philo haiku

befittingly lost
in translation of my thoughts
do (s)miles for someone

paradis

Far away from everybody
terrible things
happen
in my village cocoon
in Paradise
even here you cannot
feel protected.

Santa's elf

saw an elf yesterday
he was talking
about his job at a store
a funny elf
who saw too much
of foibles and feebles
of frantic footings
of foolishness
and yet ...
sympathetic to
human frailty



Thanks to Bruce Nelson
for his reading of
"SantaLand Diaries"

Unclimate haiku

Too hot rainy day
global warm(n)ing the climate
umbrella or not

Holiday greetings

Why do people write
the X-mas card, Hanukkah
or Kwanzaa or any other?
To connect, to say -
look I am still here -not dead.
The new trend "what-did-we
-do-good-this-past-year"
portends bragging rights
or at least a form thereof.
Only once have I seen a bad
one like my husband deserted me,
the dog died, the canary
pooped on the boss when he came
to dinner-my son is doing jail.
Well, once a year we all pretend
that we have a good time
even though some of us live through
hell, suffering from the month
when the mother-in-law takes over
everything - even your cat.
This rage the computer embedded
and now - we all have wonderful
memories of the year's happenings.
Erased are the bad times - surely
everything is fine -
let's write one for the US this year.
Bush year 8, economy bad,
oil prices high and then artificially low,
wall street even worse,
the housing crises up, no one's buying,
the car industry dead, the scandals
are coming out, but not the biggest one yet.
But, everything is just fine otherwise.
So, dear Mr. Putin, Happy Christmas, oh
so sorry I forgot you don't celebrate,
well, Happy whatever, because in the US
we are OK, and we can boast about one thing
we are getting a new president - who
hopefully will change the way we think.
What lovely Holiday Greetings.

Banks' delusions

Brutal banks
claiming to look after
your money
when only hoarding theirs.
The hurt they inflict
erodes the trust
so ...
what to do when the robbers are
in your own backyard?
Two options
wait and hope for the best
or .... rebel and unionize
the credit unions
you don't get much -
less is more
in the new world order
majority rules?
Nah - delusions!

Dogs are dears

Arranging for the family dog
to be fed and walked
when everybody is working on
a different schedule
seems sometimes insurmountable,
yet with flexibility
the issue has to be worked out
since the pet cannot open doors
except to every one's heart
we all understand
that we have to give a little
to get a lot.
Dogs are democratizers.

Frosty lawn

December chill lawn
the economy worsens
with waging war
and greedy moguls -
power-hungry puppets
with aggrandished egos.
What monumental failure
of global proportions
when the sun hides behind
darkening clouds
and the grass glistens
frostily and still.

Elves from afar

The cutout elves have arrived
as they do every year
since my childhood -
countdown
to Christmas Eve.
24 naughty paper elves
magically appears
one for each day
on paintings, on pictures,
on bookshelves,
all around the house...
and my children go
searching for them
like me then ... even today.
They know I put them up -
I knew my mom added them -
to our home in December,
but that little whiff
of elves' dust from a past
of bygone times
cannot hurt anybody -
and I hope the tradition
will continue
with our granchildren.
thus believing that
in spite of everything
little traditions
carry a light of elf magic.

Whippersnappers

When young you presume
you know everything
you whip - you snap
you strutt your stuff
young whelps whippersnap.
An immature feels important
the egocentrics boast of
their little knowledge
pretentiously in senior age
old coots whippersnap.
Lack of infinite wisdom
creates tons of dimwits
seeking no new insights
alas - we sometimes forget
our bit of whip in a snap.

jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy

jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
go out and get those wheels turning
go out and use your last credit
your state's taxes count on you
the holidays are all about gifts
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
the executives cannot live their fancy life
if you don't buy your kids
the latest battery-operated fads
that nobody needs - next year -
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
drive to the stores in your suvs
fight over the nearest parking spot
heaven forbid you should walk an extra yard
fight with your spouse over who gets what
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
wall street need main street
and even the good ole back streets
to satisfy its needs for riding
lear jets to fijii playing
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
the fruits we grow are rotten
how we support the economy
with a war - with two wars
aint going to help the world just
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy

Thanks haiku

five words of today
express simple gratitude
thank you for the earth

Numbers 4 fun

4 10 gallon hats 2
b filled 2 the brim
with joyrides
of a super kind
never 2 come back
2 the 9es
alas, 4 the hats
and the rides
they are, but air.

4 u I've cre8ed
1 puzzle filled
with funrides
in 10 gallon-hats
on a rollercoaster
grasping on 2 the 10er
gliding wildly down
hair8ing - get the picture:
splashing the 9es.

Found the answer?
- yes - the poet
has gone overboard!

Get it???

Polyvalent agents
in chemistry
work against each other.
Political polyvalence
in congress
fight against each other.
Results - antigens'
reactions proliferate
alas non-cooperation.
Antiagents - serum
can inocculate
against hate and envy.
Is homo sapiens
ready to coagulate
to cooperate?

Slam poetry

I learned a new term:
slam poetry,
you just sling out
your feelings
without too much
afterthought.
I did not know
that I had been
modern for so long!

Rainbows' resilience
of painted scenery
portrays colorful
insights into
the seeking souls
soothing their upset
spirits - showing
only sorrows.

Slam songs is said
to mostly veer
towards sadness.
Grief wins
over beauty.

Reflective realities

Darkening dusk
drifting - the dog and I
rove the native grounds
in our neighborhood
the barren trees
have shedded the last leaves
it is November it is cold
it is dark
that's our reality
what's yours?

Is it swaying palm trees
sitting on a bar stool
watching the setting sun
slowly slurping
your dry martini
as your lover gradually
let the backside of his hand
slide gingerly up and down
your thigh - an alluring
invite to make love?

Or is it fighting
a war somewhere in snow capped
dangerous pikes - howling winds
with no end in sight
to your battles against
what your leaders consider
the horrible enemies
supported monetarily
by others who hold their
own vicious agendas
not caring at all whether
you live or die?

Or is it cradling
your firstborn who has
just been born to you and
the unknown man who raped
you for your virginity
and yet your cannot
help looking at the wonder?

Or is it working
dedicatedly for a better
and more enlightening
world, somewhere building
houses for the poor
in a hot humidity
seeing that there is
hope after all?

Or is it being
alive where ever you are
and having lived
a truly productive
long life - wrinkled
in a rocking chair
gazing at children
playing in the street
watching that life
still grows gingerly
through unfairness
hate, poverty and war
realizing in spite
that rainbow flowers
will still bloom
when we are gone?

Angry haiku

bail-outs and nail-outs
who but the rich will profit
thorns struck war of bush

Mr. photographer

Mr. photographer:
of various and sundries,
faces and wines,
of sadness, marionettes,
whether on your own turf
or, surely, on mine
you will see what I don't
musings fair or blind
your skill, perspective,
your training, or just luck -
Mr. Photographer
you revile - you pluck
out of nowhere you grasp
out of the ordinary
that we are who we are
that Mr. Photographer
is your showing vine.

To my friends Mike and Chandler
http://www.galeriedeglantine.com/

Minimalists :)

Poets tend to be
minimalists
instead of composing
large oeuvres

proof: a "life" haiku

admonished: walk straight
bent roads blink beguilingly
despite rose' thorns prick

If you can say
in few words why, what,
where, when, and who

then you could be
a "menshevik"
if you mayhap
positions yourself to
be a poetical mensch?

needled by
an introspective
teeny musing :)

Drama queens

Yells and screams
from drama queens
what to do - tally ho
stop their feeding
and conceding
having indulged
the battle of bulge
redraw - no reaction
finally - no attraction
for screams and yells
drama queens' quelled.

The sun's day

Sunday morning breakfast table
today's paper spread out at random
mellow flavors of pancakes
coming from the kitchen
the kids grown up are creating
their same childhood aromas
now sharing with the old folks
coffee attuned to the palates
of the individual household
eternal continuum of Sundays

Mutt

I have a mutt
she is intelligent
she is a survivor
she came from a shelter
she was a teenager mom
she is half beagle
she is half coonhound
she is a dash of ???
she is a mutt
like me
-
when I tell her story
most people say
that mutts are the best
I always add
we are all mutts
and they nod

Ken

I ken Ken
Ken kens not she
so Ken kens not
his ken
I ken Ken


To Ken R

Voices

Voices wave their own flags
banners of souls - emblems of love
a certain tone, a specific twang
camouflaged with fairy dust of time
when you hear that voice
infinity waves in the wind
and you remember!

us election

election elation
population presentation
embalming obamarization
after years of bushism
histronic putinism
already jingling
alas only one night's
celebration of a us knight's
election elation

Good night Opus

Opus - a strange penguin -
running around in
his creator's head
doing odd tricks
questioning life
losing body parts
finding his mother
back in his country
only to die in DC
and return an amnesiac
let it be his final opus
to leave us all -
humane - shelter animals...

