My nightmare haiku

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

Le jour des mères

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

Haunted honored beyond

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

To Karen Warshall

A consequential moment

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

Why where to  who
All intermingled
But nightmares rest

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

Because

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

Speakeasy

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

Une gentillesse

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

L’orage violent

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

- isms

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

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

feminism would be
considered problematic
for some
for others perfect

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


 

Barre needs

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

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

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

Almost

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

Symphonia Metropolitana

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

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

Time is NOW (kinda haikus combined)

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

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

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

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

Frustration ...

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

Naught of night

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

"En réalité"

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

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

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

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

Die Marschallin

In covid-19 time
Lapping up sleepily
Der Rosenkavaler

Honest feelings
timeless plots
aging, lust, love

Opera conveys
Vividly and wildly
Foibles galore

Just a zénith
No pontificating
A conversation

You are a woman
The same as everyman
 Clock and cocks

Behaviors depicted
In plaque or not
Genetically forged

A verse approach’d

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

Min bror i ånden

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


Til Torsten


  

Ode to a Vølva's longing

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

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