L’orage violent

L’autre jour il y avait
Un orage dans mon cœur
Il y restait longtemps
Encore il grandissait  avec
Plaisir et pandémie
Je ne pouvais/voulais pas
Le faire taire au vent
Violent et foudroyant
Il me prend encore
Ardemment et j’aspire
Au fond de mon âme
Qu’encore une fois
De rester sereine
Sauf si avec ce sentiment
Je pourrais vivre
Fort et faire l’amour
Comme une sirène avant

- isms

A poem about - isms
why on earth?
a poet has no choice
only to write about
what happens
in her every day world
plagiarism or nepotism
fascism or cynism

- there are others
slightly less morbid
optimism - altruism
idealism or feminism

feminism would be
considered problematic
for some
for others perfect

whether you find
qualms with creeds
or you enjoy
their doctrinal code
they are part
of our genetics
rebuff or embrace
 - iffy isms


 

Barre needs

I need a barre - old lady exclaims
I have ignored my muscles
so now they me totally disdain

Truly no ballerina I am
my body just needs to firm
got to be with a daily program

A barre in a woman's room of own
is a must-have at this time
where everyone does exploits alone.

Almost

Almost midnight darkness
Almost another day gone
Almost not thirsty
Almost not hurting
Almost sane and sound
Almost defying odds
Almost inveigling myself
That I shall sleep without ...

Symphonia Metropolitana

From the soul of Mozart
to a Welsh wayward lied
via an orchestral Wagner
to a New York "somewhere"
makes one realize
that ardent notes
of human singing
a capella or with instrument
or a grand orchestral choir
transcend the ether.
Love - Hate - Loss - Anger
Friendship - Humor
Feelings - not new
as old as die Menschheit
united under the corona
of our sun or Covid-19 -
give hope in
a digital modern world
to any isolated heart
with touching music!

Dedicated to Peter Gelb and the musicians and
The rest of the Met family with hope

Time is NOW (kinda haikus combined)

My time is just yet
not at all quite there for here
a tree is busting

Our altered lives
we knew not afore nor since 
spring springs out - boom blooms

No one can say me
I am not involved - no
rain flowers form up

In reflection yes
there is still days months years
until winter looms

Frustration ...

Furious with myself
computer is not foolproof
I am an idiot
so are some technical doodads
since it will not let me change
names and such
typos - gadgets galore
will not let me go
to website
warning 5 tries and then out
well - four times
writing to the webmaster
and hopefully resolve the snag
grrr
a modern grandma's willful
frustration -
added 10 more white hairs
to my mane and 60 more wrinkles
closing it down now-

Naught of night

Night was awake with thoughts
From the morning’s early time
Via the midday’s munch
To the afternoon’s sunny walk
Solitary and windy circles
Onto dinner and eve’s watch
The haunting circus resumed
Its dark and marred naught

"En réalité"

au lieu de voyager en réalité
maintenant il faut rêver
dans l'irréel de la véracité

on doit se plonger d'une mer
plein de poissons fantastique
prendre le soleil d'un brumaire

la ville de n'importe où
au bord d'une rivière claire
en compagnie avec un loup

l'atout de mon æil-de-bæuf
est seulement un mirage
de la peste du Covid-19

Die Marschallin

In covid-19 time
Lapping up sleepily
Der Rosenkavaler

Honest feelings
timeless plots
aging, lust, love

Opera conveys
Vividly and wildly
Foibles galore

Just a zénith
No pontificating
A conversation

You are a woman
The same as everyman
 Clock and cocks

Behaviors depicted
In plaque or not
Genetically forged

A verse approach’d

Poems come and go
By a wordsmith’s tap
No longer does the quill
Scratch the parchment
On a wobbly lectern
Under a moonless sky
At the quivering candlelight
But now sitting quite
Quietly with the phone
On her bed’s side
Staring at the white blinds
Shielding the writer
From the virus’s world
Knowing that nobody
Is safe - only from within
A healthy self ironical
Humorous whimsical mind
Can one dig up a defense
And pen it the poet must
by hitting the letters hard -
the little ditty is done

Min bror i ånden

Du  - en mand som jeg mødte
sent i livet - næsten sidste udkald -
har fødselsdag igen - et nyt år -
det sidst passerede har været
et dejligt et - tak kære brormand
på så mange hvælv et muntert
vindrikkende og badende
i midnatssommer og soldage
ved vintertid - et samvær
af en kaliber af et venskab
udi det himmelblåske nydende
gode  fornøjelige middage
og videre samtaler på whatsapp
ganske som om vi var i
hinandens stuer eller i haverne
du med paradisets lille blomsterflor
og jeg med stenede ditto
- tillykke til en Visigoth -
og må vi engang når coronaen
er forfløjen igen ses med
smil på læben og knus
indtil kroppens yderst led.


