Solar smoked eclipse

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

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

Time 4 me

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

Belladonna haiku

Nebulous id
belladonna's purple shade
deadly doll of bane

Fun, fun, gone

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


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

Lonely?

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

Funk Gone!

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

To Randy Pausch

Sunflower haiku

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

Showtime

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

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

Moon women

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

Lamentable censors

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

Honest politics?

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

Brain power

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

le tour et mon village

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

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

Great horny owl

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

Apres la fete

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

Torben Douglas

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

Wonderous way for a Volva

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat haiku

summer's hurting heat
alert with soft fireflies
festers sogginess

Sun memory

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

Leto

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

for the 4th

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

Le timbre

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

Canigou et l' araignee

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

Beziers beckons

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

Des idees

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

Des mots

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

Ants anywhere

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

Frenzy

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

Ordinality is
ordinary and reality
ino one word.

Glitzes

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

Beware of the werewolf

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

Scarlett fever

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

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

Escape ... today

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

It rains ..dogs

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

Simple

creating the basic
baking a bread
is living

Congratulations Mr. Punch

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

Awake haiku

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

done it differently?

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

Past pebbles

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

The solution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas - what half?

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

To-day's Word

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

ruffled feathers

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

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

A little bitter

Bitter oranges
sadness gripes
badlands

Bitter chocolate
gladness seizes
wasteland

Bitter almonds
madness attacks
wilderness

Poetry month

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

Penalty dance

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

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

Mom haiku

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

The Volva's command

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

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


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

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

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

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

Words - mimosas

Words - full of imagination

a world within a mind

just - once upon a time

pictures the words

Thaumatolatry

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

(with apologies to the tomato and the potato!)

Orange Gates

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

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

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

Spring tree

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

Briiliant

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

Spring in Rain

Rainimation will bring
Flowerisation of spring
Celebration we sing

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

Genetic makeup?

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

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

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

Ode to my its

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

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

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

The waiting

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

Pink April Fool

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

Spring wish

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

Spring sprung

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

It's the money - always

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

Hope haiku

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

Commedia

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

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

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

Bubbling haiku

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

Ode to quiet joy

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

Photographic Fantasia

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

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

My Grecian Urn Moment

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

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

Wall haiku

This Spring Ides of March
in wondrous wall flowers
incessantly blooms

Notes on Modest Mussorgsky

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

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

The First Sex - SCREAM!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiles of history

Tiles tell tales
mosaics prevail
the ancients - hail!

Blogging thought

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

Grave smokescreen

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

A dying idea

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

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

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

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

A vision

over the files

no retort

fear of ...

dying

February 29 Tanka

The frog leaps highly
in all the years of the rat -
a gorgeous high jump.
An Olympian gameshow
of theatricals it is.

Mood indigo

A fool's tirade
or a gambler's arcade?
The first's serenade
against the second's masquerade?
All a big charade
in the world man-made.

Smothering

when mothers protect
their offspring too much
we neglect to let them fail
in motherly smothering
in the name of our love
a child just derail'd?

Virtute et armis

Thousand ships launched
for a beauty of a face
Thousand rockets hurled
for a true just cause
Thousand stones thrown
for an innate sacred right
Inhumane humanity
in vain - only vanity

Hamlet's dilemma

belated
updated
rotated
debated
negated
indicated
to be
syncopated
or not

Chance encounter

unknown poet-man
admired an essayist
found a tome of his
read it quite avidly.

unknown fellow-man
a solid worldly view
quiet happenstance
a fab allegorist.

On reading one of Christopher Hitchens's
books on an unknown man's recommendation

All clowns

Clowns clean faces
front the world
with its own idosyncrasies.

American senryu

feeble foible
2. amendment
kills - right?

Hopeful haiku

Little white snowdrop
hearty herald from brown dirt
spikes imminent spring.

A comment on the world!

Mundane mutants
of regrettable sorts
fall over each other
to properly comport.

A funeral

tomorrow will be white
then brown,
fertile dirt, dark,
full of worms and life
the coffin with the body
will mingle well
mors ultima linea rerum est

Icerain

How very germane
that the weather
adheres to
my mood.
Icerain.

A choice for a woman

In her cape lined with bear fur
the Volva Vigga wandered aimlesely
in the woodsland she used to feel
safe and secure and stable in.
This had been six weeks since
her vicious vitriolic violation.
The healer she had sought healed
her beaten, bombarded body so-so.
Her sister Sophia who had come
soon after sat with her for seven
despairing days and seven sad nights
talking and reading to her from
their grandmother's old diaries.
These leatherbound parchments
bore witness. A child's rape.
Gruesome reading it was
and somehow their granny got through -
but only when Grosswolf was knifed.
The steel from Toledo well sharpened
had sheared the perpetrator's neck.
The woodsland fey had made sure
that the hushed hut was enchanted,
so Vigga the Volva could rest
and get her bearings, alas not brought.
She would remember till her dying day
the victimization of her true self
and the total helplessness towards
the power of the cruelest brutality.