Bookish ADVENTURE

took a trip somewhere
in the twenties
as opposed to the zeros
what glorious fun
dancing to the new hot
jazz - in a ballroom gown
dressed to the nines
murder and tiny mayhem
sex in an old well
drinking unknown cocktails
vividly described hangovers
in the crazed conundrum
of this current quagmire

To fall trees

Gentle generous trees
of blasting colors
I marvel at your hues
yet the mansuetude
of shining on my road
humbled at nature's foot,
pursued by the night's
lack of sleep and energy
and you hit fabulously
my dopaminergic neurons
slumbering - awakening
yes - I am alive
and gawk at the foliage
on this early fall morn

Crossroads

a straight line
running ahead
break
stop
two crossroads
another possibility
hmmm
which to grasp
if one then something
if another hence
two more branches open up
the third prospect
grows into four new options
the equation does not add up
but keeps entangling
the threads -
at that time you can
without looking back
incriminating
your choice
only pick one
intelligently,
intuitively,
or toss a coin

Lost key

lost a key
found tons of treasures
trying to locate it

lost a key
found old kids' pictures
trying to locate it

lost a key
the past haunts seeker
trying to locate it

lost a key
odds and ends thrower
found it not

To P who helps me forever

Harvest Moon

Harvest moon - hunter's moon
Samhain - Hallow's eve
we sow - germination - we pluck
only to acknowledge those
who came before who lived
alongside with us
those who live in the same hour
we are them, we are us,
our children shall remember
that they will also partake of
Harvest Moon - hunter's moon
Samhain - Hallow's eve


mors ianua vitae = death is the portal of life

Goodbye to an era haiku

walker in the dusk
hallows the hollow warfare
white lilies dubya

the coach's speech

sometimes I help too much
in the hope that I am modeling
at other times I help too little
inferring that you are lazy
I nudge - you choose - I root - you wait
you seize - I urge - you clinch - I pitch
I prod - you clasp - I cheer - you snatch
you slump - I goad - I lurch - you reel
on occasions I refuse to help
trusting you will wake up soon
on the grounds that sooner than later
the ball is in your court
ouch!

Fall's morn

listening to my own heartbeat
and the computer's purring
the heat system burping slowly
my autumn's early morn of
crisp frosty lawns
saffron trees baked in pale light
sprinkled with jalapenos
another fierce fall
how many more for my soul?

L'chaim

death
fall's motley message
far from spring
the brown worms
in the warm dirt
their soothing sleep
linking all
tombstones
to life

Thoughts of Ozman

In Aussie lands
where eucalyptus stand
where koalas climb the trees
where roos roam
near your home
my mind is filled with thee
so far away
and to this day
treasuring our potpourri
of youthful love
our friendship's glove
a part of my fleur-de-lys.

for Joel

A footnote

another day in YouTube sphere
reliving the youth in music
before my time too - doobedoo
some of the oldies and goodies

yesterday today and tomorrow
so our spring will be revived
in memories' swaddled lullabies
or youthful dreamed romances

swung to Viennese waltzes
in ball gowns - at proms
or in dust filled smoked bars
of Paris - London - anywhere

where melodies will take your
secret fantasies - only imagine
without Beatles - Elvis - Stones
a whole generation no relating

often I just wonder how the rap
could bring back such teen dreams
of today's youth - bang - boom - boom
thrill gone too real to dream

the sense of yourself - of you
will be revealed in your taste
of tonal combinations' recalls
dying with your visions - a footnote

Apolitical haiku

A bridge to nowhere
a wall for immigration
leaves falling from bush

Surreal economics

a tsunami slung around
the whole world
desperadoes trying to save
economies from foundering
in every body's interest -
but mostly its own
logic vanished
and as usual
feelings of me took over

Helllo Autumn

Snot - pouring out of my nose
Slime - behind the larynx falling down
Sleat - combining everything
Summa Summarum - I have a full blown cold
with soon to arrive cough -
guess what - it is fall
therefore it is time to serve

chickensoup - ah - with barley
- with
whiskey --- with anything....
cough cough sniff

Long Live Shakespeare!

One of the People:
Legislators, Fellow Americans,
and countrymen!
I come not the praise the bail-out
but to bury it.
The evil that men do lives after them
The money is often interred with papers
so let it be with the bail-out - the noble Feds
had told you that the bailout was needed
If it were so, it was a griveous fault
and grieveously had the Congress answered it
Here under leave of the Feds and the rest,
(but Congress is honorable
so therefore the legislators are all honorable)
Come I to speak at reason's funeral.
Reason was my friend, just and faithful to me
But the legislator said the bailout was needed
and Legislators are honest men
Wall street has brought many down in the dump
whose ransoms did the Wall street coffers fill?
Did this the Bail-out seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, reason was swept,
ambition should be made of sterner stuff,
yet the Feds and the Prez said it was necessary
and the Prez ands the Feds are honorable men.
...
I speak not to disprove of what the Senate said
but here I am to speak of what I do know.
Greedy men all loved the interests so, not without cause,
what cause withhold you to mourn for your greed?
Oh, judgement! Thou art fled to brutish beasts
and men have lost their reason... bear with me.
My heart is in the coffin there with reason,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

Contemplation

The autumn leaves were falling -
leaving her fairy tale behind
her dreamless summer in the north
in her healer's healthy hands
Vigga the Volva went daily
to the wise woman in her hut
in her capacity as a seeress.
Her perpetrator - her henchman
had left the healer - seeking
new life - somewhere else -.

Sophia, her highborn, wise sister,
came from her Guernsey Island trip
paying her respect to the grandmothers,
the stone figures from eons ago.
Vigga's sibling extolled the island
and told her that on next year's Beltane
she, Vigga, should go and daven for this life
near the two steles on the Island
just as Sophia herself had done.

"Come with me, sister, to Yggdrasil
and sit in the last warm sun this year"
the vibrant Volva Vigga smilingly said.
The sisters gingerly wandered waywardly
to the Yggdrasil which had been tendered
by the Volva's tears and tutelage,
the tree now so healthy and high-broughed.
"Dear Sophia", the Volva began beguilingly,
her red mane shone so shimmeringly -
the sun behind her made her into the beauty
of womanhood which can only be found from within.
Her choice to bear the next generation
was hers alone - nobody should take that away.
"I am with child and I shall give birth
around Beltane, so either we should go
in a couple of weeks or it will have to wait
until the child is born. It was conceived in love -
not in hate - so even though I know you will
say I am too old to bear the child, I shall."
Highborn Sophia, looked luminously
and showered a sunshine of smiles on her sister
shredding any serious doubts of the volva.
"I shall encourage your fruit come forth
with the everlasting help of the wise woman.
Has she inspected you with her healing powers?"
"I am fine and fit to bear, and if I take
her healthy potions, there is no real danger!"
Walking would do me endless good and,
I think, that a trip to grandmothers' graves
would be well for me, I feel fabulous."

Just after the fifth season's cool morns
with spiderwebs and deftly dew-covered branches
the two sisters set off on the journey to
visit their foremothers, fulfilling Sophia's
prompt promise to the stones of Lilith' long lines.
Bringing her sister to her past and present
seemed to Sophia, highborn and wise, utterly urgent,
now that the Volva Vigga was with child.
That way they could mayhap get a divination
of what would become the child's future.
At least they would deftly doven at the markers.

Crossing the sea the Volva was viciously sick -
the waves welled up as the boat carried the sisters
the grey skies doomed their journey?
Sophia, no longer sure of her decision,
held a soothing cloth to her sister's brow
while the ship's bow hacked its merry way
through the greyish dark waters of the Channel.

They arrived at St. Peter Port, the busy habour,
surrounding the seeking sisters with life.
It was market day and the wares of the vendors
seemed inviting to the sisters, specifically
to the now vacant Volva Vigga, her stomach growling
for food - and feeding - so they found a tavern
near the market to sit and devour the sights
and fill their bellies with fine food.
The Volva was quiet while eating, she relived
her summer of love with her merry merchant.
Was she doing the right thing by having his kind?
Each woman wonders and ponders the perpetual problem.

The two sisters rested in a timberfilled hostellerie
and set out the next morn to visit
the two grandmother steles from eons ago.
Sophia, highborn and familiar with the roads,
having just visited the island in the summer
led the way to the first of the stunning stones.

Vigga the Volva having slept well the night
after their full fill of morn repast
embarked on the rocky road to Saint Martin
in high spirit and good mood, walking briskly.
The sisters were admiring the cliffs' clearings
and the sea's deliciously carefree meanderings
on the beaches along the Fort Road
the pale autumnal light over the shimmering sea.

They reached the Church of Saint Martin
and found the first of the two ancient stones
she truly had a face of a grand mother.
It was not the angry ghost' countenance
but the stern serenity of years passing
and both Sophia and Vigga dovened there.
Quietly, the graveyard spoke to stillness,
and Vigga felt a quietness well inside her.
Listening to the millennia's women's fates,
she found herself stretching gently
touching the old stone stele with the womanly face.
Both sisters spent a long time in contemplation.

Sophia, the wise and highborn sister,
showed Vigga the Volva some of the other sights
of the fey island - descending deep down
under the earth where concealed caves craves
anybody's overt and obvious curiosity.
Henceforth, the two seeking sisters' fairy tales
of their fey foremother's, alas came up short -
for them the hollows were nothing, but holes.
"Strange, sister, I feel nothing" Vigga mused.
"Neither did I this summer, so these are not
for our kind, only for the fair fairies!"

After two days of mulling around Sophia took
her sibling to the other grand stele.
The Volva broke no fast in the morn
because sometimes she felt whoosy and weak.

In Castel near St. Peter's Port at St. Marie
a small church yard overlooking the village
stands the other grandmother, great rooted
in the graveyard, comtemplating her church
away from the village - thinking inwardly.
The Volva Vigga and her sister Sophia, wise
and highborn headed towards the granite stone.
The wind had died deftly down - almost noon
the sun was out casting autumnal shadows
the colors of the trees radiantly shone
not a sound, but waiting for the noon bell.

