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