Not Poetry. Quatrain Verse in English & Swedish. Dagsverser. On the Mundane & the Arcane.
One seeming seamless mall
with roars ‘cariphonia’
and merchandising gall
Of this consists its essence:
Ever fleeting new thrills!
Where to escape its presence?
High up in dusty hills!
The clear-eyed who wisely topangued
won’t so easily be harangued
+)
-‘cariphonia’ = the sound of cars in heavy traffic
-topangued = to move up in the hills of Topanga, away from LA
Car alarm going off
lights brightly flashin’
An electronic cough
in throbbing passion
Keeps us awake all night nearly
by pained wailing protraction
A system that cavalierly
advertises ‘protection’
Pounding our poor hearing
Will it not disarm?
Sure but, persevering
can’t wait to rearm
Asks cyclist amidst ‘metal boxes on rubber’
predatorily sleek or overreach blubber:
So in love head over heels
with their crisply gleaming
well appointed ‘caves on wheels’
why aren’t drivers beaming?
On soft seat behind windshield
might driving perhaps be
in climate control congealed
akin to watch TV:
Like sealed off, stale behind chromed grill?
No wind in face, crisp morning chill.
In Ballard bicycle tires don’t puncture
Streets are ballroom smooth with curbs of foam
Cars wait politely at every juncture
Welcome to where electric bikes roam!
It’s where perennial tailwinds blow
and helmets won’t flatten your hairdo
+)
Ballard = the Seattle neighborhood where our e-bike shop is still located
Heavy breathing, hoarse wheezing
Lungs pumping, thighs in pain
Gripping handle bar, squeezing
Stretching the squealing chain
Guts, strength & stamina explored
Cresting the flat road my reward
Din of metal pushing through air
nostrils flared from tail pipe spew
Tires squealing, engines roar, horns blare
as traffic mounts tempers brew
Snug in ‘my cell phone booth on wheels’
who bothers about traffic?
Electronic Heaven appeals
am perfectly seraphic!
Til someone cuts me off of course
purloined civility shorn
then I turn deep-rootedly coarse
hanging dumbly on the horn
+)
metal = here: vehicles
Mere inches from apron sliver
impatient cars stream, squeeze by
Pedaling & sweat in quiver
we’re a balancing bull’s eye
In their ‘behind the wheel seduction’
impatient, sometimes arrogant
drivers may view us as obstruction
at best a minor irritant
As their foot the gas pedal kisses
do drivers know what he/she misses?
edited 06/24/22 0905
On Fridays before dawn
us cans are back at the curb
on the strip by the lawn:
A recycling cheering blurb
Listening for the garbage truck
while we’re bulging overfilled
how exciting, again in luck
now on our street, we’re all thrilled!
We get lifted, shook, tumbled
our bearings & loads lost
Elated, swiftly jumbled
back on to the curb tossed
Lids left open, gaping
happens every week
There is no escaping
recycling’s mystique!
+)
canster = a can being a member of a recycling ‘blurb’
Remote entry lights flash, honking horn
just to get into one’s own car?!
Am I the only one left forlorn?
Ain’t this too much, taken too far?
Anywhere left to go to be spared
all that talking, beeping, tinging?
Tell me: Must all ‘happy’ noise be shared
must our ears be buzzing, ringing?
What happened to just plain driving
spared electronic conniving?
Decision making worth not one iota
wobbling, am yet again straddling the fence
Long since depleted my green house gas quota
The same old dead end dance: Ambivalence
Why another near speed of sound detour
thirty thousand feet above the ground?
Tell me, what’s conceivably the allure?
In Life where am I really bound?
Am no longer a sightseer
as found the ‘there’ over there
would no more enrich or endear
than does the ‘here’ back home here
So there, er, here!