Til Torsten


  

Ode to a Vølva's longing

Sitting forlorn at the desk of her youth
Vigga the Vølva was contemplating
how in a coronavirus time
she was going to survive mentally
without her beloved forrest hut.

Her cloven diaspora from somewhere else
was getting to her vividly
not because she was in a bad spot
but she had promised innards
at one point in time to live elsewhere -
bred and born her family's ties
were strong - yet her sense of self
had turned into a primal screaming essence
without any help - without seeing
the petite paradise  any time soon
was enough to strangle her emotionally
and getting her blood pressure way up
to its maximum thereby endangering
herself to never see the visual symbol
of her freedom and her self-preservation.
Alas, she must try and figure a way
to sneak over to her "room of her own".
Arcadia was for her the people
the connections to the little foot path
of history mingled with grapes
of vines and olive trees - almond blossoms
in spring - on summer's nights
the cicadas whirling wings - the swifts
and the bats outside her window
gobbling up the mosquitos by the million
her dreamy view of a steep hill
reminding her that she was just a dot
and nothing else - but a speck
can have its own place in the humdrum
it was not about anyone's judgement
just her own deep conviction
that for some reason she should be
there and not here - it was her mother's
comment when she, the Vølva,
was of an age of late childhood
the you - (and everyone else) are alone
always - no explanation followed .
Of those words came over the years
that  - yes - we are all alone together
but in a small community with
various and sundry souls around
it is easier to take instead of being buried
in suburbia with pristine lawns
in air conditioned rooms in boxes
of people who are either too scared
or too snobby to talk to/with each other
thinking that life is gyms/parks to
drive to - and heaven forbid you should
walk to the mall, only a car would do.
The middle ages and ancient towns
are sturdy - mired in history
the Vølva feels that she is part
of a whole of a line - a blimp
or a grain of salt - a caretaker
of a little hut in a village - only
for an instant - it belongs to her
in her solitude among Visigoths
and Occitans - back to Romans
and even the Greeks - ancient minds
a  cornucopia of different lives
gathered in a small speck of place
and yes there is loneliness  too -
but in a beautiful environment
vitally tolerable - and sexually
stimulating - with the wine
good food and good moods
the "aloneliness" is in the mind
albeit invariably seen as non-existent
or at least it becomes hidden
Vigga the Vølva moped and the muse
left her barren once more
she had her say - for the time being
acknowledging the loss of heyday
away from her dream time
elsewhere - grateful that she still
could claim her dreams of life
and once you take a mirage away
then she knew that dear death
would not be far behind.

Pyramids - here I come....not

Got an email - urging me
to write a humorous comment
on life in general
send it to the top name
No way will I do
any of those schemes
of pyramids and such

On that same day
another proposal to submit
a new recipe of mine
to a top name - in
so many days I would
get 36 new suggestions
for cooking  - hot

Desiderata are growing
ironically this week
would have been gaping
at king Tut's treasures
in London - exhibits galore
Egyptian artifacts I love
Tomb propositions I hate

A house mouse

One evening at home
during Corona shutdown
a black mouse appeared
ran along the wall
shocked I screamed
for my husband
so surprised no scared
just weird that
it materialized now
and that somehow
it kept us grounded
in total reality
a mouse in our house

Another eve again
it came  and said hello
Methinks his name is Henry
after the pirate "Jack Avery"
This swashbuckling
started his career in
a town called Corunna!
This little creature
captures our minds
traps have been set
no  dice - no mice

Yesternight after
almost a five-day hiatus
again he came to visit
we were sitting quietly
reading books.
Hubby found a hole
in a wall - Henry's
 escape will be like
his namesake's cache
Henry's hoard was
never found -
and the current Henry
will not be bound.

Hudsult

Hormoner svinger i verden
det ved vi alle
hjernen drypper af oxytocin
til kraftige og smalle
men at nære et berøringsbehov
i en ensom verden
er dog trist og må bekæmpes
ved en daglig færden
af knus og kram og solskin
og en masse tumult
for at bekæmpe en sorg
over den saglige hudsult.

Stop press

The press does not stop
at the current time
and should not
No way should it stop
to reveal
unfairness
violence
hatred
manipulating
conniving
absolute disasters
and not so absolute
Never before have
the press been
more needed
Never before have
the press been
so maligned
Never before must
the press not
stop press.

Dear friend

A dear friend of mine
Was born today in Aussie
Not so many moons
As I can log on
But he died
I still think of him
Often  -
my youthful guy
My sometime
Soul mate
It was too soon
For me to leave
My known world
For many years
I resisted until
Life forced me
And I was happy
To meet you
Dear heart again !