Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
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
The bosom left untouched
delights utterly
While the one been retouched
may bulge udderly
Still produces rapture
in the gaping fool
held frozen in capture
with unseemly drool
Much rather than the jounce
of breasts enhanced unsightly
I laud the innate bounce
be it scant, that flows lightly
Watch the mind meander
ambushing, springing
skirting facts & candor
us along-stringing
Mind hatches impudent plots
draws responses oblique
Cause & effect tied in knots
same excuses antique
Blurry mind clips squeak rudely
Like rusty shears of fear
whirl & creak & clack crudely
through tender feelings tear
Not until curbed the mind’s confusion
shall the heart beat in warm effusion
What’s with all that piling schmear
such sad state of affairs?
Are we now suspended here
wonder in whose crosshairs?
In this precarious mess
seems we’re doomed you & I?
We shall furthermore digress
when realizing why:
‘Free will’ amongst cruel jokes
a most dire delusion
victims of the programmed hoax
of earthly confusion!
Life’s narrowing path now turns steeper
our strides shorter on feet colder
Glimpsing the shadow of The Reaper
we turn, in vain, the cold shoulder
Our breath wheezing & shallow
gotten deaf to light sounds
Ages since we were callow
though still may act like clowns
While as our ego-driven selves fade
we’re freed up from the urge to persuade
Got a sweet crush
on robust rush?
The activity junkie
moved by proclivity
ever foraging, spunky
in reactivity
Must keep up the constant clanking
as quiet locomotion
found infinitely more rankling
than noisiest commotion
and stopping to catch one’s breath
would surely be to risk death!
Sleep’s traces much remain
as she rubs her eyes
Awake, alive again
stretch, time to arise!
Out from rumbled sheets crinkly
vision blurred, tussled hair
Ears red, cheeks & nose wrinkly
her voice muffled, face bare
From ‘looks in bed’ to beauty table
embracing cosmetology
From what’s natural on to fable
hardly ‘in depth’ psychology:
Largely by convention hustled
leads us worshiping in line
by glitzy marketing muscled
to mere Skin Deep Beauty’s Shrine
Why let days blur by in caprice
like, glimpsed through train windows, power poles?
There’s only in the moment peace
for our harried hearts & arid souls
Whether dawns again the morrow
or fades yet another day
lets relish joy amidst sorrow
Or tell me another way?
I’d maintain living in The Moment
is Humanity’s best bestowment …
With aging it may prove opportune
willingly to depart the stage
with dignity to face our ‘high noon’
turn the age appropriate page?
Better renounce the charade
before boos & whistle
All performances shall fade
fidgety crowds bristle
Rather leaving still carried by cheers
spared humiliation, crying
if having been thrown out on our ears
midst rotten tomatoes flying
Step aside, pointless to feign
time to bring out the champagne!
+)
-high noon = here: facing something unavoidable if we aspire to some measure of courage & integrity; title of 1952 film