Vigga the Volva looked upon the village
behind the grandmother stele - Bing - bing
bing - the sun suddenly hid - bing - a gust
of wild wind blew some leaves off the trees
bing - the grandmother started to speak -
the Volva and her sister davened - fell on to
their knees - praying - bing - "You have come
to hear your child's fate" - bing - the Volva
almost could not breathe - bing - "it will be
silent" - "yet follow its own nature" - "guiding
life" - bing - "earth born" - "craftiness reign"
bing - bing - bing - the wind calmed clearly
the sun appeared scintillating suddenly
the sisters searched to compose themselves
rised and stood before the still stele.
The Volva thanked the stone and placed next
to the other trees on the outskirt of the graveyard
a seedling from Yggdrasil as well as a pebble
- a tiny rock she had found in Scotland -
perfect round and white, but with a greyish sheen -
she had put it in her cape and it almost forgotten.
Vigga had found the gem on a beach after a night
in lush lovemaking with her traveller-knight.
The Volva bade the grandmother accept the humble
but well travelled stone as a symbol of love
placing the stone just touching the stele
on top of the earth - and as she watched
the stone magically disappeared - embraced.

Vigga the Volva and her sister stayed the midday
and into the afternoon - but no more - nothing
was said. They observed how a few others came
and looked at the steele, gawkers and non-believers,
yet, when these folks came upon the stone
they became quiet - if only for a moment.

Bail-out haiku

caliginous arch
brumous flowering trellis
hazy rich bail-out

Eleanor Roosewelt - and I

I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.
Eleanor Roosevelt

this first lady was - as I - not pretty
but she had guts - she had spunk
so what I will do for my remainder
is - pardon my Frankish language -
I will not give a fiddling fiddlesticks
for what anyone says about my opinion
I shall respect theirs, of course,
but if disagreeing I shall use
elegantly disguised phrases that
not even a currently sitting president
would understand - obsolete words
I shall seek - still learning
until I die - a worthy goal
of an hexagonically challenged hecate.

On the scale

somewhere in the world
somebody is studying me
a grieseous grande dame
some place in the world
someone is scrutinizing
my rumbustious filial fruit
mayhap we are sagacious
pedestrian or subaltern
whatever whomever decides
about anybody else - my advice:
your psyche should be nobody's call
but your own with mansuetude
gentility and jocosity

Orators' crafts

comma comma period dash
commences an old Danish
children's rhyme
dash comma period comma
the art of orators' crafts
deftly combine
comma period dash comma
Aristophanes' colometry
and politicians' designs
period comma dash comma
their mellifluous voices
describe their kinds
comma period comma dash

Commemorating Aristophanes of Byzantium

Ode to odd words : a challenge

A grieseous fubsy mansuetude
embrangles the agrestic olid recrement
exuviating a nitid roborant skirr
and vaticinating the apodeitical abstergent
of fatidical caliginosity villipending the whole mulierbrity
this mansuetude - should not have a compossible periapt
but end like a niddering malison with oppugnant caducity.


Elincalime sent me a link:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article4799560.ece
This is a rough translation into a more understandable English.

a grayish squat gentleness
entangles the uncouth foulsmelling waste matter
shedding a bright increasing grating sound
and prophesying the unquestionably true cleansing
of prophetic dimness treating (with contempt) the whole the condition of being a woman
this mildness should not have a coexiting amulet
but end like the cowardly curse with antagonistic perishableness

The troubadour's nemesis

a poet's lot
would weed words
overwhelmingly so
nailing only
a fleeting fervor
or an abiding agony
merely to discern
that the words
bleedingly found
would not matter
to anybody else
but the bard's ego

Decades decay

To-day is a special day
a decade has decayed
a new one stands - dismayed?
I will not fear the gray
but embrace it in every way
as if it were my last say
come whatever may pass.
I won't yearn for the soiree
but look back upon the last
gleaming over the portrays
in rosy colors of bouquets
of experiences - aghast.
The decades of fine ballets
will forever be dossiers
of musical notes and essays.

Enchanted encounter

thinking strongly
of a kindred soul
makes her appear
magically
before me in person
our connection
unbroken
despite
having not spoken
for three years!



To Betty V.

Genes!

I found somebody sleeping on the floor
instead of in their bed
hubby reminded me of me
so the fruitcake is not far from the core

alas, those genes we carry
will forever tarry
in our limbs and minds, what a chore

Concritism

A dear mistake
to make
wake
up
shake
the quake
a deep partake

Forgetful

Renaissance fair - revisited -
rest assured that every year
in outrageous outmoded garb
we trot our weary feet
to savor the flavor
of melodious "oldness".
Yet the antiquity we seek seems
boldly new - the dew on beer mugs
entrenches what we think
we would have been back then
when the truth be told
we would have been enslaved
by our social standing
as kitchen wrenches or
jousters for the earls -
so few back then had any hope
of a glorious shining future,
yet today we met a lot
who thought they were the lot
who played lords - ladies -
lassies and lads for a day
we forgot that we are still
enslaved - but enchanted - to-day.

Blue moon

Full moon palavers
friends' idea of partying
starts a new tradition
where you see them
once every month
and even twice in
a blue moon!

Morning haiku

Streching like a cat
oxygenates my old limbs
nimble flower stem

Pale sorrow

White roses on a white table
surrounded by white walls
newspapers spread widely
a morning's pale sunlit
candescent sorrowful email
of a premature passing -
how beautiful every day is!

Lost in translation

translating my own poetry
takes millions of whirls
in my grey cells -
toiling with my own words
taunts my very being
in my chamber
travails of my vocabulary
teaches my brain
in my cage
imprisoned I have to battle
my own incompetency

Later

A long trip
lack of sleep
ear drums pop
belatedly

Real Words?

words of youth
words floating
swirling drops
of poetry - love - hopes
visual - virtual - unreal
life in our letters - will
always be our world of - love
unreal perhaps - but real in our minds.

My grandsons

Last day in Oz
with grandsons
a saddening moment

oh, see them grow
follow them
in their tracks

it is possible
due to modernity
pics and sounds

to grasp stolen
minutes in their
little days

will never compare
to flesh and blood
alas, I must go!

Nightmare

Red wine induced slumber
created a nightmare
where running around
trying to find somebody
on a golf course did
not yield anything but
getting lost in the woods
never to find the person -
waking up utterly sad!

terribly

blown kiss
drop of bliss
accepted
terribly

Black swan

encroaching one
simple clutch
evolving into
a full fist
striking midnight
wonbat hour
or if you wish
kangaroo moment
of hitting fast
and furious
of the mellow
black swan
not mating
screamin' her
frustration
yet happy in
her choice
what could have
been was not.
The princes
never reach her
only
she was alone
and the choice
was hers - for ever

The laughing kookaburra

Kookaburra - kookaburra
you scream my scream
why do I feel like
kookaburra kookaburra
laughing sadly at me
oddly stunted - stumped
kookaburra kookaburra
eating flushed flesh
my ambitious ambiguity
kookaburra kookaburra
vaguely discomforted
of prey slipping away
kookaburra kookaburra
yet the seminal clown
is cackling at myself
kookaburra - kookaburra

To Joel who once wrote a poem about Kookaburra

Vignette from a greenhouse

A tropical heat
sheltering
two specters
lost in time
in space
in themselves
the air outside
freezing
staring hotly
at a pool filled
with banal goldfish
instead of
morphing into
each other
because it
was not possible
yet his hand found
a phanthom thigh
her hand crept
hesitantly
into his
and just before
leaving this
insignificant
sanctuary
their eyes
ephemerally
intersected
for a flash
their ways
split as only
it was prescribed
in the visitor's book
of the greenhouse.

Man of yore

Oz-man of yore
we connected
talked

Oz-man of yore
I fathomed -
discerned

Oz-man of yore
you dreamed
devised

Oz-man of yore
we revised
shifted

Oz-man of yore
how could we
not change?

Oz-man of yore
how could I
not mutate?

Oz-man of yore
how could you
not alter?

Oz-man of yore
how could we
not transpose?

===

Oz-man of yore
a twist - a turn
a spin

three days there
five days where
one day here

letters - phrases
lits and bits
symbols

Oz-man of yore
a stint - a stretch
a trick

===

Oz-man of yore
I love your
friendship

Oz-man of yore
you once wanted
my person

Oz-man of yore
It was never
to be except

Oz-man of yore
in fantasies
and our poems

forevermore?

Summa summarum

Somniferous Sunday
somewhere
pondering pensively
about the past
mayhap the meaning
muddled
apparently appears
awesomely

A walk in friendship

In a preserve
the upshot of our friendship
continuing a thread
in one park
another ocean apart
in a wondrous woodland
palavering about
anything - everything
because we have done
the serious talking
soon we will peregrinate
scuttle around
embracing - silence

The change

Two years ago
I trundled the streets
of Melbourne waiting
today I again
revisit the familiar face
Melbourne State Library;
not much has changed
even the security guard
is familiar
the faces of the students
are what they are
somehow it does not faze me
because somewhere
out in the burbs
my focus are my grandsons
I - an urbanite - have changed.

To two friends

How lucky I am
to have friends
who accept me
not for what I was
but for who I am
strange I travel
all over the globe
and find them
in a faraway land
on a foreign coast
and yet so close.

