Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
My worn mind kept on churning
jaws clenched in face paling
ears & cheeks hotly burning
relived every failing
Aged humiliations amassed
kept The Now cruelly harassed
I could not bear in time left
to be held captive by The Past
Then, at last, found strength to heft
rebelled in too long suppressed blast!
Since having tamed The Past iniquitous
The Now been blossoming ubiquitous
Jaw jutting
grin fixated
Walk strutting
hope inflated
In Life had hoped to win
but took it on the chin
Outlook bearish
nightmarish
Culture garish
prez czarish
So what to cherish on the homestretch
beyond straggling frail in wretched kvetch?
indulging in shallow cant
hid in wryness from his Norse source
Housed high hopes but findings scant
He had thus subconsciously yearned
for where pure fantasy holds its sway
Made poor use of what little learned
while boasts boisterously in brash bray
He’ll witlessly wander in No Man’s Land
when lacking the courage to understand
+)
-cant = (not confused with: can’t) hypocritical and sanctimonious talk, typically of a moral, religious, or political nature
-no man’s land = here: a life not settled into due to fear or uncertainty
Seas roaring, winds howling
Shredded clouds racing
under dark skies scowling
Wild whitecaps chasing
Above clean blown ocean
fowl soaringly strewn
sail in spray splashed motion
below moody moon
Crashing on to stolid rocks
waves implode, plundering
Washing over creaking docks
winds in gusts thundering
Watching in deep emotion
stirred by my life far flung
on wild waves of commotion
by raging regrets stung
My own past as well
been too windswept
then calmed in slow swell
relieved I wept
+)
-swell = the undulating movement of the surface of the open sea; particularly non-breaking waves following a storm
My toiling life for years
just kept on grinding
Now soon out on my ears
time for unwinding
Lowering unseeing eyes
down from the horizon
earnestly trying apprise
I found much surprise in:
How poorly I have paid attention
how feeble, faulty my retention
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
When young he hid out in the shadows of life
only in shallowest waters he’d wade
Reluctant to engage Life’s beauty & strife
rarely testing whether would make the grade
Pedaled quietly head down
flaunted Life’s ‘how & why’
with a ‘look am busy!’ frown
hoping just to glide by …
His Earthly Welcome now overstayed
turned old, cold, bowed, slowed, frayed & staid
His entrails twisted by ‘regret’s blade’
The ‘grave digger’ fingers his spade
A geezer mildly fearful of Hades
long time now since in his modest heydays
When young I truly had no inkling
that I was but incipient
My alarm bell was never tinkling
while acted out my idiot
Traits that might disenchant
were so far constrained
My inner sycophant
kept grinning harebrained
Pathetic but hadn’t been in a rush
to question much my attitude
Middle age laid bare with horrid blush
my erstwhile lack of rectitude
Seems still that part of my essence
might consist of channeling
in blabbering omnipresence
my hapless inner changeling
It ain’t what I would like to see
or not who I prefer to be
although afraid it’s somehow me
from whom I’m unable to flee
Thanks but, they’re mere hinges
Worse though is my mind
bumping on the fringes
To some: too opined
Were it only mind & knees
what a gentle, kindly breeze!
But Life is howlingly intractable
careens oddly, nefariously
Life’s play is but tenuously actable
although sometimes hilariously
His life’s edging catastrophic:
Seldom hoisted a trophy
Spouted but faux philosophic
Wrote no endearing strophe
Field of ‘talents’ left too long fallow
guts now weak, motivation shallow
Still calls for resuscitation
tries stagger ahead full bore!
No time for procrastination
tries charge with a last gasp roar:
As better a bullet in one’s heart
than fleeing and shot in one’s rear part!