Imitation - hopeless

The what and when and where and now
is somewhat the start of a seussical cow
it is a so called verse with words of woe
that comes from my itty bitty red toe
the what has been done - so  now the when
is in place from a great big fat hen
on this day - muggy and overly hot
alas this rhyme is all I have got
When does the where comes from so?
you will find me in a field of fine farro
so the now is not the last of the how
I am sweating - just glance at my brow
Alas - imitation is learning - how not to do
so Mr Geissel - my words have no clue.

In admiration of Theodor Seuss Geisel!
 

Nyt ord -

En veninde sagde
her i landet bruger vi
ikke mange mundbind
Hvabeva?

En coronavirus havde
lukket folk indespærret
og sundheden voksede
œh hmm?

Ja forklarede hun
mundbind er ligesom
hygiejene bind
Nå sådan

La mésolfoque*

Ma jeunesse perdue dans les nuages du temps
commence un poème ridicule romantique
les sentiments affolés d'un amour fantôme
se présentent pour une femelle authentique
sans qu'elle regrette le cycle  tout à fait roulé
qu'elle touche un ère psychosomatique
où la vie devienne tout courte et comptée
chaque moment ne doive être diplomatique
mais reste vrai et absolu - une quête franche
du dernier train d’un destin en tantrique
là - elle embrasse la passion sans gène
et dans la vision de l'univers osmotique
elle lèche les gouttes d'une chimère vraie
en sachant qu'elle n'est qu'un mésolitique.


*une mésolfoque : Une personne qui cherche l'ancienne idiotie encore une fois

Glad to be alive ...but

A pandemic forces
domestication
Of a special kind
Even if you hate
Housework
Grit and daily grind
Its twisted logic
Develops quirks
So the cook
Must cook meals
And the neatnik
Neatly cleans
The lover I seek
Is not here so
I cook more
I bake more
I even tidy more
But making love
I ain’t doing
So guess what
I am more lucky
Than most
....

Ray of fun

A ray of fun came by
With new ideas of why
The world changed

A light of joy swung by
To just electrify
The eve changed

A part of me said hi
You are such a sweet guy
My soul changed

Vølva in time of Corona ( sorry Gabriel Marquez)

The old Vølva felt terrible witnessing
a pandemic - a part of human scourge
swelled from pangolins or bats
no matter how this disease spread
wildly from zero to unbelievable numbers
Within few moons the tragedy traveled
Withering - all anyone could do was:
Isolate inside and wear a mask
Like a band-aided bank robber right
In front of trusted friends, trivial foes,
family or familiar faces just for
The fact : the wild vulture of a virus
Was airborne - eerily earnestly
Generously grabbed anyone
With any weaker immunity- ideal
Growth gaining grounds
Hard to grasp even harder to go
Ahead and just keep two horse heads
Afar - the Ascot opening race
Came to mind - a million
Possible combi of careful
Thought out ideas of whys
Wherefore and wherewithals
It seemed to anyone with
Just a tad of justified motion
That the human race had
Met one of a kind beginning
To rake out through the ranks
Mostly the underprivileged
People whose immune systems
Were composed differently
Or compromised diversely
Whose staccato  status
In some ways did not match
As meticulously as younger
Folks ; their offspring
Seemingly healthy had
The good luck in being
Strong in vigor and will
Something that Vølva Vigga
Aspired to now - alas
Her mind or lack there of
Was hindering her heartily
Due to a mindset that she
Was forever in shape
Which she was not
Knowing this even did not
Inspire her wilted soul
Being caught in a place
Which was almost against
Her will - being trapped
A bird who could not fly
Freely so her fearless flight
Was hemmed by broken
Bones and bolts on her window
Stopped the whirlwind right
At the pane and feeling
Far from controlling her
Spirits she wrote to Sophia
Her highborn sister akin
Asking her help in this situation.
But her kindred wise sib
waddled in sadness and told
The wildly troubled vølva
That she like anyone else
Must wait it out - outlandishly
- yes - but sacredly sanctified
By using her mind wisely
Stay put and conquer herself
Her earthly desires - her dread -
Her sister’s and her own sorrows
Should become her whole shield
So that despite her search outside
For life and livable moments
She must contain  herself completely
Her life was literally her death
If she did venture too much
Away from the given path - pathetic
She - the wise Sophia wrote
If Vigga the Vølva did not
Follow an advice  - an awesome choice
Life or early death prematurely
would come as easily eery
Without a parole or a raincheck!!
The wandering sibyl silently
Read her sibling’s script - recaptured
Reality with raw dreams of freedom
But reality hit her right there -
Should she the vølva have a chance
Of living  once more freely
In her little house near the brook
She had no choice but to remain
Where she was - and without
Tearing her soul into pieces
Her stout self preservation
Knew that to fight is to let go
The vigorous virus would pass
And just move out of its way
Carefully not to get caught
And so the vacillating Vølva
Sat down to write a thanks
Sincerely to her sister for
Her timely awesome advice -
She Vigga would stay around
Her place promising her sib
That she would wait for
A time when it would be safer
Sadly mayhap not this year
But in  about 17 moons
When the world had found
A swerving solution - encircling
The whole planet - a sure passage -
Just then she would embark
on a virgin voyage it seemed like
to her little hut near the brook
And she would again breathe
Freely whether it was winter
Spring summer or autumn
And the harvest moon would
Shine brightly as ever and
Mother Earth had also had
A beautiful breathing pause -
the voracious vølva Vigga would
dance a night's daunting jig
jauntily swerving her old frame
and become one with the earth.

