Melted

the sun is heating again
melting, melting, melting
we fade into our routines
tomorrow
forgetting
the camaraderie of our abodes
keeping us sheltered
touching on occasions
of those who do not have
that luxury
(if it can be called so)
of having that cover
over their heads
stewing the soups
of yesteryear
in kitchens
the hearth after all
is steeping in winter
because we have to
acknowledge the frozen
the cold, the ice
and steam up the bodies
with work of shoveling
(which is not that bad
when you do it carefully)
after which you dissolve
the marshmallows
(if you have any)
in your hot cocoa
just as were you a child
coming in from play
in the frozen snow
you melt

Enough!

Enough tarradiddle
stuff of second fiddle
slough - stop the riddle
tough blowing twiddles -
alas humans have to always bow
fast to nature's whims bestow'd
blast - accepting the bloody snow!

A youthful yen

Paris a place - a man - a dream
a town where the poet matured
ancient fable's prince
hallucinations of freedom and art
how often to think back
on that tiny speck of time
when youth and joy and sadness
blended together in a cocktail
the Iliad denotes descriptions
of its royal harbinger of sad fate
where two centuries at least of
artists drawn to its hearth
you abandon your soul fervently
without thought of tomorrow
whether it is your prince (ha!)
your kingdom or your illusions
cause what is Paris without
dreams, hopes of betterment,
or realms of creativity
it is just a name among others
nothing more - nothing less
a chimera like the gargoyles
found on Notre Dame de Paris

Flying geese haiku

flying geese in v
wintry omen of new spring
joyous ride to south

Neologisms gallore in snow

The way of the word
words hurt
words soothe
words laughs
words pray
words ironize your speech
words create
words obliviate
words beat
words intellectualize
words becomes neologisms
like snowmageddon,
snowzilla on a day
where we await another storm
humbly I bow
to the words of euphemisms
creating one new
snowtology - just for fun!

tautology - snowtology
snowstorms being a bore

After the storm - a reckoning

wintry wild beauty
sparkling sun filled icicles
away from my cold house
from a friend's warm hearth
a full belly of
waffles, ham and eggs,
plus cold mimosas
add cappuccinos;
hardships are not hard
to bear and then
gratitude towards
sometimes modernity
is overflowing,
but most of all this storm
just like anywhere else
shows that hope is there
for altruistic attitude;
it is all around on
a rawish rebellious
unbridled upbeat morn
after a whitish wild
storm of unprecedented
surprising force
acknowledging that
friendly - climatic elements
have a lot in common:
you should never ignore them
but celebrate whatever
they throw along
even though when you have
a disaster like Haiti
or tsunamis in Indonesia
there is always hope
for a streak of humanity
to shine just like
the sun beamed crystal
a gem of new day

Snow ode

From unwinding Olympians
amusing themselves tossing
white droplets of cool
unto our brownish brackish
bluish moody mother lode
of terrestrial dirt and earth
we expect an abundance
of congealed, glaciated vapors
to cover up once more
to create havoc and assault
our everyday life with force
to compel the humans to stop
and relax for just one moment
to enjoy their brood or themselves.
The high mighty immortals
minister their mischievous
randomized manipulations
upon the little miniatures
called Lilliputians by some
and creatures by others.
In the name of humanity
take a moment and enjoy
the snowstorm - hibernating
not unlike our furry forefathers
and our female ancestors
inside a tent outside which
the wintry gales were howling
like wild wolverines outside
in the dusk of white and dark
seeing only the gray white carpet
becoming, beckoning to go out
and in spite of the churlish chill
break free and frolic in frosty
tenebrous tempting snow
and spread an rime-angel
in honor of the world spirit
who created the different tempers
of climate and choice.

Waiting for snow

waiting for snowstorm
with droplets of winter show
beauty for children

A Tableau

This winter of white and snow
is not the tide I will know
whenever, wherever I will go
wines of d'Oc and Bordeaux
will add to my daily plateau
driving my little red Renault
living in our small "chateau".
This dream is not H.D. Thoreau's
but mine and my beloved beau's
who elected to follow "quid pro quo"
before I lie not a feet below
but over the sea you may throw
my ashes and my thoughts of woe
this morning outside the window
I think of times past and status quo.
Lucky in more ways than many although
I have had my moments of dumb show
so ere quitting this ground I'll sow
a thought of joy and laughter aglow:
Take each day like the last rondeau
smile - a smile - it's your own tableau!

"Morrning walk"

news comes early
by way of a paper
today like any day
from its thrown place
sometimes on the grass
often on the blacktop
and rarely on the crisp
crunchy frosty snow
the full moon is lifting
the morning pattern
to a wondrous exploit
a gladdened moment
where all is still
saluting Selene

Oops!

Coming home from a lunch
not even having a munch
I take in the recycle bin
I drop it like a tin
my poor itty-bitty toe
was caught in between
now I sit - oh me oh woe
with ice and chagrin!

Cancer

A helper of death
I will sometimes linger
at others my job is faster -
never instantaneous
but I will get you
at your end, have no fear.
I am at his service
because I must obey,
my master Thanatos,
often Oizys blames me;
I cause much suffering.
Yet I am an Autochthon
born because my mission
is such that I invade
where I can for no
apparent reason
other than spread and kill.
For the love of Alcetis
oftentimes I let you be
and I stand aside to let
another fate befall you.

Why?

Now I know
exactly why
I dream of
living in
a village
in France;
it's simple
instead of
seeing only
parking lots
and boxes of
stores
a highway,
a few trees -
my eyes hit
when I go
from the
box store
in the village
vineyards,
mountains -
and more
vineyards
on a very
clear day
the Pyrenees!

ici- ici -ici

Mon coeur bats trop vite
les resultats pas encourageant
hier soir j'ai meme pense
peut-etre a l'hospital
alors je me suis mis a faire
des choses physiques
monter et descendre l'escalier
plusieurs fois - voila
aujourd'hui c'est mieux
mon coeur revient a 122:78
et cela c'est bon -
je sais bien pourquoi
je suis une bete
je veux vivre - mais ici- ici- ici

Le moment

J'attends pour manger mon petit déjeuner
ici aujourd'hui dans mon petit village
a Haiti ce n'est pas la même chose
et je n'ose surtout pas y penser
car ici je me sens si a l'aise
cela va durer assez un petit moment
je descends pour acheter mon pain
cela est presque un fait divin
je me sens dans un très beau roman
avec des bonne choses françaises

Best friends

A man at the beach with his tiny dog
she placated him by fetching the sticks
he threw here and there at it
I watched them for over an hour
they were their own best friend
I thought the man walked with a lady
the two did not meet at the end
the dog followed her master-lover.

