Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
Ethereal Bluebells
aren’t on human time
When wondrous Springtime knells
soundlessly they chime
Most faint winds stir them at will
unruffled, uncaptured
unstintingly poised they thrill
We’re embraced, enraptured
Springtime’s soul
breathes through Bluebells
takes no toll
all anguish quells
Bluebells’ ineffable presence
flows unhurried through senescence
‘Vincit qui se vincit’
a pursuit salutary
One for which requires grit
on steep road solitary
But ain’t Life’s only bestowment
one step in each fleeting moment?
+)
-vincit qui se vincit = he conquers who conquers himself
Trying to dance to an aria
or speed skating on ice Spring thin
or run red lights under Sharia:
Risky, neither a likely win!
Yet a rare chance
to live fast
in heady prance
that won’t last
Still we’ll engage in hell raising
not like docile sheep just grazing
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
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