Al a Da Li

Portraying surre a listic ten den cies
an d ero ti que grot es ques
a la DA li
requires more than automatic writings
it de mands perfection
ala daLI
but in Figueres in Cat a lo NIA
you c an fi nd j u s t t h a t
a LA d ali
Where the pai ntbr u sh met the can vas
whe re the mas t er' s struck
AL ada LI
Min atur es - m An o FL amanc Ha
lots of p ORT raits of g aLa
a lada li
O nly d Eat hsto pp ed the pha ntas mic
moto risa tions oFh is wiiiiinnnnngggsss
alaDalI

A mouse

In my little French house
lives a little French mouse
it eats my cheese and bread
but when I leave it dreads
that it cannot be fed
and it turns into a grouse
growing thinner and thinner
it pines and it screams
it is absolutely no winner
then when I return to Cazouls
it grows bold and demands
that I satisfy its cravings
with sausages and moules
it holds so thight the food
with its little hungry hands
that I to my face saving
gives it everything it needs
then the mouse and I are at peace.

(beginning a poem a la dr. Seuss

Cazouls

Cazouls dans la pluie
entre deux nuages
l'hiver a Noël
mais la chaleur interne
dans mon corps
brûle comme un jour d'été

Sad Christmas story

A man at the next table
Christmas day sunny
he commanded another glass
of white wine - then
he struggled to get up
talked in a beautiful language
yet - stone drunk
fell down struggled to get up
sad and lonely -
got slightly abusive
with the owner- who promptly
removed the man's mobile
- he calmed down - drank a little
and paid up - never saw if
he got his phone back
- a sad Christmas story
from a small town somewhere

Copenhagen

My beauty of a city
a battle cavorting
too much cauterisation
of our civilization
much less concern
for all the world's countries
a too grand compromise
the democratic chattering
for our deliberating climate
where was Churchill
with his demands of cooperation
in view of the greatest calamity
we all lost in Copenhagen

Reality check

would I be going far back
when the building of the pyramids
took place
would I be forwarding to a
distant future on a faraway planet
would I be there in the renaissance
with Leonardo and the biggies
or would I be part of Mozart's entourage
singing my head of in the Magic Flute
would I be a Celtic wise woman
or a Nordic ditto
would I be a slave on a ship
going from Africa to the States
would I be an English proper
lady married off to an Australian
would I be jet-setting with the
Fitzgeralds on the Rivera
none has my fate - no one will
anybody would not be - nobody - me
somebody could say she was
me - and that someone is I

Sleep school

In far away Aussie
they have sleep school
for newborns and their parents
how come that oldies
like me who is awake at 2:58 am
cannot go to sleep school?
It is inconceivable
that it can be that difficult
to go to sleep and stay asleep
Granted with the lack of
a certain droplet in the system
I cannot go to Morpheus' realm
Oh to be a baby again
and snooze long hours
Oh to be a teenager again
and doze off in never never land
I wish I could
I wish I would
Toot - toot - toot

Steve

Far away in France
So near in my mind -
a human light went out,
an accomplice in life -
a friendly, complicated
soul of flamboyant bent
with an old school tie
sense of humour and
wicked ways,
but underneath the finish
an unpolished direct
heart of humanity
accepting not his final lot
still fought recklessly
for a fairly long time.
Far away in France
close to home -
Ave Cesar - morituri
te salutant.

ISFP!?

Introvert
looking for reasons
within myself
going the extra mile
to see why
Sensor
earth mother I am not
but having two feet
on the ground
a tad too much
Feeler
of respect to others
knowing almost what
they will say before
they say it
Perceiver
flipping more sides
of the coins
to make a sensible
decision for all
And this will
make the portrait
of an artist????
Where are the dares
in all this?
Where are the unfits
to the mold?
Where are the crazies
in the yield?
Where are the zealots
in the world?


(Inspired by the poetess taking
a personality test)

More mindless morning

I found the missing boots
they were behind in the closet
where they belonged
I need sense or I posit
that my hubby and I
could not find the waders
tearing - looking
all over for the evaders
where will it all lead
to the grave we heed
I cry and laugh - so minute
this scheme of nil - en route
Walk the dog - clear the mind
smile - you are one of a kind
on the mindless morning where I found the boots
maybe it was the elf in cahoots
with the house to teach me a lesson
end of this crazy - story - session!

Mindless

Lost - clueless
which I bought
and have searched
ever-which-where
for a month
but the item
is gone - not there
nor here
so I have to
rebuy the boots
because winter sets
in with cold and frost
my old toes need
the warmth - yet
I am out in the cold
cannot find them
at all, I am sure
I hid them - so
my mind has begun
to go - alas
I am mindless!

Thanks for the pains

Pains - awake me
pains - aware me
that I am alive
and for that
I am thankful!

A sore song

...
suspicious sore
somewhere
makes the owner
aware
of the time
and its flying
somehow
the inherent
scare or fear
will contribute
to how the battle
is won
-
in the long run
it is lost
of course
add raveling
- fighting -
sing and rattle
not wrong

Listen to the dryer

Churning dryer
means the wash
has been done

Churning mind
means the thought
has been minded

Churning washer
means the idea
has been gone

for a long
- long time

Turning the tuner
means the music
has been changed

Turning the music
means the time
has passed

Turning the time
means the past
has been d/gone

for a long
- long time

An oldiess choice

Sleepless nights
awakening at 12 am
3 am - 2 am
estrogen deprived
however - when
an oldiess awakes
and her mate is
snoring next to her
two choices appear
she can have sex
or go to sleep on
a sofa, a bed,
anywhere else away
from the snoring.
Not all the time
she will be ready
for sex but
it sure beats
a loudly snoring
mate!

The Vølva ressurrected

Vigga the Vølva who was
the one there never was
only in the poetess
imaginary world
but she lived for her creator
who could not let her go
she became real
a embalming friend
ending up controlling
her diminutive mindset
with different kinds
of loaded or unloaded adjectives.
So she did not
walk off into the sunset
but is still roaming the earth
to observe the foolish
lovable hatred of mankind
for what purpose we create
wars and murder and mayhem
boiling down to only
lack of understanding and
education with a unhealthy
pure egotism built in.

No worries she will be back
with a volvatic vengeance!

Twilight memories

Twilight on a November afternoon
shows me the memory of youth
was it when I said goodbye
to you the first time or the last
that doomed silvery reddish sky
before you left for home
I truly felt - never again
and yet now I wish for years
that I never had
or will have
futility and yet fertility
in the poet's mind
because out of chaos
comes a blip and out of
a pop ... a chimera...
a vision of long forgotten
very hot desires -
a passionate embrace
if only in the deepest dark

Twilight when I was young...

Skype haiku

Tonight I shall see
my grandkids on Skype and we
shall talk the no talk

hardboiled eggs

Hard boiled eggs
ham and jam
is the breakfast
I don't need
I just eat
a 'nana and yogurt
but truly sometimes
I wish I could savor
ham and eggs
and all the jolly fat
instead of relishing
my meager meal
yet I should not pout
but sing joyously
cause I get food
when others don't
therefore
hardboiled eggs
and ham and jam
you are fluff
and that is all

Running virus

Runny nose rules me
Runnymede rules alas
murder mayhem rules the world
scarred and sacred is the population
of viruses yet they proliferate
in me they battle
outside the poetess they fight
who will win?
the virus or the human?
The nature of the vira
grows virulently
in all directions
it could be a band, it could be a commune,
it could be dance or a protein,
what a virus is not
is a peaceful endeavour...
Runnymede's Magna Carta
written in blood of generations past
my virus today fights my body
running away - running amok
running - running - runn...