Yarra Valley

Wineries all over
the Yarra Valley
look barren in winter
without prompt
transporting my mind
to somewhere else
dear to my heart
on the other side
of the earthy globe
those naked twigs
sticking right up
pointing to the sky
pleading with the winds
begging to carry on
millenias' burden
to bear fruit to
the joys of man
serious business
this fairly new
tradition in Aussie
ignited by an old world
needs and wants
and exceeding at it too
to Yarra Valley
I raise my glass
a symbol of Dionysos
in an odd context
so strange that I think
the Greek Pantheon
might have moved here
for this new millenium.

Chameleon

I am a chameleon
my coat has many colors
singing tunes in
various keys
major and minor
with different people
I am a changeling
of a special kind
each relationship
the me gives out
vibes of my persona
My hues expand with seasons
I am a chameleon


To Elincalime

Musical mnemotechnics

whenever you hear a song
with meaningful mnemotechnics
hitting your brain waves
you remember Proustian
Vinteuls compositions
memories set to musical scores
in mysterious ways
the discoveries Pythagorias
found can be within everyone
just not the logic behind the scores -
yet feelings light up in brain scans -
but as a romantic I like to think
the music is only feelings
not pure mathematics
and the songs' mnemotechnical hits
aids my mood and memories

The unknown Chispis

Of this poetry blog
Chispis approved
early in my endeavours
unknown friend - alas, I can read
so little of what you write -
and yet we are on the same page.
If it had not been for you
and your encouragement -
I would not have continued.
De mi corazón gracias!

Skype-Nestor

Skype modernity
avanced technology
convinced by need
for seeing a friend
too far away, yet
you were here today
and I could see you
but you couldn't me
humoring me -
lots of laughter
next time I'll look
at you again and
alas - you shall
watch me too!

Serendipity

Summer was waning softly of late
September days varied in humour
raining a little, sunshine gallore
and the warmth woolled over
the hay as it was harvested
all over the middle lands
of rolling hills and mild apple trees
not quite ready to be picked.
On the road beginning southwards
finding a finicky fork where
if one travels that road
you will have to decide - left or right!
Vigga the Völva and her herbalist Samuel
of Yoshua's tribe had heartily spent
a summer's worth of delight in the highlands
shielded by gentle elves and meerfolks
along the coast where they were visiting
needy people and where the herbs did well.
Now the tradesman's coffer was full,
but his stock empty, and the little
the Völva could add to his herbs
was not enough to keep them north forever.

They were standing at a crossroad
he was heading south towards the mainland,
his trades routes, and his faraway fables;
she was leaning towards the western worlds
where the old folks tall tales and spins
spun a telling thread of memories
of familiar foster of friendly faces,
yet with a dread of the castrated cad.
She missed her sister, the healing woman,
Yggdrasil, her brook, the elves, everything
known to her singular solid self.
Sebastian wanted her to tag along on his terms,
but being a seeress, a sibyl, a Völva Vigga
resolves sadly that her dilemma was not with him
it was within her, yes she had gotten
her freedom back, her seeing was stronger,
her herbalist has helped her whence forth,
she did not feel that necessary for him.
Her bosom had begun to swell again,
her moon flow had shortly stopped -
she needed not to be on the rocky road
to somewhere unknown - .

That night in her trader's arms
she dreamt of being under Yggdrasil
at Samhain. When she woke up
she said good bye to her healer
wandering off - her head up
waving to her herbalist whilst
the morning dew danced welcoming
her home to known lands with hope
for a new fate - the fairy tale -
spinning a future of freedom of choice.

I remember Ernst

Ernst, my father,
I hated him
as a teenager -
now I understand
and belatedly
admire him again,
arriving
from nothing
so much life
to live -
wanting everything
and getting it too -
charmed his way
through life
worked hard,
yet played even harder
started poor,
went to work at 14 -
drew beautifully -
but had to support
family -
drove cars, motorcycles,
raced, sold them too,
flew no 27 of
private certificates,
married, one kid,
divorced, married again,
founded his own company,
almost died from a sepsis,
had two kids
worked the company,
during WW2 carried
messages to the Allies,
aimed high,
got his fancy house,
fathered one more,
his unbelievable cars,
motor boats,
his wife had to tolerate
his womanizing,
his charm opened doors,
and yet in some strange way
moderate - his food -
very bland taste -
wine, cigars, pipes
artistic ability to photograph
to film, to woodwork,
in lieu of drawing -
always looking ahead -
spreading his wings -
his temper flew often
and, then, a thrombosis
one small, a couple of minutes,
but still attached to gold diggers
almost bankrupting his own creation-
another larger,
reduced to a very tiny
sad person incontinent
and incoherent
not sleeping at night
wife turned to nursing
the man-baby to exhaustion -
ended up in a nursing home
and died peacefully
with his wife holding his hands.

Instant of Insight

Privileged to an insight
without having any right
due to genuine gentleness
of friendship I hope
trustworthiness in scope -
laughter food, wine, unless
we will encounter chagrin,
now just "begin the beguine".

"On listening to Artie Shaw's
version of "Begin the Beguine"
by Cole Porter.

Aha moment

a day in ecosphere
- biodiversity -
a new snake stumped upon
in the Caribbean island
yet a type of monkey
spotted ten years ago
is on the verge of
extinction due to
logging and hunting
Darwinian principle
in full bloom showing
humanity's idiocy
so soon we need to
leave this planet
and take our grandeur
into space - at least
there will be enough
for everyone to have one
celestral home
by then the earth
can survive and breathe
again easily.

On reading "the World without us"
and two small entries in the dailies
today.

To life!

Deliberately sitting out
on life's adventure
turns you into
a criminal
you got a
a life
use't
or
l.....

Katzenjammer

Katzenjammer, a distorted melody
somewhere from my past,
when will it turn to dulcet harmony?
I have to face the music
and play the discord to discard
the jammin' refrain
hauling the howling
embracing the discord
the miaowing tuned in g-major.

Solar smoked eclipse

Eclipse - solar eclipse
Mother and old time technology
a piece of broken glass
held over a candle
smoking it black with care
glanced at the sun directly -
the eclipse of my childhood

Today I look at the internet
and see the full one
the awe is not as enticing
as the one from the smoked screen

Time 4 me

Email
need to feel connected
Egress
need to disconnect
Envision
need to meditate

Belladonna haiku

Nebulous id
belladonna's purple shade
deadly doll of bane

Fun, fun, gone

Post a post, poet
if you can't, can it.
Say a saying - soothsayer
neigh a neighing - neigher.
Graft the whip - whip-and-tongue grafter
create a crude cast, cracker.
Unpost a nopost, non-poet.


I did not attend the funeral, but I
sent a nice letter saying I approved
of it. Mark Twain

Lonely?

Weirdly wired
was I from the start -
but come to find out
not as odd as many others.
So open yourself
to the world
you may find
people surprising you.
Scared at first -
disappointed much,
but at my age
who *** cares.

Funk Gone!

A positive man died
we need more optimists
brighter outlooks
less negativism
an attitude change
starting today with me!

To Randy Pausch

Sunflower haiku

Its bright yellow crown
wakes my blue middleaged eyes
with a jabbing jolt.

Showtime

When I go into a store
I am sometimes in poor garb -
and I do not look the part -
so some sales people treat me
with less than respect.
When I go into a restaurant
I sometimes get flustered,
and waiters will let me wait
due to my not looking the part.

It is all a play - but
with politeness it can be a breeze.
The show in the marketplace
must go on - life is a theatre
we are all partners - just not always
following the director's script.

Moon women

We, the moon women, give birth
to womanity, alas
humanity seems
waning
where
when
why
we
w
w
we
will
while
waxing
new lives
before waning
again, womanity wants
the moon with humanity
and humility with womility.

Lamentable censors

Filters of mots justes
erase poems -
metaphors not clean?
Expressions covered
in saccharine
may not solidify
what a poet targets.
Censorship unintended
lamentable laughs.

Honest politics?

An honest courtesan
is to be preferred -
her wares are valid
in lieu of oral sensual
lofty Aeolian promises.
Oxymoronic dailies
perpetuate politicians
as true individuals
caring for others
when the only one
a politician is truly
in awe of - the self.
Give me a whore any day!

Brain power

Amazing brains
twist ideas
into new ones,
power of combination
floors me
even at ninety
when lesser minds
are either dead
or rotted.
Some uniques
still combine
probabilities
into
possibilities.

le tour et mon village

dans mon petit village
aujourdh'hui loin de moi
le tour de France passe

un point sur la route
les roues tournent
et mon village est depasse

Great horny owl

I am a horny owl -
after 30 years
he left me -
suddenly
I need a male
satisfying my needs -
but I am not barhopping
because that is just
like saying
I want to bed
with anybody,
although i NEED a male
I am not going
to that extreme
yet.
A year it has been
a year where my life
has become a true
rollercoaster -
I have lost weight
big time - just this
last month I lost
another 5.
Doc's worrying
but I feel great
looking better
than I have in years.
However, I need a male
I want sex -
I am a horny owl
looking for a mate?
Because in nature
when the mate goes away
or dies -
the left over mate
will try new blood
just to keep
the species spreding.
My mate left me
why can I not yearn
for another horny owl?

Apres la fete

Encore le quartorze
tout le monde s'engorge
avec d'esprit et d'elan
rat-ta-ta-plan.
Encore le quartorze
mon village s'endorme
apres les fetes et tam-tam
la gueule de bois - patience.

Torben Douglas

Grandchild - welcome
from your mother's womb
into your father's arms -
I applaud your arrival
alas - so far from me.
But your other granny
will once more step up
and be what I cannot.
My wish for you as always
will be - health and humor
with that you shall concur
your own sphere and the world.