Designing an Ikea kitchen

Designing a dream kitchen
is not an easy task
when you have an old house
you cannot have this
you cannot have that
I think I need a flask!
But it would have been
in infinite nightmare
without the cut and paste
Ikeas gives you first
a paper with board wares
with a lot of room to spare
then they come and design
your less than perfect plan
for me it took longer
I could not multiply
but then it worked oh man
I did not forget the garbage can!
So if anybody wonders why
Ikea has success just look
and see for your own self
how easy it is for clutches
to serve up a wonder of chinook
in an Ikea kitchen - you will cook.

Éloignée je peut entendre
les bruits des rues
les poubelles claquent
les chiens aboient
les chats dont il y en a
énormément miaulent
de temps en temps
les gens parlent doucement
ou des fois leurs voix
sont enragées bouleversées
tout passent d'un temps
a l'autre dans le village
comme partout, le village
c'est la compagnie
tu travailles des longues heures
c'est dans ton endroit
d'une grande ville
C'est partout dans la famille
car sans le village de mal
ou de la bonté c'est comme cela
parce que tu crées ton village
autour de toi - n'importe ou
et de n'importe quoi.

Shopping with Yvette

Traditions - they start how?
by people doing a feat together
nothing much - a meet of minds
if they both agree to like it
it will be done again on and off
not like making love
not like caring for a child
a dog, a sick relative
but because it is fun
traditions can be tribal
traditions can be unique
traditions can be traditions
just because you make them
on occasions they can be dreary
because a difficult uncle does
not like your mother's cookies
but then even that becomes a tradition
like yesterday - shopping with Yvette
is a fun-filled female sales' tradition

Lunch in France at home

A quiet noon in the village
not much going on
prepairng a lunch,
left-over heated up onion soup
left-over heated baquette
left-over tunamousse
and last but not least
two small pieces of cheese
each from a different region
a glas of white wine from
le bag in le box
followed by a coffee
and a small piece of chocolat
is it a wonder that it seems
so different from MacDonald's
furious and fast meals?

walking aids

yesterday at a flea market
my eyes encountered amounts
of visual left-over stuff
things unwanted
dolls loved but
their owners gone
where were the little girls
that might as a older person
used a walking aid
- there were too many
--- ---
canned canes left
that their souls stood tall
and would help others
they just laid tossed

their people .....

Clown's tears

Once upon a clown's face
a sad expression spread
it talked of oppression
it chatted wearily of death
there were no other mimes
who could show a mimic
so vivid that three times
she thought of limits
to life to joy to man
all that she held dear ran
down in a total blur
the tears of the farceur
streamed out so blunt
due to humanity's runt

les murs

Le soleil brillant avec le froid
donne la lumiere memorable
epoustouflante dans la poussiere
des vieux murs abordables

Age old puzzle

Vignettes of wandering souls
intertwined with ropes of fates
here and there they fray
there and here they play
their own warped way to desecrate
the expected correct way
to behave in order to achieve a goal
for what purpose do we live
an egnima no one can solve
yet- humans - try to evolve
the answer perhaps is to give.

Just a little whiff of my familiar

Pictures of grandsons
makes me sad and proud
proud cause they grow
sad cause they no show
in my everyday life
in my thoughts however
they prosper for ever

Lost sleep

In middle age
we women toss and turn
so often I hear
I read at night
try not to disturb
the male snoring
next to me
Rarely I encounter
a man who loses
the second nourisher
as much as
the female species
and yet they demand
as natural as hell
that we shall remain
the same day in-day out
when we cannot even
think straight.
I applaud all females
who has turned
and yet survives
the middle age

I sure hope
one day
I can sleep
again

That wish I get
in my death
- but

I want to live
and exist without
fuzziness and
feeling lousy

Pills can help
sex can help too
but is that enough?

Babette a Beziers

Un brouillard du soir
au milieu de l'hiver
fait rêver Babette
autour d'elle il y avait
des aventures nocturnales
elle se sentait - horreur
plus mal a l'aise
qu'a sa ville natale
Paris avec ses coins
des mecs et des putains
mais la pauvre s'est effrayée
car dans le crépuscule
il y avait des jeunes mâles
avec des gestes menaçants.
Babette embrassait angoissée
son ami avec qui elle sortait
et disait, tout a fait sérieusement
"J'ai peur, cher Jean Luis,
et je ne veux plus de la vie de midi.
Je rentre chez moi - a Paris
la je connais mon local"
Comme cela finissait l'histoire
de Babette a Beziers - vraiment
le cauchemar d'une dame absorbée.

Al a Da Li

Portraying surre a listic ten den cies
an d ero ti que grot es ques
a la DA li
requires more than automatic writings
it de mands perfection
ala daLI
but in Figueres in Cat a lo NIA
you c an fi nd j u s t t h a t
a LA d ali
Where the pai ntbr u sh met the can vas
whe re the mas t er' s struck
AL ada LI
Min atur es - m An o FL amanc Ha
lots of p ORT raits of g aLa
a lada li
O nly d Eat hsto pp ed the pha ntas mic
moto risa tions oFh is wiiiiinnnnngggsss
alaDalI

A mouse

In my little French house
lives a little French mouse
it eats my cheese and bread
but when I leave it dreads
that it cannot be fed
and it turns into a grouse
growing thinner and thinner
it pines and it screams
it is absolutely no winner
then when I return to Cazouls
it grows bold and demands
that I satisfy its cravings
with sausages and moules
it holds so thight the food
with its little hungry hands
that I to my face saving
gives it everything it needs
then the mouse and I are at peace.

