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

philo haiku

befittingly lost
in translation of my thoughts
do (s)miles for someone

paradis

Far away from everybody
terrible things
happen
in my village cocoon
in Paradise
even here you cannot
feel protected.

Santa's elf

saw an elf yesterday
he was talking
about his job at a store
a funny elf
who saw too much
of foibles and feebles
of frantic footings
of foolishness
and yet ...
sympathetic to
human frailty



Thanks to Bruce Nelson
for his reading of
"SantaLand Diaries"

Unclimate haiku

Too hot rainy day
global warm(n)ing the climate
umbrella or not

Holiday greetings

Why do people write
the X-mas card, Hanukkah
or Kwanzaa or any other?
To connect, to say -
look I am still here -not dead.
The new trend "what-did-we
-do-good-this-past-year"
portends bragging rights
or at least a form thereof.
Only once have I seen a bad
one like my husband deserted me,
the dog died, the canary
pooped on the boss when he came
to dinner-my son is doing jail.
Well, once a year we all pretend
that we have a good time
even though some of us live through
hell, suffering from the month
when the mother-in-law takes over
everything - even your cat.
This rage the computer embedded
and now - we all have wonderful
memories of the year's happenings.
Erased are the bad times - surely
everything is fine -
let's write one for the US this year.
Bush year 8, economy bad,
oil prices high and then artificially low,
wall street even worse,
the housing crises up, no one's buying,
the car industry dead, the scandals
are coming out, but not the biggest one yet.
But, everything is just fine otherwise.
So, dear Mr. Putin, Happy Christmas, oh
so sorry I forgot you don't celebrate,
well, Happy whatever, because in the US
we are OK, and we can boast about one thing
we are getting a new president - who
hopefully will change the way we think.
What lovely Holiday Greetings.

Banks' delusions

Brutal banks
claiming to look after
your money
when only hoarding theirs.
The hurt they inflict
erodes the trust
so ...
what to do when the robbers are
in your own backyard?
Two options
wait and hope for the best
or .... rebel and unionize
the credit unions
you don't get much -
less is more
in the new world order
majority rules?
Nah - delusions!

Dogs are dears

Arranging for the family dog
to be fed and walked
when everybody is working on
a different schedule
seems sometimes insurmountable,
yet with flexibility
the issue has to be worked out
since the pet cannot open doors
except to every one's heart
we all understand
that we have to give a little
to get a lot.
Dogs are democratizers.

Frosty lawn

December chill lawn
the economy worsens
with waging war
and greedy moguls -
power-hungry puppets
with aggrandished egos.
What monumental failure
of global proportions
when the sun hides behind
darkening clouds
and the grass glistens
frostily and still.

Elves from afar

The cutout elves have arrived
as they do every year
since my childhood -
countdown
to Christmas Eve.
24 naughty paper elves
magically appears
one for each day
on paintings, on pictures,
on bookshelves,
all around the house...
and my children go
searching for them
like me then ... even today.
They know I put them up -
I knew my mom added them -
to our home in December,
but that little whiff
of elves' dust from a past
of bygone times
cannot hurt anybody -
and I hope the tradition
will continue
with our granchildren.
thus believing that
in spite of everything
little traditions
carry a light of elf magic.

Whippersnappers

When young you presume
you know everything
you whip - you snap
you strutt your stuff
young whelps whippersnap.
An immature feels important
the egocentrics boast of
their little knowledge
pretentiously in senior age
old coots whippersnap.
Lack of infinite wisdom
creates tons of dimwits
seeking no new insights
alas - we sometimes forget
our bit of whip in a snap.

jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy

jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
go out and get those wheels turning
go out and use your last credit
your state's taxes count on you
the holidays are all about gifts
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
the executives cannot live their fancy life
if you don't buy your kids
the latest battery-operated fads
that nobody needs - next year -
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
drive to the stores in your suvs
fight over the nearest parking spot
heaven forbid you should walk an extra yard
fight with your spouse over who gets what
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
wall street need main street
and even the good ole back streets
to satisfy its needs for riding
lear jets to fijii playing
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy
the fruits we grow are rotten
how we support the economy
with a war - with two wars
aint going to help the world just
jingle buy jingle buy jingle buy

Thanks haiku

five words of today
express simple gratitude
thank you for the earth

Numbers 4 fun

4 10 gallon hats 2
b filled 2 the brim
with joyrides
of a super kind
never 2 come back
2 the 9es
alas, 4 the hats
and the rides
they are, but air.