Mr. Somebody

For fun he did it
for fun he won it
for fun he was applauded
for fun he went out on a limb

it was not for fun

after all

Being/nothing/exist

Fairy fairy fey
today is the day
where you shall reign
over my heart's domain
for whatever is what
for whenever is hot
if you cannot find
my brain's online
I might as well be dead
nothingness instead.

Levi-Strauss in a nutshell

Existential tribalism
tribal structuralism
structural linguistics
lingual anthropology
anthropological morphism
morphical existentialism

hommage a Levi-Strauss

morphical: tiny initial
structural phonemenal

Masks

we all wear masks
one for ourselves
deep inside
one for our loved ones
closer to the wall
one for our friends
peeking over the wall
one for everyone else
our backs to the wall
we all wear masks

Sisley's paintbrush

Sizzling yolk colored
autumn leaves through
the window - painted
great like by Sisley
pointed - printed
wriggling in the wind
through the glass
enamouredly floating
one by one - dying
in a wondrous moment
of nature's scream
look at me - I am your
--s for the t ..i ..m..eee

Silly flue poem

got swine flue
or just normal goo?
fever and cough
enough is enough
I had a shot
on the usual dot
except maybe
it is only me
all the time
rhino sublime
Foolish poet
drink a Moet!

Flottante passee

Tiens, la musique reste
dans mon coeur inquiet
sans me laisser un moment
ne me calme jamais
trissesse - bonjour encore
ma jeunesse passee
Bien, la memoire faible
dans la tete boulversee
pousse vivement
ma poitrine se sent mal
mon petit passe traverse
les notes flottantes.

Addicted Donna Domestica?

Time steeler away from cleaning
cooking - donna domestica
vocal charmer!
snake charmer?
pants-away charmer?
donna domestica dreams
herself away from reality
now, with a healthy sense
of humor she lacked
when young -
her favorite is
her idol with the ultimate donna
moi - piggy!

To Placido Domingo

The past on Facebook

just for the fun of it
typed a name
one appeared - correctly
a question
and bingo - not even
six degrees of separation
right there
on line on the line
of a more innocent time
where everything
was black and white
and not the shades
of gray and grey

Sunday in suburbia anno 2009

You Tube in the background
an old fogey in the foreground
listening to her favorites
of opera's foremost vocalist
and stealing more than a peek
what to do on a cool dull Sunday
in suburbia after a long week?
In olden days we played cards
we knitted we dug in our yards
we had tea with cakes we wrote
letters to friends and foe
life intertwined another way
it bore a twinkle of yester sound
from the highest to the ground
yet, times are changing
and time is a changeling....

Frustration in code

how gray matter
pertains to unfold
code upon code
upon code
how well learning
stimulates more
learning code
upon code
how unobtainable
reaching out
to the brain's
code
how frustrating
this failure
to decode the
odec!

A teacher's frustration

HOPE

Gorgeous gorgon
another label
another word
for a female
but by placing
a civil noun
in front of the
brandishing stigma
you change the word
and give it HOPE

Viva technologia!( A slam poem)

A hesitant start of romantic
showing of dancing raindrops
and taken over by
beautiful dark somber-laden
notes of the clarinet
of impressionistic character
taking me on a spin
beyond where the words go
where only the birds flutter
in the autumn winds
dancing with Hecuba
stark and demanding sounds
a ballet not unlike
the Disney of yore
elephants in frou-frou
alas suddenly it is scenes
from flight of Nazi-German Jews
somewhere in Poland's forests
screams and thunder of
battalions from the 1812
and back to quiet waves
on a calm sea-board
ending on a drumming roll
shouts of the composer
beating himself up
for doing this kind of
haunting sphere.


(Ernest Chausson, Symphonie 20, Tres Lent)

The Vølva's prophecy

Wayward tiredness hit suddenly
the weather worn Vølva
she had walked a weary way
oozing of other ornamentation
than her usual brilliance
contrary to the everyday excitement
she was completely exhausted
not from anything avowed that she
could pinpoint or a place known;
it was the autumnal austerity
or maybe the wintry worry.

The summer had been what she wanted
so lots of glorious going-ons
had filled her sight of that season.

With some terrible threnian trepidation
she did not conjecture comfortable chills
but dark fearful physical fevers
the ever-lasting white lights,
covert wars, furtive diseases,
whose origins could not be observed,
but worse of all a dissatisfaction
in all humanity with themselves
their lots, their contemplations
of spineless spirituality -
the me-me-me winning out over
the gentle - genuine - gestation
of inane, perhaps insane goodness
that the Vølva after all felt
was present in any human soul.

Her brow was furrowed - her body bent
she schlepped her sandalled feet
along the river bed near where
she knew to find the old tree Ygdrasil
she was seeing a war not stopped
when it could have been
hatred blossoming in all its might
when it could have been - curbed
bigotry of religious and other kinds
when they could have been hindered.
With what the water nymphs seemed to ask?
With education and humility
with emancipation and humor
with endowing the female population
a head start in providing for their houses
thereby making them the decision makers
not the testosterone-filled übermale.
Yet the Vølva had waited and she had
even spoken to Sophia her wise sister
about whether it was possible to veer
from one form of brain-part to another?
That deed was debatable - even an evolution
not truly desired, except .... except...
Was it possible to combine
the male with the female side
and in a large orgy transcend
like Inana had visited the underworld
only to find her dead-beat husband
who was just fine, given he could not care
whether his goddess wife was with him or not.
This transformation would not truly happen
in this dual double-headed vital world.

The wondering Vølva waited at Yggdrasil,
the life tree, looking vexed, towards the west
from where there is no way back.
Gradually she glimpsed something
in the dubious distance illuminated
she could not pick out what it was.

A great auburn sunset finally set
over the austere autumnal landscape
that surrounded the augural Vølva
She gazed and gloomily glimpsed a tiny figure...
Could it be ... her knight - her Shmuel...?
She still desired him - had he been a mere mirage
whom she as a female sometimes wanted,
her alter ego, if only for a transitory time
out of lust, out of romantic yearnings?
Her foremothers of mythological minds
had not been so lucky with their males
there was nothing, but rape and slander
and wars of desire - for a fleeting moment
of sensual sex and phallic progeniture.

No, this figure was fixedly female ...
her belowed daughter appeared
to her in a phoenix form getting ready
for nesting and burning - horror slighted
the profundicated seeress as she stretched
out her palms against the sight -
knowing in her heart that what she saw
was the end of her world as she knew it.

Against the backdrop of the resplendent sunset
with the wings of her daughter's die
brilliant - a thousand emblazoned auras
of all the fecund sanguine vermilion
she watched as the phoenix burned
and out of the ashes from her vision
she saw slowly her daughter's rebirth
as well as - another - of her own blood
the wonderful world of a earthly yield
near Ygdrasil, the old life tree,
and tears dropped from her teal eyes -
the Vølva embraced her sight's victory.

Seniora moment

Getting distracted
more easily - tired
but it doesn't take
away the fact that
I did something
asinine - inane
is it the feared
Alzheimer's disease
or am I just wired
getting subtracted?

