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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

~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.

~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.

~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.

~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.

~In a downward state of mind*

Why is it?
My house,
up there,
I, so carefully put together,
brick by brick
out of mist, sea air,
out of nothing
really;
glued by my desire
to live,
is ruined.

Now,
all come
crashing down,
shattered;
brick by brick,
boulder by boulder,
stone by stone.

Down through
stratosphere;
the speed
with which
hot
burning,
ashes and debris
blind my eyes,
unbearable pain
in my broken bones,
my flesh burnt;
earth is shaking
under my feet,
I'm losing balance.

I am closing my eyes,
plugging my ears,
not to hear
the dreadful thunder.

I wish,
I hope,
one of these nights,
while sleeping,
I will stop dreaming,
I will cease
to breathe.

~Bio-recycling biography
about nothing, really*

Green Bin outside
the front door
yawning occasionally,
patiently waiting
for Friday;

big
Bio-recycling day.
City
of
Toronto,
metropolitan bio-by-law.

Green Boxes
of the neighbourhood
standing
like soldiers
on the sidewalks
of the metropolis
expecting professionals
to empty their insides.

Bones
cooked for hours
to make the best
chicken noodle soup,
the remedy for every ill.

Rotting remnants
of family banquettes,
over the whole week,
potato peels for the best
potato salad,
secret grandmother's recipe.

Egg-shell colour
colours the interior decorator;
last tomato of the season.

Pity,
spaghettini,
spaghetti
sauce
dreams.

Coffee grinds.
Stainless steel
espresso machine
sighs
******* fireworks
remembering
the coffee grinder.

Tangerine, orange peel
freshly peeled
still pines for Florida.

Stop yawning, Green Bin,
tomorrow
is Friday.

~Poem?*

I will cease to exist
One of these days,
Once and for all.

Maybe next week
I'll cease to exist
For you.

Haven't I said already
I'll be ready to go?
This Saturday
Late
In the late afternoon.

After all,
My rendez-vous
Is at five,
Under
The ticking clock
On the corner.

Cease fire
For now,
I give up.

I gave up
One night
Under the stars,
Under the moon.

An eye for an eye
And most
Of my sweet teeth,
I packed
Into my
Overnight suitcase.

How did you know
I'd fall
For long, long
White hair,
Long overdue.

I found the last seat
Last night
Of the last season.
The last
Theatre performance.

Good chance
I'll miss
My five o'clock
Rendez-vous.

Pretty good reason
To leave, to go,
Never to turn.

Wait for me
A minute or two,
I will return
Right away

My beloved,
My old
And wrinkled,
Wise man
Of the sea.

~I remember...*

~For my two sisters

Future lovers
Are not knocking on my doors,
No line ups
Around the corner
Of my house;
The ladder to my window
Lies injured
On yellow
Lawn
Not nurtured,
Down bellow.

On the Queen Anne arm chair
Ashes of my
Fabulous years,
Wireless affairs,
No strings
Unattached
To my violin.

Sketches in the ****
Of lovers past
Are shivering,
Longing for my tapestries,
Trying, in vain, to hide
Under sad sepia.

Portraits, I promised
To paint
To Dorian Gray.
May still age
Given just a little
More time.

On the stage
I, Manon Lescaut, die,
Only sixteen -
Poor Knight De Grieux

Just another year,
please,
That I have not for sale
Anymore.
Pastels and aquarelles
Turned monochrome;
Chronos
Doesn't stop here
For a single moment -
Walks all over.

In the middle of my chaos
23/7
(What's an hour glass
Or more?),
Sleeps
Master Behemoth.

His fur coat
Once luxurious black
Has specks of grey,
One white whisker;
So are three of my hair.
Wise
Sybilla?

I don't think so.

It's not what
It used to be, my Master
Let's go out
To the open
Let's breathe,
Let's see new cats.
On the chopping block,
Let's lose our heads
Let's get lost.

Let's elope together
The weather
Should be
Just rainy-fine
For the Requiem,
For the funeral.

Tree Sisters gone
To the Cherry Orchard,
Uncle Vanya, again,
Left alone on the estate.
Seagull, before rain
Flies over my head
For the last time.


Author Notes
Two of my sisters are gone already.

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov's plays:
Three Sisters
Cherry Orchard
Uncle Vanya
Seagull

...To name just a few. Manon Lescaut by Abbe Prevost, two operas as well, one by Puccini, one by Esprit Auber. "A woman like Manon can have more than one lover."  The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde

~A sketch*

I have invested heavily
in this
one love
some precious hours
and brilliant months.

I am not interested
in purchasing
another one;
this one
is for keeps
for as long
as I live.

My
Penelope style love
became
so dear to me
after I gave
all I have;
the kimono
off my back,
the last crumb
of my cookie.