4 u I've cre8ed
1 puzzle filled
with funrides
in 10 gallon-hats
on a rollercoaster
grasping on 2 the 10er
gliding wildly down
hair8ing - get the picture:
splashing the 9es.

Found the answer?
- yes - the poet
has gone overboard!

Get it???

Polyvalent agents
in chemistry
work against each other.
Political polyvalence
in congress
fight against each other.
Results - antigens'
reactions proliferate
alas non-cooperation.
Antiagents - serum
can inocculate
against hate and envy.
Is homo sapiens
ready to coagulate
to cooperate?

Slam poetry

I learned a new term:
slam poetry,
you just sling out
your feelings
without too much
afterthought.
I did not know
that I had been
modern for so long!

Rainbows' resilience
of painted scenery
portrays colorful
insights into
the seeking souls
soothing their upset
spirits - showing
only sorrows.

Slam songs is said
to mostly veer
towards sadness.
Grief wins
over beauty.

Reflective realities

Darkening dusk
drifting - the dog and I
rove the native grounds
in our neighborhood
the barren trees
have shedded the last leaves
it is November it is cold
it is dark
that's our reality
what's yours?

Is it swaying palm trees
sitting on a bar stool
watching the setting sun
slowly slurping
your dry martini
as your lover gradually
let the backside of his hand
slide gingerly up and down
your thigh - an alluring
invite to make love?

Or is it fighting
a war somewhere in snow capped
dangerous pikes - howling winds
with no end in sight
to your battles against
what your leaders consider
the horrible enemies
supported monetarily
by others who hold their
own vicious agendas
not caring at all whether
you live or die?

Or is it cradling
your firstborn who has
just been born to you and
the unknown man who raped
you for your virginity
and yet your cannot
help looking at the wonder?

Or is it working
dedicatedly for a better
and more enlightening
world, somewhere building
houses for the poor
in a hot humidity
seeing that there is
hope after all?

Or is it being
alive where ever you are
and having lived
a truly productive
long life - wrinkled
in a rocking chair
gazing at children
playing in the street
watching that life
still grows gingerly
through unfairness
hate, poverty and war
realizing in spite
that rainbow flowers
will still bloom
when we are gone?

Angry haiku

bail-outs and nail-outs
who but the rich will profit
thorns struck war of bush

Mr. photographer

Mr. photographer:
of various and sundries,
faces and wines,
of sadness, marionettes,
whether on your own turf
or, surely, on mine
you will see what I don't
musings fair or blind
your skill, perspective,
your training, or just luck -
Mr. Photographer
you revile - you pluck
out of nowhere you grasp
out of the ordinary
that we are who we are
that Mr. Photographer
is your showing vine.

To my friends Mike and Chandler
http://www.galeriedeglantine.com/

Minimalists :)

Poets tend to be
minimalists
instead of composing
large oeuvres

proof: a "life" haiku

admonished: walk straight
bent roads blink beguilingly
despite rose' thorns prick

If you can say
in few words why, what,
where, when, and who

then you could be
a "menshevik"
if you mayhap
positions yourself to
be a poetical mensch?

needled by
an introspective
teeny musing :)

Drama queens

Yells and screams
from drama queens
what to do - tally ho
stop their feeding
and conceding
having indulged
the battle of bulge
redraw - no reaction
finally - no attraction
for screams and yells
drama queens' quelled.

The sun's day

Sunday morning breakfast table
today's paper spread out at random
mellow flavors of pancakes
coming from the kitchen
the kids grown up are creating
their same childhood aromas
now sharing with the old folks
coffee attuned to the palates
of the individual household
eternal continuum of Sundays

Mutt

I have a mutt
she is intelligent
she is a survivor
she came from a shelter
she was a teenager mom
she is half beagle
she is half coonhound
she is a dash of ???
she is a mutt
like me
-
when I tell her story
most people say
that mutts are the best
I always add
we are all mutts
and they nod

Ken

I ken Ken
Ken kens not she
so Ken kens not
his ken
I ken Ken


To Ken R

Voices

Voices wave their own flags
banners of souls - emblems of love
a certain tone, a specific twang
camouflaged with fairy dust of time
when you hear that voice
infinity waves in the wind
and you remember!

us election

election elation
population presentation
embalming obamarization
after years of bushism
histronic putinism
already jingling
alas only one night's
celebration of a us knight's
election elation

Good night Opus

Opus - a strange penguin -
running around in
his creator's head
doing odd tricks
questioning life
losing body parts
finding his mother
back in his country
only to die in DC
and return an amnesiac
let it be his final opus
to leave us all -
humane - shelter animals...