Heightened fall

hallowed Fall
hell-bent dancing
to your drawl
hidden away
gone forever
that summer's night
of mellowness
into augur's yawl
a penny paid
to Charon's fowl
more than prancing
harrowed Fall

A fairy day

A glorious warm fall day
people smile - are friendly
you drink and you eat
you see and you listen
you partake and you gawk
(granted you pay for this
but when don't you?)
however, under the trees
gently hidden from the sun
in ancient clothing models
your shadow floats away
and just today you are
what you normally never are
drawn out from yourself
surrounded by fairy dust
and autumnal ancient joy
a fresh breath of dreams
later again fait accompli

Bumper dumber

finally I was
a total twerp
my common-sense
was so gone
but in all fairness
the blinker of the truck
was not on
so I assumed
wrongly that
the lorry had stopped -
my bumper knocked down

My mother's dress

A golden lame dress created
for my mother's beauty
I still can wear it
she was a lady
of the old kind
I am a woman
of the newer state
a world apart
the fate of that dress
which my mother wore twice
will be unknown -
sailing across the seas
to the country in which
it was designed
and I shall applaud
that someone else
will use it -
it is a beauty
- one hitch -
an itch - shh ..
so the beauty that once
was my mother's
must have been born
with patience ....

Feeling of fall

coral shimmering red
with autumn's call
October's on the dot
colors of yellow diamonds
mellow rubies -
cooler emeralds
not even one single stone
can describe the sight
of the neighborhood trees
feasting observant eyes
smelling the all-coming decay
enjoy every moment before
floral heightens dead

Leto in memoriam

Doggone days
of dearest doggie
true to my mistress
true to my woggie
I followed
I swallowed
my pride - my side
only her words
were my herd
she commanded
I obeyed
she demanded
I obeyed.
Alas, lass'
Your mistress
still miss
your gentleness!

fit survival

Stupendous stubbornness
from the gene pool
morphs into
serendipitous spunk
and willful wavering -
those strange people
we came from
and we became
just because of
having sex
and blended too
much of our own oblivion
into the mixture -
will genteel humanity
survive in the long run?

The Birthing

Volva Vigga had been meandering - musing
Along her preferred path near the village
Soaring seedtime had appeared somewhat late
Today is was the vernal equinox
with tonight a luminous full Luna,
An ominous day where she had to collect
The first flower that she saw in the thicket
It was an anemone - that bright blossom
With its white purple crown.
Cried out in her muddled mind
- her Shmuel - the father of her child
would not be there for the birthing.
With a sigh and a slight moan
She sat down heavy - as she was
On an old oak tree stump
Surrounded by a circular copse.
Her trusty cape was around her full body
in her pocket she had little ring
That Shmuel, the herbalist, gave her.
The ring was too small now
For her swollen fingers
But she kept it with her at all times
So she would have a tangible symbol
Of her summer in the North
Apart from the gift she was bearing
For nine lunar months, this being her tenth.
As she was sitting breathing deeply
The sun came out of the clouds
And the wood spoke of early and earthy
joy and pleasure of being vitally alive.

The waiting Volva sensed a particular pain
Suddenly it became utterly unbearable
Realizing that not only did she feel agony
All over her lower back body
But she also sat in a puddle of birth-water.
Slowly, she raised herself holding on
with one hand to the thick tree trunk
while massaging her back with the other.
She had to get back to the hut
But it was a fair distance away
She was not sure she would reach
The domed dwelling of security
And she started to pant and puff
So she could beat the birthing pains.
Her mind was not cooperating
She was thinking of Shmuel
And of their last passionate night.
Vigga the Volva talked sternly to herself
As she found a bough she could lean on
Waddling when she had another contraction.
At the end of the pain all she could think of
Were the numerous orgasms she had had.

How far did she have to walk -?
And she knew very well - all the way back
Because her hut was a hermitage
Being fairly far from everybody's hovels
And the village - preferring freedom
To roam and gather healing herbs
Yet now it seemed foolish and frankly
She would not have minded a home
In the little gentle village with the green
Where she and Shmuel first met.
Strange how you could change
In such a short stretch of time.


Her skirt and her cape weighed her down
Because of the wetness from the birth-water
The stretch of road seemed too far
In addition the dampness was now cold
The wind adding to the high skies
Another pain seized her tortured torso
She had to stop and breathe in and out
Slowly while the travails took their toll
She found another tree - she leaned over
And again she cried out not knowing
That she made a savage primitive sound
Heard by all the ancients so many eons ago
She called up her gray grannies - the stones -
and they sent her an unusual messenger.

Somebody who had made true amends
The one who had truly repented his misdeeds
So her old nemesis - the man - who raped her
Came to her rescue whether sent by
Ancient powers or new ones or accidentally.
He had been sent on an errand by his new master
- An elderly magician who needed filling
Of life-saving essences in his medicine larder
Via the healing woman with whom
The wintry wizard sometimes scribed.
The latter had sent a letter so the demale
Could bring back the much needed herbs
To the outskirts of the Northern Hebrides.

Vigga was at her wits end - kneeling down besides
Another trunk lying in the woodsy underbrush
Her screams rang through the woodland
And she was no longer human, but feral
Frenziedly she became a female mammal
Due to her strong first-time birth pangs

Last time she howled when he raped her
This time when he heard her scream
here and now the demale had changed
He felt nothing, but compassion and a need
To help whoever wanted his hands
The healing woman had taught him that
And the wizard he worked for
Stressed that only through bettering
You yourself will have a harmonious
And happy awareness of accomplishment.

He ran to where from he heard her screams
He already knew it had to be her.
Vigga the Volva who with her sister had
Spared his life, but not his manhood.
He did not hold that against her
Because he knew now that taking a woman
Against her will at any time is a crime.

Vigga the Volva was kneeling holding on
To a strong beech branch lying in the forest
She held her other hand behind her back
crouching and leaning close to the ground.

"Let me help you," were the eunuch's first words
And Vigga recognized with terror in her eyes
Her old perpetrator whom she had spared.
"I come in peace and I can get you home
For you to deliver a healthy child.
If you cannot make it, the healing woman
Has had me help her many a time."
He knelt down and began to gently rub her back.

Again against her will another birthing pang
Jilted her fear of her former evildoer
And she let him stroke her lower back
Due to her excruciating parturition pains
She panted, "I cannot bear it."
"Sure you can - you are part of the chain
You of all people should know that."
"Yes but I..." another pulsation hindered
Her speech - she suddenly passed out.

The eunuch briskly spread out his cape
On the grass and revived the Volva by
Pouring water from his full flask
over her head and slapping
Her face not too gently -
He knew she was getting weaker
But it was also a matter of the child
She sputtered as she came through


In contrast to the last time he violated her
He gently lifted her dress and pulled off
Her panties wet from the water already gone.
"Spread your legs, I see the head coming,
Can you stand?" "Why should I stand?"
"You will use the gravitational forces!"
Vigga the Volva strived to get up
Yet, for her it was impossible
The eunuch then saw that the pressure
Labor pains had begun heavily
"Alright, we do it this way, then
Next time you have a labor pain
I will feel around inside to see
If I can ease out the bitsy bairn."

He then used the last water he had in his canteen
Over his hands - to try and be fairly clean
Such as he has learned from the healing woman
He sought again - he had some olive oil left.