(beginning a poem a la dr. Seuss

Cazouls

Cazouls dans la pluie
entre deux nuages
l'hiver a Noël
mais la chaleur interne
dans mon corps
brûle comme un jour d'été

Sad Christmas story

A man at the next table
Christmas day sunny
he commanded another glass
of white wine - then
he struggled to get up
talked in a beautiful language
yet - stone drunk
fell down struggled to get up
sad and lonely -
got slightly abusive
with the owner- who promptly
removed the man's mobile
- he calmed down - drank a little
and paid up - never saw if
he got his phone back
- a sad Christmas story
from a small town somewhere

Copenhagen

My beauty of a city
a battle cavorting
too much cauterisation
of our civilization
much less concern
for all the world's countries
a too grand compromise
the democratic chattering
for our deliberating climate
where was Churchill
with his demands of cooperation
in view of the greatest calamity
we all lost in Copenhagen

Reality check

would I be going far back
when the building of the pyramids
took place
would I be forwarding to a
distant future on a faraway planet
would I be there in the renaissance
with Leonardo and the biggies
or would I be part of Mozart's entourage
singing my head of in the Magic Flute
would I be a Celtic wise woman
or a Nordic ditto
would I be a slave on a ship
going from Africa to the States
would I be an English proper
lady married off to an Australian
would I be jet-setting with the
Fitzgeralds on the Rivera
none has my fate - no one will
anybody would not be - nobody - me
somebody could say she was
me - and that someone is I

Sleep school

In far away Aussie
they have sleep school
for newborns and their parents
how come that oldies
like me who is awake at 2:58 am
cannot go to sleep school?
It is inconceivable
that it can be that difficult
to go to sleep and stay asleep
Granted with the lack of
a certain droplet in the system
I cannot go to Morpheus' realm
Oh to be a baby again
and snooze long hours
Oh to be a teenager again
and doze off in never never land
I wish I could
I wish I would
Toot - toot - toot

Steve

Far away in France
So near in my mind -
a human light went out,
an accomplice in life -
a friendly, complicated
soul of flamboyant bent
with an old school tie
sense of humour and
wicked ways,
but underneath the finish
an unpolished direct
heart of humanity
accepting not his final lot
still fought recklessly
for a fairly long time.
Far away in France
close to home -
Ave Cesar - morituri
te salutant.

ISFP!?

Introvert
looking for reasons
within myself
going the extra mile
to see why
Sensor
earth mother I am not
but having two feet
on the ground
a tad too much
Feeler
of respect to others
knowing almost what
they will say before
they say it
Perceiver
flipping more sides
of the coins
to make a sensible
decision for all
And this will
make the portrait
of an artist????
Where are the dares
in all this?
Where are the unfits
to the mold?
Where are the crazies
in the yield?
Where are the zealots
in the world?


(Inspired by the poetess taking
a personality test)

More mindless morning

I found the missing boots
they were behind in the closet
where they belonged
I need sense or I posit
that my hubby and I
could not find the waders
tearing - looking
all over for the evaders
where will it all lead
to the grave we heed
I cry and laugh - so minute
this scheme of nil - en route
Walk the dog - clear the mind
smile - you are one of a kind
on the mindless morning where I found the boots
maybe it was the elf in cahoots
with the house to teach me a lesson
end of this crazy - story - session!

Mindless

Lost - clueless
which I bought
and have searched
ever-which-where
for a month
but the item
is gone - not there
nor here
so I have to
rebuy the boots
because winter sets
in with cold and frost
my old toes need
the warmth - yet
I am out in the cold
cannot find them
at all, I am sure
I hid them - so
my mind has begun
to go - alas
I am mindless!

Thanks for the pains

Pains - awake me
pains - aware me
that I am alive
and for that
I am thankful!

A sore song

...
suspicious sore
somewhere
makes the owner
aware
of the time
and its flying
somehow
the inherent
scare or fear
will contribute
to how the battle
is won
-
in the long run
it is lost
of course
add raveling
- fighting -
sing and rattle
not wrong

Listen to the dryer

Churning dryer
means the wash
has been done

Churning mind
means the thought
has been minded

Churning washer
means the idea
has been gone

for a long
- long time

Turning the tuner
means the music
has been changed

Turning the music
means the time
has passed

Turning the time
means the past
has been d/gone

for a long
- long time

An oldiess choice

Sleepless nights
awakening at 12 am
3 am - 2 am
estrogen deprived
however - when
an oldiess awakes
and her mate is
snoring next to her
two choices appear
she can have sex
or go to sleep on
a sofa, a bed,
anywhere else away
from the snoring.
Not all the time
she will be ready
for sex but
it sure beats
a loudly snoring
mate!

The Vølva ressurrected

Vigga the Vølva who was
the one there never was
only in the poetess
imaginary world
but she lived for her creator
who could not let her go
she became real
a embalming friend
ending up controlling
her diminutive mindset
with different kinds
of loaded or unloaded adjectives.
So she did not
walk off into the sunset
but is still roaming the earth
to observe the foolish
lovable hatred of mankind
for what purpose we create
wars and murder and mayhem
boiling down to only
lack of understanding and
education with a unhealthy
pure egotism built in.

No worries she will be back
with a volvatic vengeance!

Twilight memories

Twilight on a November afternoon
shows me the memory of youth
was it when I said goodbye
to you the first time or the last
that doomed silvery reddish sky
before you left for home
I truly felt - never again
and yet now I wish for years
that I never had
or will have
futility and yet fertility
in the poet's mind
because out of chaos
comes a blip and out of
a pop ... a chimera...
a vision of long forgotten
very hot desires -
a passionate embrace
if only in the deepest dark

Twilight when I was young...

