Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
While humans poorly embrace
uncertainty iniquitous
forced to stoutheartedly face
our misgivings ubiquitous
Whether Covid-19
or Climate Collapse
slow down or turned routine
or raucous relapse
While seldom do few seconds elapse
when we’re spared marketing & wiretaps
in midst of bathetic prattle
Now, who would have guessed?
Found dead, travel attired
clutching to his chest
Swedish passport expired
The world had once been his to roam
died a wizened homebody gnome
In cowardly beat-ups
Hope hangs on the ropes
pummeled without letups
by heedless dopes
Humans are on the tightrope
while mouthing learned response
same old soap opera trope:
Escapist nonchalance
If we truly wanted out of this loop
why do we still chose this lowly to stoop?
I’ve gone bald
too often galled
mostly stalled
no longer called
Turned too old
no longer bold
feeling cold
soon now I’ll fold
and were it not for those wondrous jokes
would think life might be a horrid hoax
Like amongst butterflies
in balmy winds blown
Embraced in warm sunrise
midst melting rays flown
In ascent
freed from ferment
Am content
without lament
Claims she’s a ‘happy medium’
while seems on life’s tepid voyage lost
Self-corralled in tired tedium
chasing distraction at any cost
Too long mired in routines repetitious
to try launch any changes auspicious?
Prior to restored eyesight
was bumbling benighted
had felt anxious & contrite
with outlook unsighted
I just couldn’t envision
the light beyond cataract
before the incision
had seemed remotely abstract
Since as if by Kliegs enhanced my eyesight
would that next my soul shall fill with insight!
+)
Klieg = an intense carbon arc light especially used in film making
Feel ignored, down in the dump
even if by dumb luck
we have gotten rich & plump
or by own sweaty pluck?
Case you still feel neglected
tell who has chump minions but Trump?
Try not feel too dejected
imagine you’d been a sump pump:
You’d gurgle & clank in cellars dark & dank
doomed underground regardless of how you crank
Since the Romans has echoed the jingoistic cry ‘Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori’ or ‘It is sweet and right to die for one’s country’:
Awash in gushing
about what’s ‘sweet & right’
while not much blushing
of others’ dead end plight
While some ‘laid down’ their lives
at home Jingoists grandstand
keep slapping their high-fives
while just The Dead know first-hand
But why bother taking time to reflect
when easier just accept or reject?
Earth of such bounty & beauty
we reduced it to mere booty
Don’t we fake most everything
traipsing on the brink of collapse
while fantasy worshiping
subjects us to bizarre relapse?
Out of touch with Life’s essence
we hasten Earth’s senescence
We’re wringing out our own life
while striving to be ‘safe’
in blind, self-entitled strife
neglecting the poor waif
We may find redemption
if we own up and then cease
No-let-slide exemption
fills a turmoiled heart with peace
If life entails morality
how serves us then banality?