Vividly she replayed the rape in raw visuals.
Not being able to stop the pounding
hit her womanhood with such frustration.
She was perfectly and purely powerless.
How could she live on? Facing real reality
she wringed her slender white hands.

Her bosom had started to swell
Her nausea nipped her in the early dawn
Her missing monthly female flux -
Vigga the Volva wanted to weigh
the various ways of her crucial choices
something that any woman would do
in her strenuous and sticky situation.

She was not as young as she pretended.
In her womanly prime she would weigh
the prime possibility of ever carrry a child
or elect to bear the vicious rapist's copy.
Her delicate dilemma was not easy.
She came to the little brook she so
often had gathered healing herbs for fey.
Staring at her self - an image of healthy woman
in the water she was asking herself,
could she truly come to love the child?
In truth - she sighed - she could not.
She would always both see her perpetrator
that face was engraved with a rage so bound
in hatred and think of her own helplessness.
One thing she wanted for a child of the earth
was happiness from within, and she could not....

Having mulled over the rippling waters
she sighed and started to warily walk
towards the healing woman's hut.

Vigga the Volva had made her choice.

My brother

The chain is broken -
a link to a past gone,
vividly remembered
for his humor and joy
his politcalized talk
inspiring his friends.
No doubt about it -
a wonderful husband
and a great father
and a fun grandad.
Wanting the world
in his own special way
and he designed it so.
Alas, memento mori.

Common Cold

the common cold
turns and twists
in nasal cavities;
can doctors find
a cure for these
vulgar calamities?

Thoughts on Super Tuesday

American woman
to vote for a woman president
is to embrace herstory.

If this is gender bias -
then this is the time
to change hisstory.

Woman to vote
for a smart woman
is a vote for herself

Why?

Why, she asks,
did he leave?
Why, she asks,
did he leave me?
Why, she asks,
did he leave me and the children?
We had a family.
Why, she asks,
did he change?
Why, she asks,
did he change after 30 years?
Why, she asks,
did he change to have a new mistress?
We were a family.
Why, she asks,
couldn't he talk?
Why, she asks,
couldn't he talk to me?
Why, she asks,
couldn't he talk to his children?
We would have been there for him.
Why, she asks,
did he buy the house?
Why, she asks,
did he say he wanted the house too?
Why, she asks,
did he all of a sudden change and we did not see it?
We could have worked it out.
Why, she asks,
do I still love him?
Why, she asks,
do the kids still love him?
Why, she asks,
does he destroy our family after 30 years?
Why? she asks.

wild haiku

Wildebeast - wombat
in the noisy savannah
willingly abide.

mask for peace?

tired mask
of civil conduct
rips rationale
for mortals.
in short:
no civility
no ability
for peace.

A bough

West wind
winding street
a branch
ripped off -
a Mensch
look-alike,
head, arms
body, legs -
dead
yet its torn
corpse
had done
its duty -
it bloomed
in Spring -
it carried
seeds
in Summer -
dropped
its leaves
in Fall -
and
a few years
later
was felled
by the
West Wind.

Futuristic fantasy?

From Edison's talking
via vinyls walking
bits and knots
Blackberry - I phones
Windows - Vista
via floppies to Zunes
blips and blops.
Will future bring
relief to mankind
by being connected
at all times?
Will war finally
be totally erased
by connecting the dots
or you just fire up
your brain - crazed?

Mixed metabolism

Immortal divinities
of human creation
do the animals believe
in animistic amalgamation?

Immoral deities
of hellbent credos
augur the aurochs
of Herculean libidos?

Imposing Darwinism
of happenstance crescence
will not salvage one
from dusty tumescence.

Death wins - every time

Anger revisited
peppers memories
of the one I trusted
in childhood,
but betrayed by
in adulthood.
Yet as death
agonizingly
approaches -
wrath dissolves
into silver sadness.
Mellowing Mnemosyne
erases everything.

T o r n

Torn
between
two
worlds ;
a new
an old
where
is
my
poor
wreathing
and

split

soul ?

Paradise revisited.

Paradise revisited
in January
a garden not remote
but beauty in bare twigs
add a bouquet of mimosas
harbinger of Spring.
Yes, there are tides in Paradise
as well as people
ah, it was a precious moment in time
wishing for all to have a memory
like that to cherish.
To the people of Paradise
a heartfelt thanks.

Once upon ...

In this little village
where people flow
where children grow
where folks die
where poops lie
where life takes
where it wakes
in this little village.

Eggs and meat

In the little village
a lady of mature years
walking with a tote
heavily filled,
but sticking up
the indespensable
a baguette.
A man walking a dog
with a stick
saying to the lady,
"Bonjour madame".
Living in the same
village for more than
30 years -
they still vousvoyez.
Thrice weekly market
is on today -
all the vendors are here,
the man with the horse meat
the egg man with fresh eggs
the eternal bag vendor
various and sundries
clothes offerings -
some practical - some not so
all in front of the town hall
a square where people gather
for about 2 thousand years
except this village is not quite
as old in view but in spirit.
Yet the time of the ages
flows along and generation
upon generation runs through
the veins and the alley ways.
There have been folks
for ... ages and we are all
part of the meat chain.