Skype haiku

Tonight I shall see
my grandkids on Skype and we
shall talk the no talk

hardboiled eggs

Hard boiled eggs
ham and jam
is the breakfast
I don't need
I just eat
a 'nana and yogurt
but truly sometimes
I wish I could savor
ham and eggs
and all the jolly fat
instead of relishing
my meager meal
yet I should not pout
but sing joyously
cause I get food
when others don't
therefore
hardboiled eggs
and ham and jam
you are fluff
and that is all

Running virus

Runny nose rules me
Runnymede rules alas
murder mayhem rules the world
scarred and sacred is the population
of viruses yet they proliferate
in me they battle
outside the poetess they fight
who will win?
the virus or the human?
The nature of the vira
grows virulently
in all directions
it could be a band, it could be a commune,
it could be dance or a protein,
what a virus is not
is a peaceful endeavour...
Runnymede's Magna Carta
written in blood of generations past
my virus today fights my body
running away - running amok
running - running - runn...

Mr. Somebody

For fun he did it
for fun he won it
for fun he was applauded
for fun he went out on a limb

it was not for fun

after all

Being/nothing/exist

Fairy fairy fey
today is the day
where you shall reign
over my heart's domain
for whatever is what
for whenever is hot
if you cannot find
my brain's online
I might as well be dead
nothingness instead.

Levi-Strauss in a nutshell

Existential tribalism
tribal structuralism
structural linguistics
lingual anthropology
anthropological morphism
morphical existentialism

hommage a Levi-Strauss

morphical: tiny initial
structural phonemenal

Masks

we all wear masks
one for ourselves
deep inside
one for our loved ones
closer to the wall
one for our friends
peeking over the wall
one for everyone else
our backs to the wall
we all wear masks

Sisley's paintbrush

Sizzling yolk colored
autumn leaves through
the window - painted
great like by Sisley
pointed - printed
wriggling in the wind
through the glass
enamouredly floating
one by one - dying
in a wondrous moment
of nature's scream
look at me - I am your
--s for the t ..i ..m..eee

Silly flue poem

got swine flue
or just normal goo?
fever and cough
enough is enough
I had a shot
on the usual dot
except maybe
it is only me
all the time
rhino sublime
Foolish poet
drink a Moet!

Flottante passee

Tiens, la musique reste
dans mon coeur inquiet
sans me laisser un moment
ne me calme jamais
trissesse - bonjour encore
ma jeunesse passee
Bien, la memoire faible
dans la tete boulversee
pousse vivement
ma poitrine se sent mal
mon petit passe traverse
les notes flottantes.

Addicted Donna Domestica?

Time steeler away from cleaning
cooking - donna domestica
vocal charmer!
snake charmer?
pants-away charmer?
donna domestica dreams
herself away from reality
now, with a healthy sense
of humor she lacked
when young -
her favorite is
her idol with the ultimate donna
moi - piggy!

To Placido Domingo

The past on Facebook

just for the fun of it
typed a name
one appeared - correctly
a question
and bingo - not even
six degrees of separation
right there
on line on the line
of a more innocent time
where everything
was black and white
and not the shades
of gray and grey

Sunday in suburbia anno 2009

You Tube in the background
an old fogey in the foreground
listening to her favorites
of opera's foremost vocalist
and stealing more than a peek
what to do on a cool dull Sunday
in suburbia after a long week?
In olden days we played cards
we knitted we dug in our yards
we had tea with cakes we wrote
letters to friends and foe
life intertwined another way
it bore a twinkle of yester sound
from the highest to the ground
yet, times are changing
and time is a changeling....

Frustration in code

how gray matter
pertains to unfold
code upon code
upon code
how well learning
stimulates more
learning code
upon code
how unobtainable
reaching out
to the brain's
code
how frustrating
this failure
to decode the
odec!

A teacher's frustration

HOPE

Gorgeous gorgon
another label
another word
for a female
but by placing
a civil noun
in front of the
brandishing stigma
you change the word
and give it HOPE

Viva technologia!( A slam poem)

A hesitant start of romantic
showing of dancing raindrops
and taken over by
beautiful dark somber-laden
notes of the clarinet
of impressionistic character
taking me on a spin
beyond where the words go
where only the birds flutter
in the autumn winds
dancing with Hecuba
stark and demanding sounds
a ballet not unlike
the Disney of yore
elephants in frou-frou
alas suddenly it is scenes
from flight of Nazi-German Jews
somewhere in Poland's forests
screams and thunder of
battalions from the 1812
and back to quiet waves
on a calm sea-board
ending on a drumming roll
shouts of the composer
beating himself up
for doing this kind of
haunting sphere.


(Ernest Chausson, Symphonie 20, Tres Lent)

The Vølva's prophecy

Wayward tiredness hit suddenly
the weather worn Vølva
she had walked a weary way
oozing of other ornamentation
than her usual brilliance
contrary to the everyday excitement
she was completely exhausted
not from anything avowed that she
could pinpoint or a place known;
it was the autumnal austerity
or maybe the wintry worry.

The summer had been what she wanted
so lots of glorious going-ons
had filled her sight of that season.

With some terrible threnian trepidation
she did not conjecture comfortable chills
but dark fearful physical fevers
the ever-lasting white lights,
covert wars, furtive diseases,
whose origins could not be observed,
but worse of all a dissatisfaction
in all humanity with themselves
their lots, their contemplations
of spineless spirituality -
the me-me-me winning out over
the gentle - genuine - gestation
of inane, perhaps insane goodness
that the Vølva after all felt
was present in any human soul.

Her brow was furrowed - her body bent
she schlepped her sandalled feet
along the river bed near where
she knew to find the old tree Ygdrasil
she was seeing a war not stopped
when it could have been
hatred blossoming in all its might
when it could have been - curbed
bigotry of religious and other kinds
when they could have been hindered.
With what the water nymphs seemed to ask?
With education and humility
with emancipation and humor
with endowing the female population
a head start in providing for their houses
thereby making them the decision makers
not the testosterone-filled übermale.
Yet the Vølva had waited and she had
even spoken to Sophia her wise sister
about whether it was possible to veer
from one form of brain-part to another?
That deed was debatable - even an evolution
not truly desired, except .... except...
Was it possible to combine
the male with the female side
and in a large orgy transcend
like Inana had visited the underworld
only to find her dead-beat husband
who was just fine, given he could not care
whether his goddess wife was with him or not.
This transformation would not truly happen
in this dual double-headed vital world.