The labor pains continued - he inched in her insides
Realizing the bairn had the cord around its neck.
Sweat ran down his temples but he relived
How once he had seen the Healer save a child
And to make amends he prayed to his Gods
The old spirits and even the old grannies
He knew there was not a moment to waste
And by the next labor pain he twisted his hand
Inside the womb again and forcefully, but gently
Freed the bairn's head getting his finger
Between the neck and the pulsating cord
"Push one more time and the bitty bairn will out"
Vigga the Volva was beyond care except obeying
Ancient rites of birthing letting her body take over.
By the next throbbing contraction the child slid out,
- Slime and blood - the eunuch caught it, a little lass
And he found some piece of cloth used for storage
Of herbs and spices and swaddled the child,
Gently swiping the bairn's mouth clean with
His little finger - now dipped in mint oil -
And gave her to Vigga the Volva, saying
"Let her suckle. That will help the afterbirth
To come - and you know it can hurt too"

Vigga took - her daughter - in her arms
Looked at her with such wonderment.
She, now a mother, turned around on the side,
Opened her blouse and eased the suckling
On to her swollen breast.

The eunuch smiled, but pressed down
On the Volva's now empty womb
Urging the important afterbirth to come.
The pains were extremely excruciating
But Vigga the Volva bore them
Because from this time on she held something
So precious and dear that nothing else
Could compare to her cherished child.
Before the afterbirth came
She shifted the bairn to the other breast
And looked so calm - in pain
The eunuch stared in wonderment
Bewildered at his own feelings.

"It's coming," and again lots of blood
and a stiffening placenta slid out.
The eunuch knowingly caught it
The healing woman would like to see it
He had again rummaged in his sack
Sacrificing a sermon he wanted to read.

"You will be getting too cold soon
So I shall go and get a cart to carry
You and the wee one, but I am sorry
To leave you alone unprotected."
"It will be alright if you go and find
The gurney, I do not think I can walk
Or at least not that far - today.
Master Healer - Thank you for being here."
Vigga the Volva beamed brilliantly
At him and then at her daughter.
"I shan't be long. - Do you still have your knife?"
"Aye, that I have" was her proud answer.
"You have now fully redeemed your deed
and I wish for you to return to your manhood"
"I wish so too, one day, but not the way I was."
He bowed slightly and smilingly said
" 'will be back shortly, Be safe "

While the eunuch was gone the Volva
Talked to the ancient ones out loud
"Protect my daughter from harrowing harm
Let her have a cheery character
And may she one day meet her father.
I thank ye all for sending a rescuer
I from this day forth forgive him his dire deed
May he one day get back his manhood".
The blossom that she had picked
Earlier - the white and purple anemone
She took each leaf of the crown
Tossed it around herself and her newborn
Chanting silently ancient incantations
Not wanting to wake the sleeping suckling
at her motherly breast - Her sight showed:
A vernal equinox awaiting tonight
With an illuminating Luna over her hearth
Surrounded by Sophia, the Healing Woman
If she had nothing else to do, the Eunuch,
And in her arms her darling daughter Gemma Sarah.

a cell's life

the waves I have met
the ripples and tumbles
driftings, rollings,
twistings, coilings,
my bonnie cells
move along their path
I see the wrinkles
I ogle at my flabs
even though my abs
are not too untight
do I deplore
what I cannot have
my insecurity
my mood swings
my doubts
of my youthful years
yearning for wisdom
now wisdom stands
and laughs in my face
for what for whom
only the experience,
the road
and then some?

puzzle-struggle

Cross-word puzzle
in my local newspaper
strengthens the gray
materials every morn
to the nth degree
my hubby is better
at it - walking the dog
yet, sometimes I finish
some of the clues
at other times he does
but we enjoy the daily
mental struggle -

Buyers' beware!!

Bad girls's image tempts
an old fogey like me
why should I remain
the nice, subdued
little elderly female
(I was going to say lady
but I was never one)
I like the friendly royale
who described me as
bad-assed -that spells guts
gumption - hell on wheels
WARNING - to everyone
I may have a slight bent
life is now too short
to be nice and easy-going
so I have elected to become
- a freely obnoxiously
fun-seeking older gal
and I can still be your pal
if you can take my attempt!!

Dream-mare

a dream-mare of going into the woods
with two kids - finding - losing
our ways in the maze called reality
actually one kid was just fine
other child lost a down jacket
and I, his mom, couldn't find it
it was a strange maze of
rejection and redemption
all in lush green -what did it mean
to the dream-seeker and -awaker
all around a little after 6 a.m.
portending this rainy day's fog?!

Free words?

Returned once more
to the land of the free
yet the free are not free
libels of legislators
many crying racism
words weigh
travesty of truth
alas,
words will never be free!

Seed spreads

Augurous autumn, trees were flaming red
a blood oak stood brightly against
the pale morn light of rose fingers
just before the aubade marks its domain
the Volva Vigga stood with her grown lassie
looking at the sunup wondering where
the years had altogether and wholly vanished -
Gemma Sarah turned into another stout tree
whose stem was sturdy and fiercely loyal
her unctuous umbra radiated real joy
and true sadness - a mixture of womanhood
just as mysterious and mellow as her foremothers
she was her own self - another Volva - not -
because her father's fashion was embedded
in her own being - she was a mixture
of runes and age-old Jahve's tribe
of the earth she had smelled in her mother's hut
near the old Yggdrasil, the tree watered
by her mother's tears dropped before her birthing
raised by the two sisters and their fiendly friend
the eunuch - he provided the father's sphere
sometimes when he was in their neigborhood
on the way or back from a trip from his master
- the medicine man up north near the
great wall and hollow hills of the moors.
Gemma Sarah was going away to a larger town
creating her own life - the Volva, sad, but proud
knew that her off-spring would make mistakes
make her own life worth while, create what
she thought would be right for her, not the ancients.
Vigga the Volva felt her forefemales most vividly
in her veins wrung the herstory of blood,toils,
felonies against the founding females -
but Gemma Sarah rejected that she was part of that
whole rigamarole and instead devoted herself
to another art form - a line of singing songs
created mostly by manly men whose stories
told the dualities of living together
in hormonious harmony - very few of those tales
were happy and the wondering Volva mused
that her daughter might be daring to dream
without counting on the world's bastardy ways
of cutthroat carelessness - of wanting it less
but it was for the young to find out for herself.
Sadness filled her but she turned away from
her daughter's form - and encouraged her to go on
to fly on her own wings - hoping only that
she would land safely wherever she was heading
nothing absolutely nothing she could do
and therein lies the irony of motherhood
sheltering the bitty bairns for a timely period
again hoping that their wings will be strong enough
to bear their hopes and high-flying dreams.
The Volva Vigga waved to her offspring
sprightly taking her own off-beat road of fatal phase
going away netting her to an unknown nexus
away from the grandmother's and their lines
into the arts of harmony and heroines' heroic plights.
A rare road less trodden deeply down
a square taskmaster much more demanding
than many other odd-sounding old fields of fares.
Knowingly the motherly breast squeezed her fears
and stepped boldly aside - letting fair fate decide
the morning light now broke out into the trees,
the autumnal leaves turned crimsonly cardinal
adding to the shimmering aurora's dashing day
and in the background as her beloved daughter left
the motherly squelzing but sustaining sphere,
Yggdrasil yonder seemed to spout another spur
and the grannies danced in the daunting daylight.