Bookish ADVENTURE

took a trip somewhere
in the twenties
as opposed to the zeros
what glorious fun
dancing to the new hot
jazz - in a ballroom gown
dressed to the nines
murder and tiny mayhem
sex in an old well
drinking unknown cocktails
vividly described hangovers
in the crazed conundrum
of this current quagmire

To fall trees

Gentle generous trees
of blasting colors
I marvel at your hues
yet the mansuetude
of shining on my road
humbled at nature's foot,
pursued by the night's
lack of sleep and energy
and you hit fabulously
my dopaminergic neurons
slumbering - awakening
yes - I am alive
and gawk at the foliage
on this early fall morn

Crossroads

a straight line
running ahead
break
stop
two crossroads
another possibility
hmmm
which to grasp
if one then something
if another hence
two more branches open up
the third prospect
grows into four new options
the equation does not add up
but keeps entangling
the threads -
at that time you can
without looking back
incriminating
your choice
only pick one
intelligently,
intuitively,
or toss a coin

Lost key

lost a key
found tons of treasures
trying to locate it

lost a key
found old kids' pictures
trying to locate it

lost a key
the past haunts seeker
trying to locate it

lost a key
odds and ends thrower
found it not

To P who helps me forever

Harvest Moon

Harvest moon - hunter's moon
Samhain - Hallow's eve
we sow - germination - we pluck
only to acknowledge those
who came before who lived
alongside with us
those who live in the same hour
we are them, we are us,
our children shall remember
that they will also partake of
Harvest Moon - hunter's moon
Samhain - Hallow's eve


mors ianua vitae = death is the portal of life

Goodbye to an era haiku

walker in the dusk
hallows the hollow warfare
white lilies dubya

the coach's speech

sometimes I help too much
in the hope that I am modeling
at other times I help too little
inferring that you are lazy
I nudge - you choose - I root - you wait
you seize - I urge - you clinch - I pitch
I prod - you clasp - I cheer - you snatch
you slump - I goad - I lurch - you reel
on occasions I refuse to help
trusting you will wake up soon
on the grounds that sooner than later
the ball is in your court
ouch!

Fall's morn

listening to my own heartbeat
and the computer's purring
the heat system burping slowly
my autumn's early morn of
crisp frosty lawns
saffron trees baked in pale light
sprinkled with jalapenos
another fierce fall
how many more for my soul?

L'chaim

death
fall's motley message
far from spring
the brown worms
in the warm dirt
their soothing sleep
linking all
tombstones
to life

Thoughts of Ozman

In Aussie lands
where eucalyptus stand
where koalas climb the trees
where roos roam
near your home
my mind is filled with thee
so far away
and to this day
treasuring our potpourri
of youthful love
our friendship's glove
a part of my fleur-de-lys.

for Joel

A footnote

another day in YouTube sphere
reliving the youth in music
before my time too - doobedoo
some of the oldies and goodies

yesterday today and tomorrow
so our spring will be revived
in memories' swaddled lullabies
or youthful dreamed romances

swung to Viennese waltzes
in ball gowns - at proms
or in dust filled smoked bars
of Paris - London - anywhere

where melodies will take your
secret fantasies - only imagine
without Beatles - Elvis - Stones
a whole generation no relating

often I just wonder how the rap
could bring back such teen dreams
of today's youth - bang - boom - boom
thrill gone too real to dream

the sense of yourself - of you
will be revealed in your taste
of tonal combinations' recalls
dying with your visions - a footnote

Apolitical haiku

A bridge to nowhere
a wall for immigration
leaves falling from bush

Surreal economics

a tsunami slung around
the whole world
desperadoes trying to save
economies from foundering
in every body's interest -
but mostly its own
logic vanished
and as usual
feelings of me took over

Helllo Autumn

Snot - pouring out of my nose
Slime - behind the larynx falling down
Sleat - combining everything
Summa Summarum - I have a full blown cold
with soon to arrive cough -
guess what - it is fall
therefore it is time to serve

chickensoup - ah - with barley
- with
whiskey --- with anything....
cough cough sniff

Long Live Shakespeare!

