Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
Careless years blown dissipated
lived ignorant of too much
Dull days closed down desolated
leaned too hard on booze’s crutch
I kept on churning on shallow laps
around & around & again
’til sounded inexorably taps:
Plainly mundane, nothing arcane!
For true happiness I’d sung in vain
ignorant of another refrain
Synapses corroding
recall slowed, deferred
Memories eroding
erstwhile visions blurred
Outlook & attitude askew
injustices bewailing
Anything new brings much ado
as trains of thought derailing
Outfits, gadgets turned outmoded
Sentences humorously misheard
He grieves old manners imploded
since human folly reached the absurd
An Octogenarian
grumbling with fumbling hands
Curmudgeon contrarian
long gone grandiose plans
Now marching out of step, on course chaotic
his collar frayed, smartphone-less, quite quixotic
While spared Life’s worst bludgeons
our decrepit curmudgeon
one of many gudgeons
drowning himself in dudgeon
Claims others kick & trick him
he’s ends up the poor victim!
If at times duplicitous
he would loudly lament
Seldom seen solicitous
or rarely heard repent
Little thought to others given
been unable to discern
how self-occupied and driven
for others lacking concern
Oblivious in his own smugness
blames others for his lack of snugness
Amidst proficiency flagging
easy slide in to anxiety
that shall blindly keep on nagging
in profligacy & piety
But able to write
albeit found as trite
blessed daily rite
Don’t worry won’t recite
while I’ve no urge to abscond
to write righteous rhymes Beyond
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
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
The bewildered geezer
slowing on uptake
finds much a brain-teaser
in outlook opaque
Now bumbling, befuddled
way less done than watched
by no smartphone cuddled
His past badly botched:
Got to live long to gain insight
given chance to make things right?
Or just fake alibis airtight
his slim obit to bedight?
Gets close now to Eternity’s Trip
so little time left to get a grip!
I’d keep on spouting rickety yack
like train wheels going clickety-clack:
Seldom were I locomotive
usually mere caboose
Rarely dug deep to emotive
spouting cursory excuse
*
I’d be like a storm tossed ship
on vast ocean a mere blip:
Bow setting in waves slake
as memories fade remote
astern in churning wake
Who knows how it stays afloat?
*
If a car the whimsical Deux Chevaux
that purely minimalist, wheeled gizmo:
Watch it snail wheezily uphill
engine whining cheesily
at speed barely besting standstill
While downhill rolls easily
+)
-Deux Chevaux = the simple, light, low-powered Citroën 2CV car
The child’s mind is clearness
in unspoken dearness
in unbroken nearness
each moment as hereness
In the present time fulfilled
absent of pretension
mind by the most minute stilled
free from condescension
All in wonder of the mundane
in wide starry eyes ponder
not drawn to lofty or arcane
not off somewhere there yonder
Duck is a duck, no swan
no airs needing put on
Faces may look ashen
of cyclists vintage
look as out of fashion
as penny mintage
But on self-selected rounds
cyclists rarely feel repletion
as riding the ups & downs
rarely results in depletion
But they find life off the bike middling
movement without pedaling: piddling