Lag

Jetlag propels
my foggy waves
through the winds
I lag everything
numb and dumb
I barely stand
my jet lags
in glorious power
is this how
death experiences
the souls pulsate
from nowhere
to this non-life?
The poet should
never try to write
when jetlagged
this poem lags
both spirit and guts
so spirit will
be spilled in my guts
to knock-out
and then the circus
starts again - jets
and jets lag lag lag....

heat

heat waves internal
external heat waves
nothing but drops
sweat running down
yet you feel warm
all over and then
a slight breeze
a cup of tea
served by a friend
warms the heart
and the drips
does not matter
at all

termites

A little house of dreams
turning into a nightmare
I thought I could renovate
oh yes - treat termites

"The tour"

Waiting to go on tour
to see "the tour"
the circus touring
all of the spectators
clap at our tour
turning to each other
nodding -
we have seen another tour

evolution?

Witch burning night
for once I am home
in the pagan country
where during midsummer
it never gets dark
-
I felt it strongly
when my insomnia
was so very intact
last night

beatic beauty
of high summer's nighs
where adventures
awaits the old and young
at hearts -
when I see my country
like this
I wonder why I left
this - wonderous
little country
with the happiest
people in the world

But in my heart it was
my destiny to go - never
to return to the cradle

I grew up - wiser

Alone but not alone

...this morning on my peregrination
across the fields of blooming vines
I spotted a windfarm of mills
as I trundled further
I had a solitary sensation
of being part of a whole
from before there were people
until now
I saw Carcarsonne
from afar - a fata morgana
albeit - but I know what I saw.
Bucolic area to the max
and talking to the listener...




Carcasonne is over thirty miles
in direct line from where I was
standing.

Nature

No flies means clear skies
many of them and it rains
so when you walk
hear your nature talk
obey it because
it's without flaws
so I am always in awe
of mater's natural law.

thoughts of a garden

tending one's garden demands
patience and practice
making your buds grow
guiding them gently
trim them up the trellis
then prune them well
so that their growth
will be strong
practice and patience
sooner or later
most of the time
your blooms find their way
to climb the lattice,
but even the old gardener
keeps a vigilant eye
then hopes that
the dirt will be full
of wiggly worms aerating
and the rain substantiates
the new crop - strong
independently spouting

Un mardi matinale

Un concert ce matin
dans notre eglise
etait un emerveillement
pour mes oreilles.
C'etait une epreuve.
Les musiciens monumentaux
faisaient la musique
merveilleusement
Un privilege phenomenal
d'un Mardi de Juin.

Blockage

Cooler days in Languedoc
suddenly a writer's block
hits me with a bang
lo, not sturm und drang
but rather a middle age
me completely off stage
I try to get my bearings
not possible - despairing
walk away from this machine
create your French cuisine
and maybe you will find
your words, your absent mind.

un roi froid

Il y a du vent fort
dans mon village
il s'appelle
le tramontane
et il serait roi
des jours trois,
six ou neuf
on ne sais jamais
mais il est frais
ce vent du nord
il pousse, il fait
des bruits de volets
et comme il va s'amuser
s'il l'on veut ou pas
il reste le roi
froid.

Jump

Jump - said the clown
how high said I
not how high said the clown
how low said I
just jump said the clown


should
or shouldn't I

I i i

Once twice triple a village

to paraphrase the bard
once, twice, triple
a village -
it envraps me totally
absorbs my soul's desires
a village
the rain is damaging
the vines - we need sun
in a village
it will command my living
for the time I am here
away in the village

Those Norwegians!!

Those Norwegians -
those people from my north
wow - their generosity
their hospitality
defies all other
- they are unique
and for their existence
I am grateful -
those Norwegians
those people from my north

Those Norwegians
those people from my north
she - a beauty in herself
he - a comrade of mentality
they want to share -
and they do more than
is even wanted, less expected
those Norwegians
those people from my north

Those Norwegians
those people from my north
they taught me how
to give back to life
they give without thinking
how it is going to look
or how it will affect them
I humbly thank
those Norwegians
those people from my north

To Ia and Torsten

Rain haiku

Lime-colored lush lawns
last only till the sun burns
the rain has spoken

Process of poem

Working on another poem
the poetess is giving birth
to a very difficult child
it will take long to breech
and it will never be compleat
because the words and meanings
change along with a world
of full of surprises
decisions about what and where
and how and who and when
tumbling around inside
not the womb - but the mind
the germination of a human
takes nine months - this
may take even longer
having already thought of it
since it was first begun
it is one of its kind -
yet which way it will go
its maker still wonders
and time only time shall reveal

Hostile world

what to do in a world of hate
where to turn
where to find the tiny bit of love
where to yearn
what to do in a world of hate

what to do in a world of war
where to turn
where to find that tiny bit of peace
where to yearn
what to do in a world of war

what to do in a world of famine
where to turn
where to find that tiny bit of food
where to yearn
what to do in a world of war

what to do in a world of chaos
where to turn
where to find the tiny bit of hope
where to yearn
what to do in a world of chaos

Stories from home...

Washing machine
not pumping out
what to do?
Hubby away.
The water stands still -
I look at it -
try to pump out
several times
jerking the knots
of the machine -
Conclusion:
the pump seems to work fine
but the remaining water
still standing
grins at me.
Hubby's advice,
"buy a new or wait for me."
Not a viable solution for
the at-home-wife.

Hmm, back in the mist of
my school career of physics
I remember the vessels
of communication.
Told my daughter and found
a plastic tube long enough
to use for this experiment.

My practical progeny
took over and did the feat
without grumbling.
But when the last water
was almost gone
she caught a cup
started to scoop!
----
Sadly dawning on me
it would have been
so much faster?!!
And the thought never
even occured to me!
----
We laughed and I promised
her - not a rose garden -
only a cup of nice coffee...

Outlook - a loss of words?

Googling the world
will be forever entrenched
in our daily lives -
only to have it changed to
something entirely
different that we cannot
yet imagine
so
with John Lennon I shall
plead for phantastic
dreamers and holistic
young minds -
endeavour to strive
for the goodness
deep down
very deep down
no wars no hate
no give me give me give me
what did you ever do
to deserve give me?
I still am a hopelessly
hopeful idealist.
Mayhap googling for
knowledge and dreams
will live beyond hatred
beyond greed - ?
Imagine googling
hate, and the word
had disappeared one day.
Imagine googling
war, and the word
was gone from the world?
Would the loss of these
two words be so bad?

My mother's eyes

Steel blue and gentle
clearly aquamarine
I have never seen
anybody else with that hue
unique and proud
she hid herself
behind a veil
she a lady
would take one look
at you -
you would know
whether you were in her favor
or out of it
sometimes she was sad
sometimes she was angry
but most of the time
she was composed
and self-contained
Steel blue and gentle.

Dreams of images

dreamer of dreams
welder of weldings
painter of paintings
yielder of yields
musicians of music
imaginings of images
which came first
language or thoughts?
does it matter
when we can still
visualize hope?