One of the People:
Legislators, Fellow Americans,
and countrymen!
I come not the praise the bail-out
but to bury it.
The evil that men do lives after them
The money is often interred with papers
so let it be with the bail-out - the noble Feds
had told you that the bailout was needed
If it were so, it was a griveous fault
and grieveously had the Congress answered it
Here under leave of the Feds and the rest,
(but Congress is honorable
so therefore the legislators are all honorable)
Come I to speak at reason's funeral.
Reason was my friend, just and faithful to me
But the legislator said the bailout was needed
and Legislators are honest men
Wall street has brought many down in the dump
whose ransoms did the Wall street coffers fill?
Did this the Bail-out seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, reason was swept,
ambition should be made of sterner stuff,
yet the Feds and the Prez said it was necessary
and the Prez ands the Feds are honorable men.
...
I speak not to disprove of what the Senate said
but here I am to speak of what I do know.
Greedy men all loved the interests so, not without cause,
what cause withhold you to mourn for your greed?
Oh, judgement! Thou art fled to brutish beasts
and men have lost their reason... bear with me.
My heart is in the coffin there with reason,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

Contemplation

The autumn leaves were falling -
leaving her fairy tale behind
her dreamless summer in the north
in her healer's healthy hands
Vigga the Volva went daily
to the wise woman in her hut
in her capacity as a seeress.
Her perpetrator - her henchman
had left the healer - seeking
new life - somewhere else -.

Sophia, her highborn, wise sister,
came from her Guernsey Island trip
paying her respect to the grandmothers,
the stone figures from eons ago.
Vigga's sibling extolled the island
and told her that on next year's Beltane
she, Vigga, should go and daven for this life
near the two steles on the Island
just as Sophia herself had done.

"Come with me, sister, to Yggdrasil
and sit in the last warm sun this year"
the vibrant Volva Vigga smilingly said.
The sisters gingerly wandered waywardly
to the Yggdrasil which had been tendered
by the Volva's tears and tutelage,
the tree now so healthy and high-broughed.
"Dear Sophia", the Volva began beguilingly,
her red mane shone so shimmeringly -
the sun behind her made her into the beauty
of womanhood which can only be found from within.
Her choice to bear the next generation
was hers alone - nobody should take that away.
"I am with child and I shall give birth
around Beltane, so either we should go
in a couple of weeks or it will have to wait
until the child is born. It was conceived in love -
not in hate - so even though I know you will
say I am too old to bear the child, I shall."
Highborn Sophia, looked luminously
and showered a sunshine of smiles on her sister
shredding any serious doubts of the volva.
"I shall encourage your fruit come forth
with the everlasting help of the wise woman.
Has she inspected you with her healing powers?"
"I am fine and fit to bear, and if I take
her healthy potions, there is no real danger!"
Walking would do me endless good and,
I think, that a trip to grandmothers' graves
would be well for me, I feel fabulous."

Just after the fifth season's cool morns
with spiderwebs and deftly dew-covered branches
the two sisters set off on the journey to
visit their foremothers, fulfilling Sophia's
prompt promise to the stones of Lilith' long lines.
Bringing her sister to her past and present
seemed to Sophia, highborn and wise, utterly urgent,
now that the Volva Vigga was with child.
That way they could mayhap get a divination
of what would become the child's future.
At least they would deftly doven at the markers.

Crossing the sea the Volva was viciously sick -
the waves welled up as the boat carried the sisters
the grey skies doomed their journey?
Sophia, no longer sure of her decision,
held a soothing cloth to her sister's brow
while the ship's bow hacked its merry way
through the greyish dark waters of the Channel.

They arrived at St. Peter Port, the busy habour,
surrounding the seeking sisters with life.
It was market day and the wares of the vendors
seemed inviting to the sisters, specifically
to the now vacant Volva Vigga, her stomach growling
for food - and feeding - so they found a tavern
near the market to sit and devour the sights
and fill their bellies with fine food.
The Volva was quiet while eating, she relived
her summer of love with her merry merchant.
Was she doing the right thing by having his kind?
Each woman wonders and ponders the perpetual problem.

The two sisters rested in a timberfilled hostellerie
and set out the next morn to visit
the two grandmother steles from eons ago.
Sophia, highborn and familiar with the roads,
having just visited the island in the summer
led the way to the first of the stunning stones.

