated, complete pedicure. For now I’m bettering the world one shiny toenail at a time.”, which inspired this verse:
In moral grime
election slime
among war crime:
She’s right on time!
In these mean dark days
she keeps hope ablaze
cutting through the haze
our Yana allays
Items unfurled
artistic
Rosy toes curled
yogistic
A pedicure
nail by nail.
No sinecure
much travail!
Got wrongs to abolish
with elegant polish
Yana standing tallish
Evil to demolish!
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
Found restful affinity
in a routine austere
with restrained sanguinity
across every frontier
Am at peace in episodes
when in context coheres
I mitigate overloads
by pulling in low gears
While not lounging in The Holy Trinity
perhaps loitering in its vicinity?
Never thought of as mere trivia
when there’s something that we lament
manners dispatched to oblivia
leaving us unrestrained to vent
That pebble on our path
turns into mighty mountain
precipitates our wrath
spewing from ire’s fountain
Does trying to hide away in what’s trivial
create but fleetingly a mood convivial?