A rose of the Jura Mountains

a rose of the Jura mountains
from afar it glimpses
a mild smile urging
a wayward wanderer
to try it on for size
this rose I encounter rarely
but to this day - genteel
and seemingly sincere -
the Juras speak the language
of Ronsard, Molliere and Proust
and the rose will bloom
in my mind for a long time
with the language in common

Kaput

blood pressure rankles
up and down the scale
genetics or boundaries
tai-chi or meditation
alleviates the burden
decompression desperately
urged and needed - cannot
I have finally gone kaput

To an honest person -thanks

a tiny hope for humanity
since yesterday morn
I lost my wallet in a city
terrified I cancelled cards
only to become totally
completely mouth-opened
astounded of the generosity
- an anonymous person -
returned the wallet intact - honestly

2:30 A.M.

awake I sniff
awake I drink a beer
awake at 2:30 am
and I like to sleep
soundly...
Semi-conscious
I take another sip
hoping to conk out
should I take another
beer?
In four hours
I have to be up?
Dog has nightmare
I hear her moan
in her sleep.

What I would not give
for a nightmare -
I would have slept!

Not in my backyard

Two feet on the ground
stomping down and up
(I bet you did not expect
this ) and
two feet dancing over
the hills of moonlight
along the Scottish moors
a sight I saw
when I awoke
at three
and I have not been
on the green hills
in a long long time
but because of my reading
the image of damp dawn
glimmered over my view
of the grass at a fairly
new moon - damp
meandering mist
from afar - in my own mind
but not in my backyard.

In the mood!

Sometimes you are in the mood
for buying something - whatever -
but you could not find anything!

Sometimes you are in the mood
for a special dish of your likening
but you could not find the ingredient!

Sometimes you are in the mood
for sex of a romantic kind
but your partner is not cooperative!

Sometimes you are in the mood
for listening to a musical piece
but you cannot find the right one!

Sometimes you are in the mood
for writing the perfect poem
but the muse is, alas, not with me!

Epidemic mobiltity

news with a twist
fast spreading
creating panic
(similar to Ebola -
only in Africa)
we - moving targets -
the "civilized world"
will be ruled
by epidemic proportions
resembling 1918
virulent mobility

Before the concert

To thee I sing
my kid of song
of multi reeds
you a beacon
of joy and hope
to thee today
break tiny notes
focus on melodious
musical scores
your inner self
and you shall reign
victorious!


To Jacob

Orpheus' plight

Orpheus with the lyre
stringing his desire
of serving an Ionian mode
each time a musician
grabs like a physician
his tools the mother lode
of the perfection he seeks
the instrument he tweaks
Eurydike's descending code.

conversation w/o words

dog lying next to me
wordering when
I tell her soon
she looks at me
are you truly my friend
yes I have to move
ok, now
yes...
in a little bit
her head down
I feel bad ...
so I have to go
since
she needs to go

Duty calls

My glasses lie next to the computer
reminding me in some way
to check on a lot of things today.

My computer is standing on a table
me realizing in some way
to get up and do things today.

Need more prodding - yes
turn the world off
start ---- cleaning soon...

April weather

Splotching drain water
with my Wellingtons
plodding on through
another grayish rain
the dog dashing fast
trying to avoid
the big puddles
she on her business
me on my constitutional
both enjoying somehow
April playing with
her own weather
- she is fickle -
we on our duty
can only accept
what she has measured out
a bountiful supply
of needed water
even though it seems
harsh on a cold morn.

spirit from oz

everywhere I bump
into your soul
bound in forever
inked and stamped
each time I look
at the ocean
your floating image
of a day in Oz
pops invariably
in front the umbra
inveigling my spirit

Scrapbooking a la 2009

Creating a scrapbook
online
is now a hobby
of mine
due to a wedding
in OZ
children and kids
because.
It kept me awake
all night
afraid it collapsed
my fright
would have lost hours
of work.
Hurrah - it functioned -
no irk,
so technology did
its thing!
All I have to do is -
pling pling!

(Un)Connected

Facebook and MySpace
fill us up
with overloads of tidbits
luring me to imagine
I stay connected -
if only for a second,
is that enough
for anyone?

World turns

Jumbled thoughts en route
weddings and grand kids
koalas and kangaroos
the ocean and rain forest
all come together
in the land of OZ
and mostly a friend
who is still mourned
today sixty... and
my world is still turning

Melbournian sun

Warmer fire-friendlier skies
buzzing that never stops
a young city
with semi city-planning
driven by economic
incentives
sun-baked dark pavement
schoolchildren
with hats on
mandated by law
this is the sun's country
ruled by the sun
wasted by the sun
fired by the sun
in a couple of years
the vegetation
must change to adapt
that is the only way
or else
it will be struck by
f i r e

Modern questions

IT department rupture
changes my day
can I afford to take off?

What if I didn't access
my emails for a month
would my world tumble?

My little cell phone
crashed - what would I do -
would my self destroy?

Trial?

another sleepless
predawn - drawn
upon a weakened body
resistance nil
a perpetual state
of deceptive fatigue
wanting nothing
but
to rest my cranium
upon the pillow
alas -
instead I sit
and mourn my unbliss
getting angrier
at myself
for not having
my serenity intact
and my mind cooking
overtime
one more hour and
it is sun-up
...zzz

To a fellow poet

Driving in the car
listening to music
still mourning you
a dj's afternoon pick
comes out of the speakers:
Wagner's Flying Dutchman.
Your death pounds me again
cause that was my choice
when having met you last
to hear that opus
instead of returning
to the empty house
- not knowing -
it was to be our last
after so many years.
You came haunting
this afternoon
and forever we shall
rest in the sea of souls
separated by fate
joined in poetry.

Celebrating noise?

The humming of the computer
the whirring of the hoover
the washer's going round and round
with the dryer's summing sound.
Nowhere in the house
is utterly quiet.
So dancing the Strauss
clutters the background
noise - my choice:100 carats.

Dirt's limerick

There once was a gravedigger named Dirt
he dug down with a spade in the earth
he hit a hard stone
broke his collarbone
that was the end of the gravedigger's hurt.

Mixed-up

a short minute
laughing sadness
sadness laughs
cheering gladness
unglad cheers
toxicivity mixed
in one dilute


(Dilute is used as a noun
even though it is not)
Toxicivity is a word neologism
combining toxicity with civility.

opposing walks?

walking the dog
in the rain
the bitch and I
enjoy the spring
the familiar streets
the neighborhood
the grass greening
and the smells

walking the mistress
in the rain
the bitch and I
sniff the spring
the familiar dogs
the neighborhood's other animals
the worms crawling
and the leftovers' rot

Unreal reality

A young mother was being butchered
she had two children
her husband wanted her unborn child
by another man - dead
she was of a different faith than mine
I heard her screams
on her deathbed she begged me -
an unknown woman -
to take her young daughter
and rear her without prejudice.

Theo's day

Each year we celebrate
Dr. Seuss' birthday
Just today
Like a Horton
it densely snows
the wind deftly blows
from the northern
the gale's almost an eight
Theo Geisel HURRAH
anchor's aweigh.

Untied

Calmness suddenly grabs me
a ticket to somewhere
a favorite spot
soothes my upset nerves
now I can function again
an untied knot
begins to unwind within me
slowly a smooth change
of a stumped clot.

Out-of-law-in-law

Bridal jitters
feeling flitters
when all is done
everything shone
calm reigns again
aussie girl dane

To Sharene

Pain in love?

Pain screaming from a blog
read on the net
hurting, turning a soul
outside in
to overcome fear
and get reactions
from anybody who would read
and believe it.
Sadly, only a few respond
perhaps out of caution
cause you never know.
It could have been
me or you or the person
next door, three streets away.
It could have been
my child or yours.
A private being in
a war cutting zone
desribing the love of pain.