The wondering Vølva waited at Yggdrasil,
the life tree, looking vexed, towards the west
from where there is no way back.
Gradually she glimpsed something
in the dubious distance illuminated
she could not pick out what it was.

A great auburn sunset finally set
over the austere autumnal landscape
that surrounded the augural Vølva
She gazed and gloomily glimpsed a tiny figure...
Could it be ... her knight - her Shmuel...?
She still desired him - had he been a mere mirage
whom she as a female sometimes wanted,
her alter ego, if only for a transitory time
out of lust, out of romantic yearnings?
Her foremothers of mythological minds
had not been so lucky with their males
there was nothing, but rape and slander
and wars of desire - for a fleeting moment
of sensual sex and phallic progeniture.

No, this figure was fixedly female ...
her belowed daughter appeared
to her in a phoenix form getting ready
for nesting and burning - horror slighted
the profundicated seeress as she stretched
out her palms against the sight -
knowing in her heart that what she saw
was the end of her world as she knew it.

Against the backdrop of the resplendent sunset
with the wings of her daughter's die
brilliant - a thousand emblazoned auras
of all the fecund sanguine vermilion
she watched as the phoenix burned
and out of the ashes from her vision
she saw slowly her daughter's rebirth
as well as - another - of her own blood
the wonderful world of a earthly yield
near Ygdrasil, the old life tree,
and tears dropped from her teal eyes -
the Vølva embraced her sight's victory.

Seniora moment

Getting distracted
more easily - tired
but it doesn't take
away the fact that
I did something
asinine - inane
is it the feared
Alzheimer's disease
or am I just wired
getting subtracted?

Heightened fall

hallowed Fall
hell-bent dancing
to your drawl
hidden away
gone forever
that summer's night
of mellowness
into augur's yawl
a penny paid
to Charon's fowl
more than prancing
harrowed Fall

A fairy day

A glorious warm fall day
people smile - are friendly
you drink and you eat
you see and you listen
you partake and you gawk
(granted you pay for this
but when don't you?)
however, under the trees
gently hidden from the sun
in ancient clothing models
your shadow floats away
and just today you are
what you normally never are
drawn out from yourself
surrounded by fairy dust
and autumnal ancient joy
a fresh breath of dreams
later again fait accompli

Bumper dumber

finally I was
a total twerp
my common-sense
was so gone
but in all fairness
the blinker of the truck
was not on
so I assumed
wrongly that
the lorry had stopped -
my bumper knocked down

My mother's dress

A golden lame dress created
for my mother's beauty
I still can wear it
she was a lady
of the old kind
I am a woman
of the newer state
a world apart
the fate of that dress
which my mother wore twice
will be unknown -
sailing across the seas
to the country in which
it was designed
and I shall applaud
that someone else
will use it -
it is a beauty
- one hitch -
an itch - shh ..
so the beauty that once
was my mother's
must have been born
with patience ....

Feeling of fall

coral shimmering red
with autumn's call
October's on the dot
colors of yellow diamonds
mellow rubies -
cooler emeralds
not even one single stone
can describe the sight
of the neighborhood trees
feasting observant eyes
smelling the all-coming decay
enjoy every moment before
floral heightens dead

Leto in memoriam

Doggone days
of dearest doggie
true to my mistress
true to my woggie
I followed
I swallowed
my pride - my side
only her words
were my herd
she commanded
I obeyed
she demanded
I obeyed.
Alas, lass'
Your mistress
still miss
your gentleness!

fit survival

Stupendous stubbornness
from the gene pool
morphs into
serendipitous spunk
and willful wavering -
those strange people
we came from
and we became
just because of
having sex
and blended too
much of our own oblivion
into the mixture -
will genteel humanity
survive in the long run?

The Birthing

Volva Vigga had been meandering - musing
Along her preferred path near the village
Soaring seedtime had appeared somewhat late
Today is was the vernal equinox
with tonight a luminous full Luna,
An ominous day where she had to collect
The first flower that she saw in the thicket
It was an anemone - that bright blossom
With its white purple crown.
Cried out in her muddled mind
- her Shmuel - the father of her child
would not be there for the birthing.
With a sigh and a slight moan
She sat down heavy - as she was
On an old oak tree stump
Surrounded by a circular copse.
Her trusty cape was around her full body
in her pocket she had little ring
That Shmuel, the herbalist, gave her.
The ring was too small now
For her swollen fingers
But she kept it with her at all times
So she would have a tangible symbol
Of her summer in the North
Apart from the gift she was bearing
For nine lunar months, this being her tenth.
As she was sitting breathing deeply
The sun came out of the clouds
And the wood spoke of early and earthy
joy and pleasure of being vitally alive.

The waiting Volva sensed a particular pain
Suddenly it became utterly unbearable
Realizing that not only did she feel agony
All over her lower back body
But she also sat in a puddle of birth-water.
Slowly, she raised herself holding on
with one hand to the thick tree trunk
while massaging her back with the other.
She had to get back to the hut
But it was a fair distance away
She was not sure she would reach
The domed dwelling of security
And she started to pant and puff
So she could beat the birthing pains.
Her mind was not cooperating
She was thinking of Shmuel
And of their last passionate night.
Vigga the Volva talked sternly to herself
As she found a bough she could lean on
Waddling when she had another contraction.
At the end of the pain all she could think of
Were the numerous orgasms she had had.

How far did she have to walk -?
And she knew very well - all the way back
Because her hut was a hermitage
Being fairly far from everybody's hovels
And the village - preferring freedom
To roam and gather healing herbs
Yet now it seemed foolish and frankly
She would not have minded a home
In the little gentle village with the green
Where she and Shmuel first met.
Strange how you could change
In such a short stretch of time.


Her skirt and her cape weighed her down
Because of the wetness from the birth-water
The stretch of road seemed too far
In addition the dampness was now cold
The wind adding to the high skies
Another pain seized her tortured torso
She had to stop and breathe in and out
Slowly while the travails took their toll
She found another tree - she leaned over
And again she cried out not knowing
That she made a savage primitive sound
Heard by all the ancients so many eons ago
She called up her gray grannies - the stones -
and they sent her an unusual messenger.