Wonderous way for a Volva

Summer calmed the souls
clad in the glorious hues
in the village near the brook
it was not long after Beltane,
just before Litha's night
Vigga the Volva walked
where everybody went -
old people, young
middle-aged, tiny tots
it was a glorious morn
on the village green
somewhere not quite
over the bonny bridge
near the iron black smithy
seeing the farmer's market
full of offerings of
all the season's fruits,
vegetables, and most vitally,
the herbs and spices from
faraway countries and lands.
Two foreign mongers, one known,
the other a total stranger,
peddling the newest in
medical mandrakes and spices.
Vigga went to have a closer look
at the wares of the stranger.
"What will you try, my lady?
Spices that will form you
into a brilliant cook
of the eastern lands?
or are you more of a medical mind?"
The Volva wondered where from
you would get such colors
and decided to ignore her usual
renitence to strange men.
"A medical mind" she smiled.
"I need a potion to calm
a person's upset essence
as well as a healing herb
for sorrow for losing a child."
The volva waited impatiently
for the herb-man's response.
Black cohosh, my lady, for sadness,
and chinese wolfberry for your chi,
what you would call spirit, my lady.
The merchant dressed
in turban and long djellaba
white with rarest hues
saffron yellow trimming
urged her to examine his units and
the Volva speculated from whence
he came, more to herself-
the vender looked Arabic and spoke
semi-haltingly in her tongue
but when somebody else asked in
a continental brogue he answered
fluently and eloquently.
His tall brow and his handsome chin
lead her to believe he was of good birth.
I take three drams of your cohosh
and two scruples of chinese wolfberry
if it really comes from China."
The tradesman trounced the spices
on his tiny balance and barely read
the amount wanted by the Volva.
"Will you require anything else?
There is another herb which you might
want to take for an upset mind,
its name is rawolfia serpentina
and it will not hurt your spirit
but balm the psyche - not dull it.
I shall give you a little sample
and you will try it on a sick mind
in need of some calmness - and
it will not change the person."
The trader wrapped it carefully
and handed it to Vigga the Volva
who paid him in verdigris coins.
"My lady, would you care for a
drink in the local tavern?"
The Volva looked bemused, beaming
inwardly of the barterer's boldness.
"Might I be so frank," she barely muttered
"to ask you, why this bidding, my lord?"
'My lady, you interest me and if you are
a healer I should like to talk about
your wisdom and what you wish for
those for whom you toil and cure."
'Alas, my good man, I am, but an amateur
but I sometimes have luck in healing
and I have a friend who sees the sick
who has knowledge beyond anybody I know."
"Well, I should like to get to ken
why you think so little of yourself.
Let's break bread, when the sun is high
in the heavens. A quaff and a quiche.
Until then, good day lady healer."
The tradesman turned to aid a patron
who seemed very impatient and imposing.

The Volva threaded lighter than before.
She looked taller and turned to the fruit seller
purveying an apple for her morning travails
she had not eaten before coming
to the market day on the village green.
She went to the brook and sat down
and started cutting her apple with
her grandmother's toledo knife
"grosswolf" engraved as a memento mori.
She started to wonder why the tradesman
wanted to have words with a Volva.
She could not fathom why, no clue,
and she was normally endowed in guessing
what went on in the minds of folks
of the general variety - this time
no guess at all, so she resolved
her dilemma - just wait and see.

At the noontide the volva Vigga
went into the tavern on the green
which was filled with wrenches and valets
enjoying their repasts of choice.
Vigga gazed around at the happy crowd.
Before she could go any further
she felt her arm being gently nudged
and her tradesman smiled down at her.
"We better seat ourselves now before
every spot is occupied, and guided her
gently into an alcove where there was
a barren barrel with two oak chairs.
The merchant made signs to the server
who promptly came over, smelling a great
customer and his presumed paramour.
"I will have a little wine and some
partrigde as well as some green beans,
what about you, my lady?"
Vigga the Volva not accustomed to such
finery outside of her home answered
in subdued tone of voice, is that necessary?
"Yes, and bring us some French bread,
I saw you had it when I came in"
"two orders of Partridge then?",
the servant pondered. "Yes, and some
good wine - the best!"
"why" asked the volva, why this finery?
why me" "too many questions, just enjoy".
The Volva studied her host, highly highborn
she assumed, but no Musselman, since wine
was his command - maybe a Spaniard?
But then he would not speak so fluently
the Germanic language she heard earlier,
or would he?
When the wine came with two goblets
he poured hers first and then his own.
He raised his vessel and toasted her
"To friendship and fellowship"
staring intensely in her face and eyes.
Hesitantly, she also heaved up her tumbler
and mumbled in a melodious manner
"To fellowship and friendship".

The server brought forth their food a while
later and by that time Vigga the Volva
had gotten some information from where
the stranger came - a Slavic lower nobleman
of Joshuah's tribe and cunning.
"that's why he knows languages - knowledge
that I would like" she thought to herself.

A healer without knowledge is like a
stream without flowing clear water.
She knew painfully too little about
medical plants, just what her grandmother
had taught her and what else she and Sophia
had managed to gain of insight through
listening and aiding the healing woman.

"You asked me, why me?" Her tradesman began
"I find sympathy in your eyes - gentleness
in your demeanour - You could be my rest"
he stopped because the servant girl came
with their repast - hot and spicy.
"Eat, my lady, drink, domina,
enjoy, bella donna. What is thy name?"
"What is in a name? My name is Vigga
and they name me the Volva, due to my birth.
I was born into a long line of seeresses and
doomsday sibyls, but I can only see so little.
My sister is more endowed than I,
and very wise, her name is Sophia."
"Alas, we all have our little limitations,
for I was donned the name of Sebastian,
hiding my hinds of generations - a screen
to my real name ... Samuel of Hebraic descent.
That is why I wear a shroud of djellaba
to deceive the general public, we thread lightly.
For fear of repercussions of deadly sins
donned millenia's ago in the name of faith."
Vigga The Volva, carefully scrutinized the face
wondering why he so readily told her his secret.

For a while they just ate in unison,
quenched their thirst with water
as well as the French rose wine from Anjou
which Sebastian the herbalist had ordered.
Vigga the Volva wondered why she felt so at
ease with another human being, apart from
her sister the highborn and wise Sophia,
as well as the healing wisewoman.
T'is was as their two quintessence quietly
interweaved and interpreted unspokenly
their thoughts - and reluctantly she divulged
to herself - she would like him to partake
of her and her life alone.
Her forehead wrinkled and she abolished
the tender thoughts by asking him
where he was heading after visiting her village.
He dried his mouth with his kerchief
smilingly replied that he could stay a while
or she could go with him to the end
of their own destiny, placing his hand
over hers tentatively and tenderheartedly.
She did not know which way to look,
so she decided to look at his palm
turning his hand upside for her to study.
The lifeline was long and strong,
but there was danger ahead - sadly
she could not see from where the peril
was coming and if he would just make it.
"I think, you will be better off leaving"
At least he would be safe from her.
"I will stay here for three days
and then I shall head north till
the end of summer - samhain shall be here"
Vigga took a deep breath - her breast
was about to burst - of sadness.
He looked at her, hailed the servant,
said I should like to settle,
urged Vigga the Volva to finish her cup
and took charge so naturally
that she had very little idea of
where they were heading vacating the tavern.
They went down to her brook.
Boldly, she showed him little ygdrasil
which had grown considerably
and could no longer be called tiny.
A healthy mature weather-ready tree
had grown from Vigga the volva's tears
and it seemed to tell her "Rejoice".
When the trader Sebastian tried to
kiss her the volva recoiled in remembrance
of the violent rape she had sustained.
She started to shake and her whole body
turned rigid - stone cold.
"Trust me" his eyes seemed to say.
Tenderly he just motioned her to sit
under her tree and relax. Use me as
a blanket was his unspoken words
She leaned against ygdrasil.

Her memory did alas not fail her and
she started to tell the stranger Sebastian
of her violent violation of her body.
Her eyes started to go moist and Yggdrasil
drank another cup from Vigga the Volva.
Sebastian the strange tradesman strung
his strong arms around the sad siren.
They sat like that for a long time.
Quietly the tears stopped whereas
when the Volva Vigga ventured
about the rape, about the ghost,
about the loss she had had to take.
"Let's walk, we need moving about",
the sage seller suggested timely.

"Wait", Vigga exclaimed, "there is more."
"Well, we can walk while you talk".
Then she proceeded to prompt him
about her grandmother, the elves,
and the rapist's fate ending as a helper
to the wise woman."I see him, every time
I go to her hut, and it is difficult
not to hate him. His fate is not easy,
and he is learning to be caring,
little by little on day at a time".
You see, Samuel, we are not vengeful
wenches and try to make good. Alas,
for me living like this is laborious.
I cannot see so well as I used to,
because I cannot forgive him,
not for the rape but for my loss of
...................freedom... to dream.
Sebastian, the trader of healing herbs,
took her hand and lifted it to his lips,
and then he spoke mildly as if to a child.
"Vigga you need healing, and you need
to cure yourself. Maybe it would be
that I shall be your guide in this.
Three days we shall spend time together.
I shall then ask you to follow me north
on my travels - to sell the rest of my stock.
When we return at Samhain you shall be well".

For three days the tradesman and the Volva
was together in her humble hut,
sharing and daring to open their hearts
to each other and themselves
and we shall leave them at that, not probing
respecting their personal privacy.

