Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
My presence turned sallow
gotten gray & old
Insipid & shallow
shuffling like a troll
Seeking out quietude
and tranquility
scrounging each interlude
for sanguinity
Uneasily did plumb
the depth of my soul:
Found it still callow, numb
though perhaps bit droll?
In my youth I held higher hopes
than retire as one of Life’s dopes
Us Humans are a fickle lot
at least the ones this poor Earth got
On our Life’s fleeting one-way flight
fluctuates the scenery
between our chilly mind’s parched blight
and our warm heart’s greenery
With this forlorn Human Race I’m done
Tell, how do I join a steadfast one?
Am a wreck in howling storm:
My old knees bit stiff to fold
poor heart runs chilled & warm
wrinkly hands too cold to hold
With ears worn thin and wary eye
I observe Life’s mystery:
Us humans (although we deny)
do hatch our own misery!
In a next life lets apply prudence
as well as ‘uncommon sense’ shrewdness
In the daily juggle
between truth and ruse
where’s the strength to struggle
with what seems abstruse?
Figuring out what Life asks is tough
so easier just to look for stuff!
and melting down in glower
let’s hang back & closely observe
the gentle limber flower:
Allow her abiding stillness
to squelch our contentious shrillness
Whether blatant or demure
enticingly ardent
glistens feminine allure
perfectly in guardant
Watch how sprightly us men prance
nudged by a woman’s charm
a lovely lingering glance
rarely fails to disarm
When women stare men shall wither
once locked on women don’t dither
As nostalgia torments
in downpour mistfully
then anemoia augments
in dankness wistfully
Yearnings seize us listfully
churning in eerie whistle
Longings languish fistfully
pounce in zinging sizzle
But why to murky feelings abide
when today awaits saddled to ride?
Trend chasing & smart phone prattle
sound to me like empty rattle
It keeps fading my persistence
feeling drained & depleted
Asking haven’t I gone the distance
or am I just conceited?
May I just be left alone?
Chances of change long blown
feeble, soggy my backbone
Hope, once stout, long since flown
In what small time may still be left
please let me not crumble bereft!
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
Voluble words shall lack poise
leave little trace, fade as noise
Words may strain as if in shrunk costumes
when trying leap high in ballet
While aggrieved faces express volumes
of what purloined words can’t convey
Words may sparkle while their essence
get lost midair in senescence