Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
“Why’s everyone in my way
while I’m never in theirs?
Why do they drive so astray
with only me who cares?”
Impatience turns rampageous
hurls us down that black hole
while patience is contagious
and leaves us in control
When one’s ego bigger than the car
seem we can’t help rant, honk, speed & spar!
The car fleetingly lends power
to a driver who’s lacking
whilst on foot meek as a flower
timid, weak-kneed & slacking
Ponder: You’re not stuck IN traffic
You ARE the traffic, Seraphic!
Remember the past
was it not quite the blast?
But wait, not so fast
don’t we now stand aghast …
… when having to recall
our silly, witless gall?
Too many a close call
drunken nights lost in thrall
Did youth spent heedlessly
flash by in much haste
and rarely weedlessly
prove an utter waste?
+)
-weedlessly = here: clean & sober
The Elite’s claims spout spurious
its logic & facts futile
Outcomes to us injurious
their domination brutal
By their jingoistic ways stirred
we ignore injustice rife
while succumbing in lives absurd
filled with suffering & strife
So why do we listen to their speeches
even cheering them on from the bleachers?!
Nodding ‘Yes!’ Prettily smiling
signaling how we assuage
Leaning in closely, beguiling
lying in wait to engage
Then! Rushing the podium
forcing forward tilting
engendering odium
with rendition lilting!
Boorishly we’re ‘reporting’
while other voices thwarting
By faked exchange we’re elbowing
to corral own audience
In-vogue phrases we’re echoing
promoting our prominence
Out from what frozen frustration
flows such puerile predation?
+)
‘reporting’ = here: often unsolicited, to boorishly drone on with pointless & self-centered accounts of the minute & mundane
What’s our pleasant ‘small talk’
but schlock while lolling?
Keeps humming, spiked by squawk
boorish & galling!
Seldom turns elevating
those leisurely oozings
of whiny ventilating
self-victimized musings
Mostly regurgitating
that not much worth saying
How tiresome, aggravating
much like brainless braying!
Small talk like cloying pies
whose flavor fading hasty
Expectations belies
beyond sugar, flour pasty
Inside hooey crumbly crust
gooey, gluey filling
for which lips & taste buds lust
rarely found fulfilling
Is not small talk a pie
over which we should cry ?
Throughout history of cultures
humans have brought agony
Tearing asunder like vultures
and seldom showing mercy
Egos flare while hearts still yearn
to mire us in conflict
now getting too late to learn
to help, and not inflict
Life lost in bickering
Solidarity’s warm lights
have long been flickering
collapse nibbled, now it bites
Even with our planet crumbling
why aren’t our failings found humbling?
Off to a slow start this morning? You’re not the only one. Tells here an airplane even:
Taxiing, creeping
something ailing
fuel in tanks seeping
Prospects paling
Fuselage sagging
wing tips drooping
til nearly dragging.
Forget looping!
Jet engine’s breath
held bated
a Shibboleth
ill fated
Anguish inflated
as tires deflate
landing gear weighted
controls frustrate
Squeaky in rust
who’s nonplussed?
Baby breath thrust
stirs no dust
+)
shibboleth = a common saying or belief with little current meaning or truth
edited 09/09/22 0810
Am craving solitude
Platitude detracts
as likewise certitude
when flimsy one’s facts
While I try allay
compunction’s millstone:
“Don’t linger, go away
leave me to bemoan!”
Am trying to atone
for my turpitude
trying scrounge some backbone
but lack rectitude
Leaves me fending off despair full-blown
by keeping my nose to the grindstone
On days sloshing way below the brim
am mired in torpid emptiness
Just hobbling along aging’s path dim
cobbled with paltry pettiness
Then scope blows in by writing verse:
Found humor in what had seemed curse!
Finding humor in what I curse.
Twisted like acrobatic acts
to engineer outcomes perverted
opinions offered up as facts
then glibly, haughtily asserted
On recklessness binged
in forward pose
pours on claims unhinged
anything goes!
These days seem veracity
as well as morality
eclipsed by mendacity
in foam bath banality
In times erstwhile weren’t we restrained
by facts as being impregnable?
Perhaps too old to be retrained
for when few norms are detectable
Now floating away dazzled
from Reality’s shores
we’re too creaky & frazzled
to keep pulling the oars
Thus on waves of distraction we’re drifting
when did we last do something uplifting?
+)
facts = “Factual evidence, since it is an impediment to what we desire, is banished” – Chris Hedges
edited 08/15/24 1730