Just as dawn broke on the third day
Vigga the Volva had made her decision
she was going north with the tradesman
trotting along - for worse or better
seeking herself and her seeing
while enjoying the freedom to hope
so Sebastian the herbalist and
Vigga the worn Volva rode off
into the fair light northern lands
for a summer of their soutached souls.

Heat haiku

summer's hurting heat
alert with soft fireflies
festers sogginess

Sun memory

Sunsmeared leaves
reflects summer
on the lawn
softly
in the morn
reverts winter's
tarnished boughs

Leto

In our backyard a rose
of fine fragrance
blooms over the grave
of a wondrous pet,
Rosebud's name: Leto.
The scent hints forever
faithfully beloved.

for the 4th

For the fourth
in the US fort
peace henceforth!
But oil is bought
with blood and wrought
of powers - naught -
a celebration fraught
with bad thoughts
democracy's lot
not easily taught.

Le timbre

Le village lointain
dans le brume de mon cerveau
fut comme les timbres
de nos vies -
clairs au debut
plus vagues apres
et si on le verrait
le voile s'illumera!

Canigou et l' araignee

Le veille au soir sur ma route
j'ai rencontre une araignee
elle s'etait pendue d'un grand arbre
au soleil couchant elle s'en foutait
de Canigou si clair ensoleille
elle a eu de la chance
une mouche etait son diner
elle l'engloutait vivement
La nature grande et petite
est partout un emerveillement

Beziers beckons

The fog over Beziers
in the early morning light
paints the fairy tale
of faraway beacons
beckoning the foamy town
to be a fata morgana

Des idees

Il faut avoir du temps
pour penser
Il faut être seul
pour se orienter
Bien sur on peut
se sentir abandonne
au milieu d'une foule
mais des idées d'attachée
ne viennent pas
sauf quand on soit isole

Des mots

Des mots me manquent
je resterai timide
devant les gens forts
qui n'ont jamais tort
ma condition est telle
que de moi
des mots se moquent.

Ants anywhere

"Leaving on a jet plane"
an old song - line
diverting a life
off to a new trail
away from the known
into another group
somewhere else -
yet the parallel life
goes on
whether you are there
or not.

Frenzy

Last minute frenzy
jumping crazily
to finish everything
only to realize
the itch for perfection
is just wishful
abstraction.
This rashness
is foolish behavior
and will only augment
my excessive way
so I should stop
wanting excellence
and settle for
ordinality.

Ordinality is
ordinary and reality
ino one word.

Glitzes

How impatient become have I
that I cannot wait ten seconds
before I question the system
within two blinks of an eye
the blip on the screen me beckons
to react fast in my brain stems.
Yesteryear we wrote with quills
now speed up : our daily thrills.
One day not long from now
humanity will alas kowtow
to its own fabulous know how
yet the human beings are slow
a child still nine month grows
in the womb - and then below.

Beware of the werewolf

I met a werewolf
in his disguise of a male
I was marked
not by his teeth -
but his existence
haunted me forever -
so if you meet a man
beware of his 7th sense
under the full moon
and you will transform
yourself to be with him
and you will have lost
your dignity and your self -
so you become what
I am not....

Scarlett fever

Everyone I know has said that -
some time...
"After all ...
tomorrow is another day."
Everyone I know has done that -
some time...
After all ...
tomorrow is another day."
Did I do what really needed done -
this instant?
"After all ...
tomorrow is another day."
Did Scarlett get her Rhett?
I do not know - yet
tomorrow is another day.

Thanks to Margaret Mitchell
for writing "Gone with the Wind"

Escape ... today

Escape to a fantasy land
will alleviate fears
for the future
Flight from reality leads
you to face pickles
one day and the next
Gateway to dreams lends
a hand of coping
with today.

It rains ..dogs

If I only knew
what my dog had been through
when she was very little -
but she cannot tell
only, hating rain like hell -
runs out to quick piddle.

Simple

creating the basic
baking a bread
is living

Congratulations Mr. Punch

Mr Punch has a birthday today
May 9th in the mist of time
He beats his wife
he murders his infant
he is not beyond incest
he is outrageous
kids sense
that evil exists
yet we all laugh
Mr Punch has a birthday today
May 9th in the mist of time

Awake haiku

Sleep no more, Macbeth,
Every night I fear my bed -
alas, sleeplessness.

done it differently?

tromp - tread lightly
on the way to wheresoever
you know only when
the road is run
that you should have
taken a different one -
alas, hindsight is clear
as the morning mist
forgotten features
of parables from your past
may reapppear of nowhere
and the whole world
collapses as a collage
not properly glued on
but at the time
there was no way of knowing
------ maybe

Past pebbles

history has hearty
long lines -
for on the fourth
of the fifth month
in 1945 at night some
euphoric European
countries counted
freedom from
a terrible terror

The solution

Long auburn free-flowing tresses
surrounded her sun-burned freckles
a hearty healthy image of femininity
Völva Vigga treads in her woodsy vicinity
seeking her highborn sister Sophia,
and it turned out that the locale
of sun-and shady woods was palliative
to both their souls - tormented in thunder.

The terrible request from whence
was more than the Völva could conceive
whilst in her mourning for what happened
so she had again required the presence
of her other self, her sister who knew.
Vigga the winsome Völva was in a quandary
a query to go on a violent quest
had been reqested by her ghostly granny
who had herself been molested as a child.
Grosswolf was the perpetrator's foul fame
written on the knife which the Völva
now carried again, helped by Elvish men
to have them grasp it from the raw rapist.

Sophia, her highborn and wise sister,
was there to spryly listen and partake
in her sister's debate with the ghost,
a clash she knew that the Völva Vigga
would not take lightly, even though it was
only a spectral visitant of the netherworld.
Yet, otherworldly symbols of conscience
can be as vivid and real as reality
and sometimes even more so - so Sophia
was preparing herself to defend logic
and wonderful wisdom to try and win
the battle royal of wise women versus a view
of an awesome aura of old time hate
and revengeful sentiments of the past.
Sophia had read all the classics, but
knew that all this may be for naught.

Vigga the Völva began by wondering why
their grandmother's ghost manifested
with such vivid force - since she was dead.
Meekly, the spirits were kind and gentle
in her life, Vigga vocalized, but not this time.
After all, Vigga was vacillating and did not
venture into murder, no matter how bad it seemed,
and she had been the perpetrator's victim.

Sophia, surprised by what she heard, had to stop
think what the Völva had just said,
she did not want to kill another fellow human,
so she, Sophia, did not need her elaborate speech
about slaying in vain and how it perpetuated
the same foolish patterns of intricate conduct.
"You are wise - not to adhere to our granny's wish"
was how she was going to phrase her sentiment
when Sophia felt a pang in her abdomen -
she keeled over on the fresh moss next to Ygdrasil
and could barely breathe,"give me some water"
she whispered, and Vigga the Völva quickly went
to the stream and filled her little flask
which she had in her leathery brownish belt.

Sophia drank with such need that Vigga indeed
searched for the answer why the brainy sister
was so heartily inflicted, after all she was free.
For the second time the ghastly ghost of their grandmother
stood before both sisters, Sophia whimpering in pain
and Vigga trying to alleviate her with water.
"What are you waiting for? Kill the male!"
She disappeared in a huff as quickly as she had come.
Vigga and now Sophia, stared at the place
where the appearance had mysteriously materialized.

Sophia, shaken, said,"I saw her. She wants you to kill."
Vigga who had been more used to communicating with
their granny of yonder, nodded and murmured, "yes".

Yggdrasil, the tree nursed to life by Vigga
shielded the women in the wild woodland
and then Sophia proceeded to tell her sister
what she had also seen, in that short time,
the male, for she described him to Vigga the Völva,
was in the process of ravishing a young child
in the woods not far from where they were,
in the village beyond the wild woods.
"We have to go", the wise Sophia said,
"do you have your sharp Elvish knife?"

The two women, the wise and highborn Sophia
and her seeking sister Vigga the Völva,
went on their way to find the malefactor.
Vigga who knew that the male was strong and
she and Sophia, her sister, were not cut out
to battle such an evil force without help,
the Volva, reluctantly, but resolved, drew
her hunter's horn, tiny brass instrument,
formed with a tinge of mystery to it,
because it only shined when tooting it
- otherwise it seemed drearily dull.
Three Elvish men appeared. Sophia puzzled,
"Why" she asked the Volva, "do we need help?"
Vigga, who seemed more like an old hag by now, tired,
told her sister that the male was too strong,
therefore they needed Elvish help, but not the males;
the females and about nine of them.
Vigga the Völva pleaded with the little menfolk
and got them to switch with nine elvish women,
promising them to invite them all to Beltane
near Yggdrasil, once this dreadful deed was over.

The two ladies in their woodland woolen drab clothes
began their vacillating walk towards the village,
the nine elvish womenfolk dancing along chanting
their age-old mystery Elvish song, luring males.

They found the male... he had just done the deed
looking up and smiling viciously at Vigga,
his eyes glinting with such vigor and hate
that she jumped back - the Elvish ladies started
luring him away from the child,
a bonnie little lass of six years of age.
The child was in such a state that Vigga the Volva
only knew this, get her away from the spot,
into safety and loving care of the healer.
She motioned Sophia her highborn wise sister
to take the child to the wise woman's hut to clean her up
and calm her with a memory altering brew for now.

With a whiff of her hand she commanded to the Elvish women
to bind the male with age old charms and keep him tied up,
so he could not move any of his limbs.