Somebody who had made true amends
The one who had truly repented his misdeeds
So her old nemesis - the man - who raped her
Came to her rescue whether sent by
Ancient powers or new ones or accidentally.
He had been sent on an errand by his new master
- An elderly magician who needed filling
Of life-saving essences in his medicine larder
Via the healing woman with whom
The wintry wizard sometimes scribed.
The latter had sent a letter so the demale
Could bring back the much needed herbs
To the outskirts of the Northern Hebrides.

Vigga was at her wits end - kneeling down besides
Another trunk lying in the woodsy underbrush
Her screams rang through the woodland
And she was no longer human, but feral
Frenziedly she became a female mammal
Due to her strong first-time birth pangs

Last time she howled when he raped her
This time when he heard her scream
here and now the demale had changed
He felt nothing, but compassion and a need
To help whoever wanted his hands
The healing woman had taught him that
And the wizard he worked for
Stressed that only through bettering
You yourself will have a harmonious
And happy awareness of accomplishment.

He ran to where from he heard her screams
He already knew it had to be her.
Vigga the Volva who with her sister had
Spared his life, but not his manhood.
He did not hold that against her
Because he knew now that taking a woman
Against her will at any time is a crime.

Vigga the Volva was kneeling holding on
To a strong beech branch lying in the forest
She held her other hand behind her back
crouching and leaning close to the ground.

"Let me help you," were the eunuch's first words
And Vigga recognized with terror in her eyes
Her old perpetrator whom she had spared.
"I come in peace and I can get you home
For you to deliver a healthy child.
If you cannot make it, the healing woman
Has had me help her many a time."
He knelt down and began to gently rub her back.

Again against her will another birthing pang
Jilted her fear of her former evildoer
And she let him stroke her lower back
Due to her excruciating parturition pains
She panted, "I cannot bear it."
"Sure you can - you are part of the chain
You of all people should know that."
"Yes but I..." another pulsation hindered
Her speech - she suddenly passed out.

The eunuch briskly spread out his cape
On the grass and revived the Volva by
Pouring water from his full flask
over her head and slapping
Her face not too gently -
He knew she was getting weaker
But it was also a matter of the child
She sputtered as she came through


In contrast to the last time he violated her
He gently lifted her dress and pulled off
Her panties wet from the water already gone.
"Spread your legs, I see the head coming,
Can you stand?" "Why should I stand?"
"You will use the gravitational forces!"
Vigga the Volva strived to get up
Yet, for her it was impossible
The eunuch then saw that the pressure
Labor pains had begun heavily
"Alright, we do it this way, then
Next time you have a labor pain
I will feel around inside to see
If I can ease out the bitsy bairn."

He then used the last water he had in his canteen
Over his hands - to try and be fairly clean
Such as he has learned from the healing woman
He sought again - he had some olive oil left.

The labor pains continued - he inched in her insides
Realizing the bairn had the cord around its neck.
Sweat ran down his temples but he relived
How once he had seen the Healer save a child
And to make amends he prayed to his Gods
The old spirits and even the old grannies
He knew there was not a moment to waste
And by the next labor pain he twisted his hand
Inside the womb again and forcefully, but gently
Freed the bairn's head getting his finger
Between the neck and the pulsating cord
"Push one more time and the bitty bairn will out"
Vigga the Volva was beyond care except obeying
Ancient rites of birthing letting her body take over.
By the next throbbing contraction the child slid out,
- Slime and blood - the eunuch caught it, a little lass
And he found some piece of cloth used for storage
Of herbs and spices and swaddled the child,
Gently swiping the bairn's mouth clean with
His little finger - now dipped in mint oil -
And gave her to Vigga the Volva, saying
"Let her suckle. That will help the afterbirth
To come - and you know it can hurt too"

Vigga took - her daughter - in her arms
Looked at her with such wonderment.
She, now a mother, turned around on the side,
Opened her blouse and eased the suckling
On to her swollen breast.

The eunuch smiled, but pressed down
On the Volva's now empty womb
Urging the important afterbirth to come.
The pains were extremely excruciating
But Vigga the Volva bore them
Because from this time on she held something
So precious and dear that nothing else
Could compare to her cherished child.
Before the afterbirth came
She shifted the bairn to the other breast
And looked so calm - in pain
The eunuch stared in wonderment
Bewildered at his own feelings.

"It's coming," and again lots of blood
and a stiffening placenta slid out.
The eunuch knowingly caught it
The healing woman would like to see it
He had again rummaged in his sack
Sacrificing a sermon he wanted to read.

"You will be getting too cold soon
So I shall go and get a cart to carry
You and the wee one, but I am sorry
To leave you alone unprotected."
"It will be alright if you go and find
The gurney, I do not think I can walk
Or at least not that far - today.
Master Healer - Thank you for being here."
Vigga the Volva beamed brilliantly
At him and then at her daughter.
"I shan't be long. - Do you still have your knife?"
"Aye, that I have" was her proud answer.
"You have now fully redeemed your deed
and I wish for you to return to your manhood"
"I wish so too, one day, but not the way I was."
He bowed slightly and smilingly said
" 'will be back shortly, Be safe "

While the eunuch was gone the Volva
Talked to the ancient ones out loud
"Protect my daughter from harrowing harm
Let her have a cheery character
And may she one day meet her father.
I thank ye all for sending a rescuer
I from this day forth forgive him his dire deed
May he one day get back his manhood".
The blossom that she had picked
Earlier - the white and purple anemone
She took each leaf of the crown
Tossed it around herself and her newborn
Chanting silently ancient incantations
Not wanting to wake the sleeping suckling
at her motherly breast - Her sight showed:
A vernal equinox awaiting tonight
With an illuminating Luna over her hearth
Surrounded by Sophia, the Healing Woman
If she had nothing else to do, the Eunuch,
And in her arms her darling daughter Gemma Sarah.

a cell's life

the waves I have met
the ripples and tumbles
driftings, rollings,
twistings, coilings,
my bonnie cells
move along their path
I see the wrinkles
I ogle at my flabs
even though my abs
are not too untight
do I deplore
what I cannot have
my insecurity
my mood swings
my doubts
of my youthful years
yearning for wisdom
now wisdom stands
and laughs in my face
for what for whom
only the experience,
the road
and then some?

puzzle-struggle

Cross-word puzzle
in my local newspaper
strengthens the gray
materials every morn
to the nth degree
my hubby is better
at it - walking the dog
yet, sometimes I finish
some of the clues
at other times he does
but we enjoy the daily
mental struggle -

Buyers' beware!!