My nightmare haiku

An urge or a must
Poetic outpouring hacks
Crown of red petals

Le jour des mères

Le jour de reconnaissance
D’être une femelle manquée
au mois de mai matinale
 Les possibilités que j’avais
L’intelligence et Le diligence
Les circonstances pas compris
Je me declare un échec
Sans amertume avec un geste
D’ haussement des épaules
J’ai raté ma vie intellectuelle
Et suis devenue une mère
Même si un rôle m’était imposée
Par la société - pas ma mère -
Ou c’était à cause de la nature
( merveilleuse excuse trouvée)
Qui fondamentalement m’a
Changée - trop intéressée par
L’humanité sans qu’il
s’occupe de moi (Existence)
Une femme handicapée
Qu’on les rencontre souvent
Il y a des femmes qui peuvent
Faire tout comme les hommes
Hélas - je reste dans un acte
Une pièce de théâtre ancien
Medée mais pas Pénélopée
Qui n’avait que defendre
Sa maison pour le retour
De grande voyage D’Odyssée
Et peut importe que son mari
Avez des maintes maîtresses
Elle l’attendait patiemment
Mais Medée fut un sauvage
Actif et se forçait de penser
Comme un homme et horreur!!
Ne me prenez pas, lectrices,
Amère et cynique et des autres
Mots dérogatoires que
Vous auraient sûrement dit
Sur mes pensées - je sais
Que j’aime mes gosses tendrement
Mais je pense souvent aux femmes
Qui auraient pu faire le meilleur
Que la médiocratie qui est la mienne.
Peut-être si j’aurais eu un courage
Plus que j’avais j’aurais été
Quelqu’une de sciences (au lieu)
De l’utérus -le créature  du bien -
De la différence d’un monde
Manqué et masculin sauf
Cet univers soit exclusif
En enchaînant les femelles
De leur devoir de faire des enfants.
J’enregistre vos mots méprisants
Et pour vous vous avez raison
Mais pour moi je me demande
Si j’aurais été plus heureuse
D’être une prof scientifique
ou un auteur des belles lettres
Au lieu d’accepter mon destin
De biblio-quasi-literati  mère
Avant ma mort sans faire
Une révolution intérieure
Comme avait fait l’artiste
Grandma Moses ou au moins
Donner aux autres femmes
L’envie de ne pas tomber
Dans la piège de l’esclavage
On peut avoir tout mais
Il faillait être plus fort
Que moi - et demander
Égalité Églantines égalité!

Haunted honored beyond

A renaissance painting with skeletons
and death juxtaposed along ars vivat
somewhere from the vitality of a mind
to the modern humble viewer of sorts
can be a meeting of strange ideas
crenellated buddying Venetian buildings
sfumati gardens of yesteryear's lords
: honor the dead creators and their patrons
without whom truly none of this art
would have survived or even been
an all-embracing court of long gone
masters of design in  vital vita brevi
turned ars longa - realized on a morn
the sky was dark the illumination bright
.

To Karen Warshall

A consequential moment

Deeds of the past
Dreams of the present
Will be future’s fall

Why where to  who
All intermingled
But nightmares rest

Truly th’was a misstep
Presently foot hurts
Tomorrow a tree drops

Because

Because is not the cause
The means are not the jeans
With men in them
It is mayhap not even
The egos of the legos
Legends follow fellow
Fairytales of fair lands
Elbowing elves digging
Deeper ditches down
To where willows ward off
The caustic corrosiveness
Of all chemical causes
And its only beat is because

Speakeasy

A speakeasy somewhere
Hidden way from those
Seeking a buzz of sorts
They will find their need
cravings will surely lead
Excuses built-up in pace
Will persuade sooner
Than not unable to
Resist the chemical
Imbalance or combat
The psychological urge
Mind over matter
You accuse the user
But inbred in us all:
Over the matter is love!

Une gentillesse

J’entends que tu me parles
D’un autre coin du monde
Sans que cela soit immonde
Et sans que tu m’empales
Avec ton âme très gentil
Je rêve d’un être fugace
Montant sur son parnasse
Ou le mien - ah c’est futile
Mais je ne sais comment
Me débrouiller devant
Le confinement proscrit
Je deviens une junkie
Des  petits gaillardements
Une tendresse d’un amant