'You are evil", she told him, "I have been commanded
to kill you, but that would be too easy for you".
She took out her knife, "you recognize this, I believe?"
his eyes showed no remorse, just dullness.
"I have to wait for two more to arrive", she said,
you will then have your say, you may defend yourself
in front of the twelve confronting you".
The male was still, bound by Elvish treads,
wisely he had stopped moving, because when he made a motion
the Elvish robes holding him whipped his limbs
so strong that he felt being brandished by irons.

Sophia came back and then her grandmother's ghost
got her say, "whatever he says kill him, otherwise he
will continue his evil deeds. Anyone who molests a child
should not be allowed to live one day on this earth!"
The ghost grasped the prisoner's throat
and started squeezing, so angry was she,
and only when Vigga commanded her to stop
did she reluctantly relinquish her ghostly grasp.
The man coughed and sputtered and moved vigorously
and then he screamed, he had forgotten the Elvish strings.

Sophia, wise, and worldly, calmly said, "have your say"
and the man condemned the whole world including the ghost,
Vigga, but out of his mouth came the names of everyone
he had violated. He had been violated too,when young.

Vigga, Sophia, and the nine Elves, as well as the ghost
took their vote, and with the exception of the ghoulish
grandmother who, greenish, yellowish, foaming with anger,
commanded, "Death to him". The eleven, the Elvish ladies and
the two sisters voted for him to live as a eunuch,
an emasculated servant who could never do the deed again.
The male screamed his anguish and pleaded "I will rather die"
but Sophia being the lead judge told him, "No,
you will live till you are old and grey and you will never
feel pleasure again - only when you learn to love."

The determined Volva and the elves took him near the brook,
so she could wash off the bloody knife after her surgery
and he was awake, but not moving because the Elvish females
made sure he did not move. His eyes had only fear now.
The knife glistened in the sunlight, and as Vigga the Volva
was carefully cutting and removing the stones and sewing
his empty sack together again with the needles provided for
by the elves, she shook thinking this was the worst
she the Volva had ever undertaken.

But behind her her grandmother's ghost grew
gripping the stones, threw them triumphantly in the air like balls,
and Odin's ravens Hugin (thought) and Munin (memory)
snapped them up screeching their shrill cry
being called upon by ancient magic to vindicate
all the perpetrator's victims. Alas, he had been a lamb too,
but he had a free will, and Vigga the Völva wanted
him to understand the why behind her reasoning.
He was completely quiet, and she had managed to get
some water with some healing herbs in his mouth,
he stared with empty eyes - not really grasping
what had become his fate - an emasculated male
one who could not ejaculate anymore, even though
sometimes it can be reversed, there was ancient
magic sown into his empty, effeminate satchel.
He was being eunuchized - purebred - demaled!
His punishment was harsh, but no harsher
than the many wounds he had inflicted,
and all the children both males and females
were being wound up by Elvish skills
and helped with the utmost authority,
so the dreadful deeds would not perpetuate
in eternity and elucidate authenticity.

The male was released from Elvish binding
and stumbled across the woodland floor,
a little tired, and he was heading towards
the healing woman's hut hoping for a reprieve.
She had just finished her cleaning up of the child,
and the girl was whisked back to her family
by one neighbour helping the wise woman,
with a charm and a witch's brew,
but there were many souls to heal.
So the she-healer, alerted, would not
say no to an extra hand, he could sleep on the floor
near the embers of her stove on a mattress
and in the morn when he had rested,
they would talk about his duties - if he stayed.
That way the whole woodland could then keep
an eye on the misery maker - and be reminded.

The Völva Vigga and her highborn sister
had a feast to prepare being Beltane to next night
and she had promised the elves a feast of renown.

The next eve around a magnificent maypole on May Day
the sisters stood and watched the merriment,
their arms around each other and murmured joyfully.
The Elvish ladies were decked out in their finest
silvery shimmering see-through long dresses,
their hair adorned with blooms and leaves,
the men, handsome, offered to dance the night away.
Yggdrasil had spouted its first flower,
a golden-orangy double knotted blossom, and
the ghost of their granny was smiling benevolently
befitted to a night of mysterious joys.
In the night's sky Hugin and Mugin were but shadows
against the moonlit woodsland - the frogs croaked,
Beltane came and went once again...

Alas - what half?

Equal pay - Equal pay
screams the world's half!
Equal work - equal work
screams the world's half!
Alas - alas - alas!

To-day's Word

Word of the day
from the bible to the lexicon
to-day's winsome
first used in Beowulf
to denote pleasant.
Word of my day
taken from weather perusing
today's winsome
because the sun is out
spring is balmy.
Word of any day
depending on circumstances
you win some - you lose some
wherever you are
your strength is
in your winsome words.

ruffled feathers

feathers of ostrich
featured in old-time photos
of the fair sex
so the males can dream
achieving their little wet
while we today label them
pornographic art -

the Internet provides
wet dreams of any kind
online in real time
and nobody is outraged
accepting whatever
except maybe an old broad
with ruffled feathers

A little bitter

Bitter oranges
sadness gripes
badlands

Bitter chocolate
gladness seizes
wasteland

Bitter almonds
madness attacks
wilderness

Poetry month

Poetry month
search a hunch
of brilliance -
alas, my words
never to be heard
of resilience!
They can kill
words of great ill -
use temperance.
Verses of love
are just a shove
of top romance.
Stanzas of lines
idiotic rhymes
turn by chance
to grave truths
and so the sleuths
of words enhanced.
So poets uphold
your pact untold:
lyrics of fer-de-lance.

Penalty dance

A slightly, tipsy dance
will really just enhance
with a grey fer-de-lance
the dance of death entranced.
The judges all talk about death
academically - not like Macbeth
murder, crime - done by Seth
the high court will now and yet
approve the final prospect.
The laws of the land advance
a knightly, autopsy romance
with annuity of game of chance
an ultimate penalty of haute finance.

The US is discussing the death penalty
and wants to have it reinstated nationally

Mom haiku

Mom, I need help, please!
Ok, what do you need, child?
Listen, Mom, Listen!

The Volva's command

Fiery frosty feisty Vigga the Volva
wrought her thoughts
over whether to revenge herself
on her rapist or not.
The elvish folks had found her knife
and stolen it back to her.
She met them near the brackish brook
where frogs and flies fought
during the Eostre celebration -
the month for venerable Venus.
The elves had picked the Vernal Equinox
an auspicious day to bring her
her grandmother's elfish knife
with the word "Grosswolf" engraved
on the tip of the brilliant Toledo blade.

She thanked them humbly and offered
them some darkly mead for their pains.
The elves were grateful as their travails
had been long and laborious.
Before she could say thanks again
they had disappeared in their elvish mist.


She became pensive and pondered
as she perceived the awe-inspiring assegai.
It had meant to kill and protect innocents
of their attrocious assailants.
Now it was waiting her cruel commands.
Could she kill, maim, harm another being?
Her ruthless rapist had had
no quenchable qualms where she had been concerned,
could she do what nature's law required her to do,
or should she albeit ascribe to the law of mercy
The bolster in which she had carried
her knife was in her maidenly hut
and she went in to fetch it.
She simply sheathed her grandmother's grand knife
into the leather and strabbed it onto her lithe leg,
brushed her long favourite frock and strode out
of the hut into her well-known world of woods
feeling infinite more safe, even though she knew
that she was a very vulnerable wrench,
but a wise woman with burdensome bourn:
to strike or not to strike, preemptively:
revenge or hindrance that the molesting male
would do his heinous degrading deed evermore.

She strode out into the woods going first to water
the yearning Ygdrasil near the little brook
the Eostre's bid of blooms was spectacular,
the yellows against the dark forest floor shined
like majestic moons - the Earth greatest gift
life - stood in greatest opposition to
what the Volva Vigga wavered - to take a life?

Mulling over what her new choice wrought
she looked at her tree and talked in her mind
not with Sophia her highborn sister - but
to her grandmother's ghost, wrestling - wondering.
The woods which had been sun-baked as
she came out of her hut were now dark
the water in the brook whorled dangerously
and Ydgrasil's light branches screeched.

Vigga the Volva's grandmother stood in
her mightly eery sheen, ghastly ghostly green
spoke spookily to her granddaughter
only one word - "Kill!"

Words - mimosas

Words - full of imagination

a world within a mind

just - once upon a time

pictures the words

Thaumatolatry

Thaumatolatry - a marveling of worship
with the seven wonders of the ancient world
Tomatolatry - a tomato worship of deadly demagogues
where you could smash the tomato in their faces
Potatolatry - a potato worship of playing politics
in which you can be a vp and spell the word with an e.
Idiotic idolatry - of thaumatolatry - think twice

(with apologies to the tomato and the potato!)

Orange Gates

My black tshirt says today
the Gates in New York City
It takes me back to a Sunday
of Christos' art committee.

The weather too allotted parlay
deeply burrowed in the Park
every mood on straight display
people walking under the tarp.

We gaped at the vast societé
from the roof of the Museum
ORANGE may it never decay
in my memory's mausoleum.

Spring tree

white spikes
glinting slightly
everywhither
in the big tree
withstanding
the wild wind
versus the greyish
evening welkin

Briiliant

Brilliant colors in a little puddle
in the woods, in the cityscape,
in the tiniest, humble crevice.
Puddling lives of amoebae,
double helices of hesitant lights -
turning to mysterious essence
a muddling puddle - brilliant!

Spring in Rain

Rainimation will bring
Flowerisation of spring
Celebration we sing

Rainimation is a neologism: meaning rain animating the earth
Flowerisation is a neologism: meaning flourishing conversation
(earth respeonding to the rain) and growth, especially of flowers

Genetic makeup?