Bad girls's image tempts
an old fogey like me
why should I remain
the nice, subdued
little elderly female
(I was going to say lady
but I was never one)
I like the friendly royale
who described me as
bad-assed -that spells guts
gumption - hell on wheels
WARNING - to everyone
I may have a slight bent
life is now too short
to be nice and easy-going
so I have elected to become
- a freely obnoxiously
fun-seeking older gal
and I can still be your pal
if you can take my attempt!!

Dream-mare

a dream-mare of going into the woods
with two kids - finding - losing
our ways in the maze called reality
actually one kid was just fine
other child lost a down jacket
and I, his mom, couldn't find it
it was a strange maze of
rejection and redemption
all in lush green -what did it mean
to the dream-seeker and -awaker
all around a little after 6 a.m.
portending this rainy day's fog?!

Free words?

Returned once more
to the land of the free
yet the free are not free
libels of legislators
many crying racism
words weigh
travesty of truth
alas,
words will never be free!

Seed spreads

Augurous autumn, trees were flaming red
a blood oak stood brightly against
the pale morn light of rose fingers
just before the aubade marks its domain
the Volva Vigga stood with her grown lassie
looking at the sunup wondering where
the years had altogether and wholly vanished -
Gemma Sarah turned into another stout tree
whose stem was sturdy and fiercely loyal
her unctuous umbra radiated real joy
and true sadness - a mixture of womanhood
just as mysterious and mellow as her foremothers
she was her own self - another Volva - not -
because her father's fashion was embedded
in her own being - she was a mixture
of runes and age-old Jahve's tribe
of the earth she had smelled in her mother's hut
near the old Yggdrasil, the tree watered
by her mother's tears dropped before her birthing
raised by the two sisters and their fiendly friend
the eunuch - he provided the father's sphere
sometimes when he was in their neigborhood
on the way or back from a trip from his master
- the medicine man up north near the
great wall and hollow hills of the moors.
Gemma Sarah was going away to a larger town
creating her own life - the Volva, sad, but proud
knew that her off-spring would make mistakes
make her own life worth while, create what
she thought would be right for her, not the ancients.
Vigga the Volva felt her forefemales most vividly
in her veins wrung the herstory of blood,toils,
felonies against the founding females -
but Gemma Sarah rejected that she was part of that
whole rigamarole and instead devoted herself
to another art form - a line of singing songs
created mostly by manly men whose stories
told the dualities of living together
in hormonious harmony - very few of those tales
were happy and the wondering Volva mused
that her daughter might be daring to dream
without counting on the world's bastardy ways
of cutthroat carelessness - of wanting it less
but it was for the young to find out for herself.
Sadness filled her but she turned away from
her daughter's form - and encouraged her to go on
to fly on her own wings - hoping only that
she would land safely wherever she was heading
nothing absolutely nothing she could do
and therein lies the irony of motherhood
sheltering the bitty bairns for a timely period
again hoping that their wings will be strong enough
to bear their hopes and high-flying dreams.
The Volva Vigga waved to her offspring
sprightly taking her own off-beat road of fatal phase
going away netting her to an unknown nexus
away from the grandmother's and their lines
into the arts of harmony and heroines' heroic plights.
A rare road less trodden deeply down
a square taskmaster much more demanding
than many other odd-sounding old fields of fares.
Knowingly the motherly breast squeezed her fears
and stepped boldly aside - letting fair fate decide
the morning light now broke out into the trees,
the autumnal leaves turned crimsonly cardinal
adding to the shimmering aurora's dashing day
and in the background as her beloved daughter left
the motherly squelzing but sustaining sphere,
Yggdrasil yonder seemed to spout another spur
and the grannies danced in the daunting daylight.

Lag

Jetlag propels
my foggy waves
through the winds
I lag everything
numb and dumb
I barely stand
my jet lags
in glorious power
is this how
death experiences
the souls pulsate
from nowhere
to this non-life?
The poet should
never try to write
when jetlagged
this poem lags
both spirit and guts
so spirit will
be spilled in my guts
to knock-out
and then the circus
starts again - jets
and jets lag lag lag....

heat

heat waves internal
external heat waves
nothing but drops
sweat running down
yet you feel warm
all over and then
a slight breeze
a cup of tea
served by a friend
warms the heart
and the drips
does not matter
at all

termites

A little house of dreams
turning into a nightmare
I thought I could renovate
oh yes - treat termites

"The tour"

Waiting to go on tour
to see "the tour"
the circus touring
all of the spectators
clap at our tour
turning to each other
nodding -
we have seen another tour

evolution?

Witch burning night
for once I am home
in the pagan country
where during midsummer
it never gets dark
-
I felt it strongly
when my insomnia
was so very intact
last night

beatic beauty
of high summer's nighs
where adventures
awaits the old and young
at hearts -
when I see my country
like this
I wonder why I left
this - wonderous
little country
with the happiest
people in the world

But in my heart it was
my destiny to go - never
to return to the cradle

I grew up - wiser

Alone but not alone

...this morning on my peregrination
across the fields of blooming vines
I spotted a windfarm of mills
as I trundled further
I had a solitary sensation
of being part of a whole
from before there were people
until now
I saw Carcarsonne
from afar - a fata morgana
albeit - but I know what I saw.
Bucolic area to the max
and talking to the listener...




Carcasonne is over thirty miles
in direct line from where I was
standing.