My epitaph

suppose I were to die today
what impression would I leave
so far only 3 plus 2 -
therein lies my imprint
of the genetic pool -
suppose I were to die tomorrow
what wisdom would I imbue
so far only love, live, learn
throughout your life
my dictum for my dearest ones
suppose I were to die in 20 years
what savoir faire would I leave,
but to tell everyone to laugh of
all the world's idiosyncrasies
and mostly your own.

Threshold

A reaction to chemistry
feels very scary and weird
yet it was necessary
probably - maybe not.
It was not a choker
it was a sliding hurt
and then a throw-up.
Drained completely
I empathize with people
who take chemotherapy
For me I might opt out
if it ever came to that -
and yet this was nothing.

stop haiku

flurry of hurry
we often forget to stop
and inhale lilies

A test of know-why

Testing thyself
where you have never vamoosed
when you search for something
not quite branded
frustrated your ancient ancestors
yearning for wisdom-enlightenment
they did not get it
in your mind's blind-sightedness
by your own presumption
only to realize too late
that you could not know
that the chain in your genes
ironed you to the same ignorance
of whatever you
thought you could avoid
but sadly did not.


"Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something.” Plato.

Blank verse

Blank verse never tried
bleak violets of early spring
barren earth from wintry chills
none works today - an inane insanity
where poets before me have succeeded
I palely fail at this void go.
Ack, where is my inner bard?
A poet's conundrum
comes as no surprise
I am a prisoner of words
Blank verses do not arise.

Notes on the past

Music comes from afar
notes floating
hesitantly - yearningly
all I can do is
embrace the moment
so fleetingly always
not knowing the song.
The mathematical
equations of tunes
drip candyfloss
on my memory pad.
Alas, the slate has-been
a long time clear
longs for getting
out into the world
again - instead of
digging into
remembrance of yore.
Lyrics of love
is connivingly
convincing.
The music of now
is fleeting in front of me
brought to a stop
by defining death.
Only I can still hear
your tender theme song
and my now is still
in my past and yours.

Spirit to last

Body and mind
marbles over matters
yet all the time
we say these maxims
we know so well
that we don't adhere
to what we should.
Today is the time
because what if not
then nothing.
- Spunk -
dull carcass come
let's dance -
maybe our last.

Tour-de-pooch

Vive le tour-de-pooch
back streets
in the dark
with few lights
in a somber coat
walking the evening
tour-de-pooch
carrying a
headlight like
a coal-miner
handling a
plastic bag
with dodo
warming your hands
sooner than
real coals
and cooling
much faster
the eternal
tour-de-poop
a stroll at dusk
somewhere sooty
lanterns scarce
in a blue wrap
Vive le tour-de-pooch!

Scheduling

Scheduling busy lives
is an hazardous task
of overextended kid(s)
avoiding a blinding mask
of catastrophic drives.
To put the beavers on Excel
coping - surviving it well
hoping that you have earned
a skill for everyone concerned
and learning bit by bit
coping split by split.
This know-how comes in handy
when I in a frenzy namby-pamby
don't know whichever way
I am going - even today.

Mourn with music

A friend opened
the floodgates
and said it was OK
to mourn melodically -
so now my tears
flow freely
letting off steam
in A minor.
Yet, the music
keeps drumming
why, why, why.
Just as the elegy
is stopping
because the notes
run out
my drops of sad flats
eventually tarry
in adagio
as the mist subsides -
only the fantasia
of that friendship
lingers in C major.

Thanks to Ken

Thought of blogs

Read the blogs of political nature
thought it fun and great aperture -
realized that it's very democratic
although mayhap not so Socratic!
But it is way better than autarchy
it brings humans to hope with audacity.

Post-mortorium

I post a post
in my scriptorium
and think it matters -
yet I know so well
that what I post
has no clout
in any one's tentorium -
so I remind myself
that I only write
for my postmortorium.

Sunny side up every day

Imbolc in the sun
indicates more wintry weather
in between the equinoxes
Imbolc in the dark
dictates spring will spring
earlier than anticipated
Insights to yearly passing
enjoy the sunny sides
at least today
cause tomorrow
we may all die!

Cleansing poesy?? Hmm!!

Cleaning the castle
creates conflict
cause I despise it.
Anything to distract
from playing solitaire
to daydreaming
is better than
that dreary chore
of displacing
dust - dirt.
I should vacuum
instead of composing
a piece of "compelling"
cleansing poesy!

Ecomic summit?

The CEO's and the professors
are enjoying their time
at Davos as usual
asking themselves
what went wrong?
War went wrong -
greed went wrong
zilch oversight went wrong.
Your export of outsourcing
does not save the earth
anymore
a cushion of poor countries
who can produce enough
does not save the economy
anymore
Fighting a war creating nothing
but more need for greed
does not save the environment
anymore
The people at Davos summit
reminds me of the CEO's
from Detroit
begging for money
in the Lear jets.
It is all for naught
until each and everyone
gets that the party is over
and we have to start a new
world economy starting at home.
All the bonuses
all the money spent
on frills and fancy stuff
should be spent on one
thing only:
Educating the children
of the world
to be able to feed themselves.

(I did not know I was in tune
with Bill Gates who apparently
had the same conclusion,
so I shall dedicate this to
Bill and Melinda).

Hora fugit

From Heket's halo
at Osiris' death
unto Hecate's hunt of
souls in the night
heaving heavily
of hollow inhalation's
lamenting heartache.

Heavy heart
hails hunting horns!
Shallow halos
of any credos
heard upholding
my heavy breath.

Hampered heart
hails the hunting horns
of Hecate and her hounds.
Heket's frogs helping
Hatstepsut without
having no hit than
hermetic sorrow.

Ice and twill

Iced-in until
the plow comes through
what else to do
but thumbs twill!

Updike's dictum

WARNING: NOT A POEM!
Updike wrote "the printed books are meetings of two minds"

Philosophizing over
what a writer exclaimed
I lament over something else
that the publishing houses
now have changed the writing forever
due to the money issue.
Most of the modern American
literature is boring
due to the sameness of language,
so I still find that
other old world cultures
use different writing styles
and are pleasantly diverse.
Is Updike right?
Is the printed book the only medium?
Working in a library where we lend
different mediums of presenting literature,
audio, manga, dvds, we do not distinguish
between the ways our patrons employ
to get their enjoyment of storytelling.
Soon I suspect
we will all have
one unifying electronic book
- will it compare?
While I understand Updike's dictum
I may think that he was of the old.
It does not matter in what form,
but what does matter is
how the receiver's state of mind
captures the sender's message.
I suspect we have an overload of info -
sometimes difficult for modern wo/man
to just sit down
and read the written word.
Yet, never has so much been banged out
as in the electronic age.
Alas, maybe both the sender and the receiver
should take more time -
breathing in and out -
writing and reading -
and both minds would benefit.

(having said all this, I still enjoy
opening a book for the first time
and plunge myself into another world -
the smell and the typeface and paper's
feel takes me back to my school girl days
of yore when my world was young
and I was curious, just like Updike)

Partners-in-time

Why do I publish
these posts and poems -
tortured by thoughts
of immortality -
big words even larger
than lady luck
or a crate of kismet?
Nah, none so big
of an alluring idea!
Only I have the urge
to write these
sad little pillars
of human truth
and hope that someone
finds them -
if not entertaining -
then at least
serviceable synonyms
for her or his distinct
feeling in time.