Why do some people clothe frumpily
while others slip into "fashion smarts"?
It relies on genes and/or nurture!

Why do some people pick at foods
while others eat in exuberance?
It hinges on genes and/or vulture!

Why do some people ignore finesse
while others make merry in all medias?
It depends on genes and/or culture!

Ode to my its

I dream of the million eyes
gawking and yawping at me
me and my dust mites galore
I hate to hoover - it's a bore

I dream of the million legs
tramping all over the place
me and my dust mites ample
I love to read as an example

I dream of the million mouths
devouring from north to south
my less than perfect dusty abode
I have to vacuum - end of ode.

The waiting

She was incessantly sad, the Vølva Vigga,
it had been nine mournful moons
since she had lost her granny's knife -
the one carrying the name Grosswolf -
to her ruthless rigidly relentless rapist,
sitting at her cherished spot near Yddgrasil
the little tree she planted and wetted
with tears and moonlit dewdrops.
It had grown vigorously into a sycamore,
one that she could find shade under,
so she could feel close to its roots.
It had pruned itself into half an ash,
so she felt even more whole resting there.
Just like its precious predecessor
the ash willed its roots to find water
underneath the underworld of dirt,
a fairly fey woodland with toadstools
and unfathomable odd spry seedlings.
This ash and her calm surroundings
could not have stopped the wrought villainy
neither could the villagers close by.
The Vølva Vigga had sat most afternoons
near the yearning Ygdrasil - daydreaming.
Her abortion had not metamorphosed her
into her confident constant courageous self.
Only the sweet phenomenon called time
would timely heal her and her revenge.
Vigga the Vølva wondered why she needed
to be near the damned deed's place,
but it was also the spot she literally loved.
Ygdrasil, because it had transfigured itself
she understood that she needed to do that too.
She was almost there, ready to repossess
her wielding weapon - her grandmother's knife.
Right after her rape she had sent out scouts
of a special kind, the elves who had promised,
to repay her lasting loyalty and right the wrong
that one of their tribe a wrought another Vølva,
her grandmother at Tintagel - a long time away -
and not long ago in their own buoyant backyard.
She was waiting for their scouting results.
Spring tide was almost here and spout time
and with that assurance of rightful wrath
her strength coming back with vivid vengeance.

Pink April Fool

Pink elephants on a rainy morn
visiting my childhood
my mother saw them vividly
every April Fool's Day.
To this day I tell my daughter
that I saw on her childhood road
every April Fool's Day
the pink pachyderm in the rain.

Spring wish

Body sound -
riveting thought,
alas winter
laziness wrought.
So frame fair
shaping needs
walk, leap,
run indeed.
When we all
know the cure
why don't I
just endure.
For my torso's
shocking lack
and turn into
a jumpin' jack.

Spring sprung

daffodil or jonquil
a thrill until it's stilled
the yellow bellowed
a spring mellowed

It's the money - always

Watching a college team sport
as a non-interested sports fan
bothered by the commercials
walked away to write a comment.
Truly disgusted with the enchilada
of sports idolizing of the world
and asking the question, why?
Too much money in the sports -
granted a team workout is great
except it is legalized war games
on top of the other fights - oil -
beliefs - power - world hegemony.
Follow the money - follow the team
just once in a fairly rare blue moon
the underdog will call the shots
and money will rain on them too.

Hope haiku

Eye-dears for photos
crippled by suburbia -
yet the sun shines.

Commedia

Commedia della Humanure
every day observing the news
generally with great apathy
important as haute couture.

Commedia dell'Arte obscure
delving in wars and woes
fodder for the snotty kibitzers
relevant as the old grand tour.

Commedia della human allure
enjoying the spectator's sport
until one day it hits bull's eye
suddenly -it is for me to endure.

Bubbling haiku

Voices of the past
bubbling up now, then, again,
a cauldron of life

Ode to quiet joy

Quietness in my room
as opposed to
kid playing with dog
upstairs - "go"
bounce - bounce
stillness in joy.

Photographic Fantasia

Photographic fantasia
wild blooming animalia
budding posy from Asia
points to fierce vernalia.

Of course I was not the first to coin
"Vernalia", but I am using it
as a new term for Spring

My Grecian Urn Moment

Wien waltzes with wild wolves
photos for fabulous flashbacks
youthful jogging yields judgement
whereby whoever walked the way would
continually be calibrated cadencially
passing the performance perpetually
mimicking masterfully in memory
only never to outshine that occasion
when waltzing the voluptuous Viennese.

To Jimmy Taub, the dancer whom every other is measured by
and found wanting.

Wall haiku

This Spring Ides of March
in wondrous wall flowers
incessantly blooms

Notes on Modest Mussorgsky

each visitor brings her own notes
to the pictures at an exhibition
each has her musical depiction
if a novice to the state of art
will forthwith just jump start
if an expert to the avant-garde
will enjoy the l'art pour l'art:
one by one decides on her vision
a truly personal musical precision
each will have her double-quotes

thinking of Mussorgsky and the Hubble Space pictures among Renaissance Art
The ten pictures Mussorgsky depicts are: a gnome-shaped nutcracker; a troubadour plaintively singing outside an ancient castle; children vigorously playing and quarrelling in a park; a lumbering wooden Polish ox-cart; a ballet of peeping chicks as they hatch from their shells; an argument between two Warsaw Jews, one haughty and vain, the other poor and garrulous; shrill women and vendors in a crowded marketplace; the eerie, echoing gloom of catacombs beneath Paris; the hut of a grotesque bone-chomping witch of Russian folk-lore; and a design for an entrance gate to Kiev.

The First Sex - SCREAM!

Wonders of women - ponders Vigga the Vølva,
how can they keep on accepting their fates
the poor - the illiterate - the females
kept in their place by tawdry tradition
and fiercely fatherly rocking religion?
To all these women who die in childbirth
or get gang-raped to thrash the transgressions
of somebody else - innocent bystanders
to tribal male malicious prick pride,
all the feisty females - in abusive alliances -
there has got to be a way to stop that desecration
of the body and mind and spirit of the first sex.

Monastically the male was the prime panther,
alas, by brunt extortion, the female principle,
the mother of their children was charmingly choked
into servant submission and in male monitored places -
still it is happening in the world of today, why?
The Vølva is perpetually pondering this paradox.
Testosterone's tests participate in power
entitling male domination of the female
backed up by 3000 years worth of shady tradition
and religious raunchiest rabid hate of the amazons'
ability to create, to give birth to new life.

Vølva Vigga will appeal to all wenches - once virgins -
that they should help the female counterparts
by changing the politics of the western democracies
and boycott all countries where female torture
takes place, be it at home or in the villages, in towns.

Alas, Vigga the Vølva well knows that submission
to home abuse takes place, even in enlightened relationships,
but at least it can be dealt with by shouting it out
from the roof tops in suburbia, cities, remote hamlets.
Use your voice against verbal, sexual, any partner abuse,
scream it out in your churches, in neighborhoods,
in malls, in center town halls - then mayhap
the people of power may legitimately listen -
especially, if the female yells justly about another abomination
abuse of - a special kind - the unprotected innocent child.

But today is the day for hailing the feminine principle
the first sex. Albeit the Vølva is painfully aware
whence the masculine pricks took over - when the
alphabet arrived and the bountiful earth went from
hunterer and gatherer to connecting the dots at crossroads.
Granted we may not yet have had computers
because the manly male needs creative out-pour
for the overproduction of domineering testosterone.

But then, she asks, why do three established religions
condone their proselytes' behavior - she shrugs
because most of their pulputarians - godfathers are men.
One religion in particular promises a 70 wives for
taking out another human being in the name of God.
Vigga winks humorlessly at this flaky fallacy.
How many Virgins are there in Paradise, or
does Eden have blown-up plastic dolls for that purpose.
Maybe the Virgins of hog heaven get their hymens back
every time a new martyr rides on his merry way to them.

Enough of making fun - knowing what rape is like
what powerless fear can do to a feisty female,
Vigga the Vølva went through the wretched ordeal herself
and was now pondering what would happen to a lady,
if she had daily beatings or brutal beratings
of her body and her mind and her spirit
- with nobody to back her up - what could a chick do?
With family ties broken or the law of the community
not on her side, how could she survive being battered?

By not screaming it out in the ether, by keeping quiet,
the crime will be revoltingly repeated ad nauseam.
The Vølva Vigga urges vigorously virgins and vixens,
women of all ages and sizes to scream and to yell:
Assault - Abuse - Wicked - Wrong - and last but not least
S T O P VIOLATING ME and TELL EVERYONE!

Tiles of history

Tiles tell tales
mosaics prevail
the ancients - hail!

Blogging thought

Bloggers blog their thoughts.
Do bloggers block
other bloggers blogs?
Blog, my blog, blog away
a blogger can blog
thousands of blogs a day.
Bloggers - blog - hurrah -
all for blogging naught.

Grave smokescreen

A grave site appeared
an island in the Aegean
Ulysses' Ithaca?
The Iliad literally revisited?
When the Ancients speak
do we even listen?
When the matriarchs tell tales
do we even believe?
When the old men present
do we even bother?
Another grave - our own
leaving just airwaves
and bits - a smokescreen?

A dying idea

A thought
over the miles
no response
fear of ...
drying

An idea
over the tiles
no answer
fear of ...
flying

A notion
over the aisles
no reply
fear of ...
lying

A concept
over the piles
no rebut
fear of ...
prying

A vision

over the files

no retort

fear of ...

dying