Vigga the Volva having slept well the night
after their full fill of morn repast
embarked on the rocky road to Saint Martin
in high spirit and good mood, walking briskly.
The sisters were admiring the cliffs' clearings
and the sea's deliciously carefree meanderings
on the beaches along the Fort Road
the pale autumnal light over the shimmering sea.

They reached the Church of Saint Martin
and found the first of the two ancient stones
she truly had a face of a grand mother.
It was not the angry ghost' countenance
but the stern serenity of years passing
and both Sophia and Vigga dovened there.
Quietly, the graveyard spoke to stillness,
and Vigga felt a quietness well inside her.
Listening to the millennia's women's fates,
she found herself stretching gently
touching the old stone stele with the womanly face.
Both sisters spent a long time in contemplation.

Sophia, the wise and highborn sister,
showed Vigga the Volva some of the other sights
of the fey island - descending deep down
under the earth where concealed caves craves
anybody's overt and obvious curiosity.
Henceforth, the two seeking sisters' fairy tales
of their fey foremother's, alas came up short -
for them the hollows were nothing, but holes.
"Strange, sister, I feel nothing" Vigga mused.
"Neither did I this summer, so these are not
for our kind, only for the fair fairies!"

After two days of mulling around Sophia took
her sibling to the other grand stele.
The Volva broke no fast in the morn
because sometimes she felt whoosy and weak.

In Castel near St. Peter's Port at St. Marie
a small church yard overlooking the village
stands the other grandmother, great rooted
in the graveyard, comtemplating her church
away from the village - thinking inwardly.
The Volva Vigga and her sister Sophia, wise
and highborn headed towards the granite stone.
The wind had died deftly down - almost noon
the sun was out casting autumnal shadows
the colors of the trees radiantly shone
not a sound, but waiting for the noon bell.

Vigga the Volva looked upon the village
behind the grandmother stele - Bing - bing
bing - the sun suddenly hid - bing - a gust
of wild wind blew some leaves off the trees
bing - the grandmother started to speak -
the Volva and her sister davened - fell on to
their knees - praying - bing - "You have come
to hear your child's fate" - bing - the Volva
almost could not breathe - bing - "it will be
silent" - "yet follow its own nature" - "guiding
life" - bing - "earth born" - "craftiness reign"
bing - bing - bing - the wind calmed clearly
the sun appeared scintillating suddenly
the sisters searched to compose themselves
rised and stood before the still stele.
The Volva thanked the stone and placed next
to the other trees on the outskirt of the graveyard
a seedling from Yggdrasil as well as a pebble
- a tiny rock she had found in Scotland -
perfect round and white, but with a greyish sheen -
she had put it in her cape and it almost forgotten.
Vigga had found the gem on a beach after a night
in lush lovemaking with her traveller-knight.
The Volva bade the grandmother accept the humble
but well travelled stone as a symbol of love
placing the stone just touching the stele
on top of the earth - and as she watched
the stone magically disappeared - embraced.

Vigga the Volva and her sister stayed the midday
and into the afternoon - but no more - nothing
was said. They observed how a few others came
and looked at the steele, gawkers and non-believers,
yet, when these folks came upon the stone
they became quiet - if only for a moment.

Bail-out haiku

caliginous arch
brumous flowering trellis
hazy rich bail-out

Eleanor Roosewelt - and I

I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.
Eleanor Roosevelt

this first lady was - as I - not pretty
but she had guts - she had spunk
so what I will do for my remainder
is - pardon my Frankish language -
I will not give a fiddling fiddlesticks
for what anyone says about my opinion
I shall respect theirs, of course,
but if disagreeing I shall use
elegantly disguised phrases that
not even a currently sitting president
would understand - obsolete words
I shall seek - still learning
until I die - a worthy goal
of an hexagonically challenged hecate.

