Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
The entitled Power Elite
blocks us political hobbyists
so they grab more (rarely replete)
Can’t have us impede their lobbyists!
Power Elite schemes ambitiously
locks us in insecurity
Subjugating us perniciously
in childish immaturity
Greased by our own denial
their put-on smiles beaming:
“Go score in the shopping aisle
keep chasing stuff gleaming!”
+)
lobbyists = here: those professional ones hired by the power elite
Imagine my surprise finding Joyce just standing there without doing anything:
An eerily uncommon sight
a state ghostly, ignoble
like forgetting lines in stage fright
Joyce found herself immobile:
Once flustered face paling ashen
of all direction confused
never before been her fashion
to let seconds pass unused
Aptly portrays the frozen mime
of biblical ‘Ruth-to-salt’:
“Oh my G-d, this can’t be but I’m
turned to pillar by default!”
Most bitter pill to swallow
a solid day turned hollow …
+)
-Joyce = my wife
-Ruth = Lot’s wife who turned a pillar of salt (Genesis 19:26)
By day’s end our body yearns for rest
for the next morning’s rebound of zest
At night as our senses lose sway
swift images flow in streams
while faded away the next day
galloped madly in our dreams
While our valiant heart may know best
still pumps away at whose behest?
On fantasy’s waves
the Trumpwhale is splashing
with his pod of knaves
believing he’s dashing
When shall the Trumpwhale
get washed up, out of speech
muddied, in weak wail
on Reality’s Beach:
Cluelessly
gasping!
Crewlessly
grasping!
Let’s keep hoping, while prospects grim
as among sharks he learned to swim …
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
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
Planet worn, poisoned, overheated
strife & wars endlessly rumble
The most vulnerable maltreated
while those ‘well to do’ just fumble
Though not much time shall remain
on my own life’s pathway
I keep struggling to sustain
‘peace of mind’ through the day
We must alter our mindless stance
if our Species shall stand a chance
Is your life barely OK
save for that odd celebration?
Wishing to live every day
in pulsating scintillation?
A robust sense of humor
is the sharp-edged lancet
that cuts out boredom’s tumor
So do cut loose, chance it!
Don’t languish in disquietude
just lighten up your attitude
+)
lancet = a small, extremely sharp bladed instrument used for surgery
My sweet childhood culture
made me feel much guilt
vexed me like a vulture
daily, to the hilt
Got me uncertainty inbuilt
of something vaguely guilty
left me watch all self esteem wilt
down to limp fish gefilte
Such rearing brought me to adult life
where it’s causing awkwardness & strife
+)
gefilte fish = a limp, soft dish from grinding several species of fish
Sent to a friend encouraging her to get on with her painting:
Wonders she: what’s the big rush
what’s this your nagging plaint?
Won’t there always be a brush?
Won’t there always be paint?
Thus cheerfully we chime
by lingering lure:
There shall always be time!
But can one be sure?
Such hope may prove mere delusion
Don’t attempt another feint
and waste talent in confusion
Don’t tarry, get going paint!
Go ahead, show us your heart
do stare down your easel
allow us enjoy your art!
No more words of weasel!
edited 03/21/22 1020