not even a sketch
Category : Not Funny
Panicking,
panic stricken,
cannot think
about anything ****
I am down
to the last three cigarettes
and one ****
I feel
like a criminally
challenged idiot;
will have to
patch,
**** out
eventually.
How sad.
(4-17-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 4:52 PM UTC
He keeps knocking
on my midnight ceiling;
until morning
he occupies my mind.
Invades my innermost thoughts,
I have no peace,
he doesn't want to leave me be.
I don't know how to get rid of him,
he doesn't leave my space;
he waits outside, in the streets.
Surprises me, as I'm turning a corner,
falls like a bookmark
from the book
I read.
He knocks on my door
in vain;
I don't want to hear anything.
I see him passing the glass windows
of second-hand stores, where he buys
slightly used,
still in a good condition
looking like new
carefully restored
love.
I am not purchasing
what once
belonged to someone else.
I won't wear
someone else's love
(3-6-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:53 PM UTC
Crowded rooms filled with all revealing
fluorescent light.
Patiently waiting faces of all colours,
painful bodies,
broken bones, damaged hearts,
crying babies in strollers.
Wheel chairs of the waiting rooms.
TV set announces bad weather,
and bad news in whispers.
GPs running the Marathon
of waiting rooms.
Next!
Ill-pronounced names by a nurse;
off to yet another chamber to wait.
Noon hour closed
for lunch.
Patiently waiting impatient,
and nervous patients
waiting endlessly
for the sentencing,
by the good doctors.
Appointments with death.
Out again
into rain
of the sick outside world,
last words of waiting rooms
wrapped up in pills.
(4-17-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:50 PM UTC
Masculinum Hyppeastrum,
monstrum;
the man eating
botanica,
the endlessly flowering plant,
had enough of me.
Went to sleep,
or worse,
he perished.
I must have said something nasty
about his size;
doesn't flower anymore,
all dried out,
doesn't do a thing,
his onion is weeping.
Christmas roses,
as I call the girls,
lost the will
to live.
All my,
previously green, flora
is pointing her leafless finger
at me.
I've done nothing,
that's the problem.
I forgot all about my green plants;
the environment is wrong,
there is too much acidity,
and that's my fault.
I will search
under the garden snow
for snow drops,
I left to themselves
two years
February,
my snow tears.
For colour,
I have lemons and limes,
green and yellow;
sitting on a traditionally,
blue, hand-painted
Chinese china platter.
River Yangtze
is still running through my mind.
Chai,
Lemon tea and lemonade.
~
Author Notes
*Flowering plants from Bahia : Hyppeastrum sp.
From the 1970s, many plant novelties from Bahia
came to light with the expeditions carried out
by Howard Irwin and collaborators
of NYBG (USA) and by Raymond Harley
from RBG-Kew (UK). This provoked a renewal
of interest, among botanists, in the flora of Bahia*
(3-1-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
sketch
I have no words,
nothing to say;
I am an empty shoe box
left over from a pair
made in Mexico
that went
out of fashion
already
at the end
of the
last century.
(4-6-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:40 PM UTC
bye, bye, pie in the sky
I made a dream
I made you out of nowhere,
Out of the mountain snow and out of the air.
I was spinning your head
On my spinning wheels
Out of warm sunshine and out of cool moon beams.
For months and months,
I was spinning your head.
I was weaving your hair
Out of silky threads
For weeks.
Carefully pedaling my old fashioned,
Singing
Sewing machine,
I spent nights
Stitching adornments on your pockets,
Embroidering your cuffs.
Crochet crazy,
I crocheted laces for your sheer enjoyment
And for your windows,
Hooked on the crocheting hooks
Way up high.
I knitted sweaters
For your sacrificial lambs
Of colourful wools.
You are almost finished,
My just a dream, just a dream,
I'll let you go
With the African hot wind.
I am all done
With you.
Sorry, I couldn't hold on
To my golden
Knitting needles
Any longer.
(1-16-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:38 PM UTC
~Sailing my Beluga
Today, the day is crying
All night,
And since early morning,
Filled with melancholy
Waters
Up to the brim.
Slowly overflowing
Streams and rivers
Under my bridges.
I am adding
My tear or two
Of the salty liquid
To the mill.
We will
Finally reach
The sea,
The ocean blue.
There is no
Rush,
No haste,
No hurry.
Easy does it.
Life is just
An accident.
It may take a while,
A year or two,
A day
Or a week.
Who is counting
The hours,
The minutes?
Not me.
What's wrong
With just sailing,
Going
With the flow?
There is nothing,
Nothing,
Nothing wrong.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:16 PM UTC
~Still life
In the window frame
Empty stare
Through the self-imposed
Prison of glass -
On the windowsill
Candle never lit -
Souvenirs of the past
Painting -
An empty shell
Of a woman, staring
Chiaroscuro background -
Darkness, shade, hardly any light
To illuminate
The inside
Of the jail
Contemplating
Escape?
Suicide?
Waiting
For what
For the end?
Waiting for whom?
Waiting for God-ot!
He, who shall never come -
In vain
Still waiting
Years too late
For the bells to toll
In the window frame
Oil on canvas -
It is me
Through the window pane
Staring through the glass
Resigned
Lifeless
Still life
On canvas
Author Notes:
Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett's - absurd tragicomedy; Godot never shows up.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:14 PM UTC
~I too have a dream
Oh, what a beautiful morning,
I wonder
what's going to happen
to spoil it,
what's going to befall me.
There are so many possibilities
of things going wrong,
not going my way,
I don't even want to imagine.
Why cannot I just sit quietly
enjoying the sunshiny day?
The phone may ring
bringing bad news,
I may lose my beloved
to the the world.
An unexpected invoice
I forgot to pay
might appear in my mail box,
the weather may change
and out of the blue day
a thunderstorm and rain.
Will I pay dearly
for seeing everything
only in shades of grey?
Then the tones
of "The New World Symphony"
with motifs of Bohemian village dances,
the hustle and bustle
of American cities,
native Indian drums drumming
bring the image
of peace;
of pursuit of happiness
on both of my continents.
Impossible dream, you say?
Author Notes
*~Largo from the 'New World' Symphony (1893)
by the Czech composer Antonin Dvorak;
and is probably the most famous piece
of the composition played at all American state funerals.*
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
~Heart to heart talk
Romance is not my cup o'tea,
I can see clearly now,
That the rain is gone.
Reading the tea leaves
In my tea cup,
Nothing exciting seems to be
Coming my way
Where romance is concerned.
So it is not
My department of expertise,
Sadly enough, I must admit.
Come to think of it,
I am not an expert at anything.
Making a fool of myself,
Maybe;
Even in that compartment
My gloves are missing.
Why don't I just
Shut up an listen
To the Masters,
The Lords of the Word ?
I may learn
Something useful
In the end,
If only I would listen
Attentively
Of course, it just
Wouldn't be
The dumb and the dumber
me.
Author Notes
~I haven't a thing to say for myself, sadly enough.
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:10 PM UTC