On the scale

somewhere in the world
somebody is studying me
a grieseous grande dame
some place in the world
someone is scrutinizing
my rumbustious filial fruit
mayhap we are sagacious
pedestrian or subaltern
whatever whomever decides
about anybody else - my advice:
your psyche should be nobody's call
but your own with mansuetude
gentility and jocosity

Orators' crafts

comma comma period dash
commences an old Danish
children's rhyme
dash comma period comma
the art of orators' crafts
deftly combine
comma period dash comma
Aristophanes' colometry
and politicians' designs
period comma dash comma
their mellifluous voices
describe their kinds
comma period comma dash

Commemorating Aristophanes of Byzantium

Ode to odd words : a challenge

A grieseous fubsy mansuetude
embrangles the agrestic olid recrement
exuviating a nitid roborant skirr
and vaticinating the apodeitical abstergent
of fatidical caliginosity villipending the whole mulierbrity
this mansuetude - should not have a compossible periapt
but end like a niddering malison with oppugnant caducity.


Elincalime sent me a link:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article4799560.ece
This is a rough translation into a more understandable English.

a grayish squat gentleness
entangles the uncouth foulsmelling waste matter
shedding a bright increasing grating sound
and prophesying the unquestionably true cleansing
of prophetic dimness treating (with contempt) the whole the condition of being a woman
this mildness should not have a coexiting amulet
but end like the cowardly curse with antagonistic perishableness

The troubadour's nemesis

a poet's lot
would weed words
overwhelmingly so
nailing only
a fleeting fervor
or an abiding agony
merely to discern
that the words
bleedingly found
would not matter
to anybody else
but the bard's ego

Decades decay

To-day is a special day
a decade has decayed
a new one stands - dismayed?
I will not fear the gray
but embrace it in every way
as if it were my last say
come whatever may pass.
I won't yearn for the soiree
but look back upon the last
gleaming over the portrays
in rosy colors of bouquets
of experiences - aghast.
The decades of fine ballets
will forever be dossiers
of musical notes and essays.

Enchanted encounter

thinking strongly
of a kindred soul
makes her appear
magically
before me in person
our connection
unbroken
despite
having not spoken
for three years!



To Betty V.

Genes!

I found somebody sleeping on the floor
instead of in their bed
hubby reminded me of me
so the fruitcake is not far from the core

alas, those genes we carry
will forever tarry
in our limbs and minds, what a chore

Concritism

A dear mistake
to make
wake
up
shake
the quake
a deep partake

Forgetful

Renaissance fair - revisited -
rest assured that every year
in outrageous outmoded garb
we trot our weary feet
to savor the flavor
of melodious "oldness".
Yet the antiquity we seek seems
boldly new - the dew on beer mugs
entrenches what we think
we would have been back then
when the truth be told
we would have been enslaved
by our social standing
as kitchen wrenches or
jousters for the earls -
so few back then had any hope
of a glorious shining future,
yet today we met a lot
who thought they were the lot
who played lords - ladies -
lassies and lads for a day
we forgot that we are still
enslaved - but enchanted - to-day.

Blue moon

Full moon palavers
friends' idea of partying
starts a new tradition
where you see them
once every month
and even twice in
a blue moon!

Morning haiku

Streching like a cat
oxygenates my old limbs
nimble flower stem

Pale sorrow

White roses on a white table
surrounded by white walls
newspapers spread widely
a morning's pale sunlit
candescent sorrowful email
of a premature passing -
how beautiful every day is!

Lost in translation

translating my own poetry
takes millions of whirls
in my grey cells -
toiling with my own words
taunts my very being
in my chamber
travails of my vocabulary
teaches my brain
in my cage
imprisoned I have to battle
my own incompetency

Later

A long trip
lack of sleep
ear drums pop
belatedly

Real Words?

words of youth
words floating
swirling drops
of poetry - love - hopes
visual - virtual - unreal
life in our letters - will
always be our world of - love
unreal perhaps - but real in our minds.

My grandsons

Last day in Oz
with grandsons
a saddening moment

oh, see them grow
follow them
in their tracks

it is possible
due to modernity
pics and sounds

to grasp stolen
minutes in their
little days

will never compare
to flesh and blood
alas, I must go!

Nightmare

Red wine induced slumber
created a nightmare
where running around
trying to find somebody
on a golf course did
not yield anything but
getting lost in the woods
never to find the person -
waking up utterly sad!

terribly

blown kiss
drop of bliss
accepted
terribly

Black swan

encroaching one
simple clutch
evolving into
a full fist
striking midnight
wonbat hour
or if you wish
kangaroo moment
of hitting fast
and furious
of the mellow
black swan
not mating
screamin' her
frustration
yet happy in
her choice
what could have
been was not.
The princes
never reach her
only
she was alone
and the choice
was hers - for ever