Consolator

Friendly flowers
following a fatality
affect a fellow being
humbly accepting
your solace
and saying frank thanks
for your fine empathy.

Thanks to Jesse

Bleak seas

I imagine
your soul
travels along
the coast line
where you lived
with your family
for many years.
I imagine
your wife
goes down near
the big waves
feeling totally
drained
(ironically drained
has to do with liquid)
pondering what to do -
how to cope.
She is the stronger one
of you two;
yet, there comes a time
where she is at
her breaking brink.
Bleakly, she stares,
I imagine, at the
incoming waves
wondering
why - so soon.
If I could meet her
right now
I would tell her
to take a walk everyday
near the sea
and talk to you.
By facing the waves
she would encounter
your smile
in spite of her
blue bleakness.

For Janet

Half a story!!

Someone drove
me to the airport -
I put the note
in my pocket,
actually I had
two to give.
Placed them out
next to the driver.
Said good-bye.

Later that day
somewhere else
I discovered
half a note
in the same pocket?!

An email arrived
in my mailbox,
a friendly
question?
Do you have the
other half??

Only myself
and my hectic pace
to blame
I hurridly
sent off the
missing half.

Later, another
email explaining
that the two halves
were now whole
and someone
had exchanged it
for the legal tender
they were.

So the story goes
that the one half
met the better half
and they became one!!

Another way of looking at the past

Once upon a time
there was a man
a poet,a dreamer,
who came to love
another poet,
a dreamer,a woman,
By accident they hit
each other -
jackpot of souls.
Once upon a time
a man loved a woman
she loved him
but could not contemplate
living down under
for her this was alien.
Once upon a time
there was a woman
who very realistically knew
that the two persons
him and her were
soul mates -
a yang and yin
but fated to never to be.
Once upon a time
in the book of souls
it was written that for them
it was a no-go
yet the left behind
wonders like never before
what if ---
alas, a mute point.
She smiles of
once upon a time
we did love one another
somewhere - somehow
and that's all
that matters.

A stone

Sorrow places
a stone on my chest
I can barely breathe
- at first I thought
heart attack -
yet, the heartache
real as it is
represents not
only the bleak blues -
but the dark dolor
of gray granite's
quiet grief
- and it hurts
palpably - gravely
a sorrowful stone.

A relationship

Thirty five years ago
somewhere some day
we found ourselves
in a little boarding house
in Cambridge, England,
we encountered each other -
the Great Dane, a bitch,
you named me in a poem,
and
the sweet Aussie guy
I always thought of you
that way.
That evening we met at
our boarding house's host's
son's (genitives galore)
party - I was leaving
shorty after and
had not really made any
true friends -
you came from so far away
across from India
where you, awestruck,
described the people
- the poverty -.
By chance
your life and mine
intertwined that Sunday
after the party
talking - chatting - listening
grasping for
the thread of life
in our lives.
We held nothing back.
I do not think
we made love that first day,
but later before I left -
we did.
I departed on schedule
to go back to Denmark
and start my last year
of my bachelor's degree.
You were finished -
sort of and your career was
what I had dreamed of
in my childhood - journalism.
How could I not have
loved you -
I did in my own way -
but not in the sense
you wanted me to.
We met twice after
once in Cambridge again,
and later in the fall
the following year -
you came to see me.
I do not recall
whether you came one
more time - alas -
my mind refuses to
give up its secrets.
But during those two
years we wrote by mail
every day - maybe twice
three times daily
so nothing was hidden,
except I thought
I could never go and
live in Australia.

The correspondence
grew thinner
years passed -
you and I married
(apparently three days apart)
yet not the same year
and not to each other.
We kept on writing.

One kid here
one kid there
between us
six children - three each.

Fast forward
thirty three years.

With an unknown hand
fate placed me in Aussie
for the surprising birth
of my first grandson.
We were scheduled to meet,
alas, he was late
so I did not go to
our encounter.

Almost two years later
my other grandson
announced to the world
that he had come
- and I had to return
to the land of OZ -
no longer scary
no longer unfamiliar.

This time you came
and we had an almost
reenactment of that first
Sunday in Cambridge.
We talked - and talked
for dear life as if
we were never to talk again.

We talked maturely
about everything
like we used to
thirty five years ago.
Our spouses, our kids,
my grand kids,
your oldest who is not
what he might have been.
of my oldest and his
roundabout journey
to the land of walkabout.
We talked of sex
we talked of no-sex
we interacted as if
we had been living a dream
- yet somethings were
not the same.
A little spark of divine
Eros fluttered in a
Melbourne hothouse
due to - maybe - never again.

I followed you to
the airport bus
with the hope to see
you when again
I shall descend
upon your native soil
this Spring for
a wedding.

When you departed
I could not go straight
home, but found
a concert of Wagner's
"The flying Dutchman".
You left me, but
I deserted you
so many eons ago.
Yet your death -
your fleeing being -
reflects my mirage
and I shall forever
mourn what could not be
because I did not dare
- yet the memory of
our scant meetings
and somehow our
poetical soul-matings
will be honored
as long as I shall live.

Change haiku

Transfiguration
from seed to liliflower
brown green white and death

Death belongs to life

ephemeral entity
floating fleetingly
eventful eternity
fairly fiercely
everlasting fatality

No metaphor for death : Joel's eulogy

Joel, his crooked smile
will show nevermore

Joel, a dear co-odist from Aussie,
we met so seldomly

Joel, husband of an unknown friend,
the love of his life, is for her lost

Joel, father of three sons,
tried the best he could

Joel, man of words and letters,
wrote within himself songs

Joel, his romantic reason,
craved humbly little more

Joel, his poetic psyche,
will be missed thoroughly

Joel, man of my youthful yearnings,
lives on if only in my memory

Joel, each of those you touched
will always treasure you

Joel, your fine footprints
tarry your soul for evermore

Death never turns you away

I'm an automatic
writing machine
I have taken over
my mistress's mind
I, a younger version
being from an ancient
circus myself
a Mephistoean helper.
The ambassador who
embraces young, old,
how could I refuse
to speak with him?
To understand why
gains no insight -
just acceptance.
The automation of
writing may help one -
but not the other.
Humans cope differently,
some may never survive -
dead forgetting to live
while their surroundings
comprehend not.
Mourning period, yes,
excessive grief - a disease -
killing again.
I welcome everybody!

Poof

Split like an atom
in three worlds
poof
split like a child
to pick chocolate or vanilla
poof
split like a teenager
Heavy Metal - hip hop
poof
split like an high school student
work or college
poof
split like an adult
companionship or not
poof
split like a parent
one two or three
poof
split like a grandparent
yours or theirs
poof
split like an old crone
life's little adventure
poof

Bank morality

The banks are to help you survive
at least that is what they have the clients believe
not true -
only they want to grow money alive
for themselves and the needs of their executives
not you.

Seek not found

Feverish I search
for items thought
fearing I slipped
fair isles wrought.

Le Portable

Un portable est le seul appareil
qui te sert a faire la connextion
du monde entier autrement dit
sinon je serais totalement isolee de ma vie;
au lieu de faire la conversation avec
les gens du village
tout le monde se barvarde comme
des singes seuls avec leurs portables

Les gens du Paradis

Chez eux je me sens si a l'aise
je l'entends leur bruits
dans la cuisine ce matin
les gens du paradis
je les embrasse
et les remercie
de leur gentilesse
comme a dit Baudelaire
une memoire si douche