Nature

No flies means clear skies
many of them and it rains
so when you walk
hear your nature talk
obey it because
it's without flaws
so I am always in awe
of mater's natural law.

thoughts of a garden

tending one's garden demands
patience and practice
making your buds grow
guiding them gently
trim them up the trellis
then prune them well
so that their growth
will be strong
practice and patience
sooner or later
most of the time
your blooms find their way
to climb the lattice,
but even the old gardener
keeps a vigilant eye
then hopes that
the dirt will be full
of wiggly worms aerating
and the rain substantiates
the new crop - strong
independently spouting

Un mardi matinale

Un concert ce matin
dans notre eglise
etait un emerveillement
pour mes oreilles.
C'etait une epreuve.
Les musiciens monumentaux
faisaient la musique
merveilleusement
Un privilege phenomenal
d'un Mardi de Juin.

Blockage

Cooler days in Languedoc
suddenly a writer's block
hits me with a bang
lo, not sturm und drang
but rather a middle age
me completely off stage
I try to get my bearings
not possible - despairing
walk away from this machine
create your French cuisine
and maybe you will find
your words, your absent mind.

un roi froid

Il y a du vent fort
dans mon village
il s'appelle
le tramontane
et il serait roi
des jours trois,
six ou neuf
on ne sais jamais
mais il est frais
ce vent du nord
il pousse, il fait
des bruits de volets
et comme il va s'amuser
s'il l'on veut ou pas
il reste le roi
froid.

Jump

Jump - said the clown
how high said I
not how high said the clown
how low said I
just jump said the clown


should
or shouldn't I

I i i

Once twice triple a village

to paraphrase the bard
once, twice, triple
a village -
it envraps me totally
absorbs my soul's desires
a village
the rain is damaging
the vines - we need sun
in a village
it will command my living
for the time I am here
away in the village

Those Norwegians!!

Those Norwegians -
those people from my north
wow - their generosity
their hospitality
defies all other
- they are unique
and for their existence
I am grateful -
those Norwegians
those people from my north

Those Norwegians
those people from my north
she - a beauty in herself
he - a comrade of mentality
they want to share -
and they do more than
is even wanted, less expected
those Norwegians
those people from my north

Those Norwegians
those people from my north
they taught me how
to give back to life
they give without thinking
how it is going to look
or how it will affect them
I humbly thank
those Norwegians
those people from my north

To Ia and Torsten

Rain haiku

Lime-colored lush lawns
last only till the sun burns
the rain has spoken

Process of poem

Working on another poem
the poetess is giving birth
to a very difficult child
it will take long to breech
and it will never be compleat
because the words and meanings
change along with a world
of full of surprises
decisions about what and where
and how and who and when
tumbling around inside
not the womb - but the mind
the germination of a human
takes nine months - this
may take even longer
having already thought of it
since it was first begun
it is one of its kind -
yet which way it will go
its maker still wonders
and time only time shall reveal

Hostile world

what to do in a world of hate
where to turn
where to find the tiny bit of love
where to yearn
what to do in a world of hate

what to do in a world of war
where to turn
where to find that tiny bit of peace
where to yearn
what to do in a world of war

what to do in a world of famine
where to turn
where to find that tiny bit of food
where to yearn
what to do in a world of war

what to do in a world of chaos
where to turn
where to find the tiny bit of hope
where to yearn
what to do in a world of chaos

Stories from home...

Washing machine
not pumping out
what to do?
Hubby away.
The water stands still -
I look at it -
try to pump out
several times
jerking the knots
of the machine -
Conclusion:
the pump seems to work fine
but the remaining water
still standing
grins at me.
Hubby's advice,
"buy a new or wait for me."
Not a viable solution for
the at-home-wife.

Hmm, back in the mist of
my school career of physics
I remember the vessels
of communication.
Told my daughter and found
a plastic tube long enough
to use for this experiment.

My practical progeny
took over and did the feat
without grumbling.
But when the last water
was almost gone
she caught a cup
started to scoop!
----
Sadly dawning on me
it would have been
so much faster?!!
And the thought never
even occured to me!
----
We laughed and I promised
her - not a rose garden -
only a cup of nice coffee...

Outlook - a loss of words?

Googling the world
will be forever entrenched
in our daily lives -
only to have it changed to
something entirely
different that we cannot
yet imagine
so
with John Lennon I shall
plead for phantastic
dreamers and holistic
young minds -
endeavour to strive
for the goodness
deep down
very deep down
no wars no hate
no give me give me give me
what did you ever do
to deserve give me?
I still am a hopelessly
hopeful idealist.
Mayhap googling for
knowledge and dreams
will live beyond hatred
beyond greed - ?
Imagine googling
hate, and the word
had disappeared one day.
Imagine googling
war, and the word
was gone from the world?
Would the loss of these
two words be so bad?

My mother's eyes

Steel blue and gentle
clearly aquamarine
I have never seen
anybody else with that hue
unique and proud
she hid herself
behind a veil
she a lady
would take one look
at you -
you would know
whether you were in her favor
or out of it
sometimes she was sad
sometimes she was angry
but most of the time
she was composed
and self-contained
Steel blue and gentle.

Dreams of images

dreamer of dreams
welder of weldings
painter of paintings
yielder of yields
musicians of music
imaginings of images
which came first
language or thoughts?
does it matter
when we can still
visualize hope?

A rose of the Jura Mountains

a rose of the Jura mountains
from afar it glimpses
a mild smile urging
a wayward wanderer
to try it on for size
this rose I encounter rarely
but to this day - genteel
and seemingly sincere -
the Juras speak the language
of Ronsard, Molliere and Proust
and the rose will bloom
in my mind for a long time
with the language in common

Kaput

blood pressure rankles
up and down the scale
genetics or boundaries
tai-chi or meditation
alleviates the burden
decompression desperately
urged and needed - cannot
I have finally gone kaput

To an honest person -thanks

a tiny hope for humanity
since yesterday morn
I lost my wallet in a city
terrified I cancelled cards
only to become totally
completely mouth-opened
astounded of the generosity
- an anonymous person -
returned the wallet intact - honestly