Weep, vortex of a lineblurrer!
Asleep you can view far beyond;
Keep your chaotic spiral close,
sweep clean leave ideas en ronde;
Deny who you are at the core,
lie to those who need honesty;
Try if you must to stop spinning,
spry holds the keys to fantasy.
Categories:
ronde, creation, emotions, feelings,
Form: Lento
She wears curtains in her eyes
Uses them like a surgical knife
Draws them closed each day
To cut and blank out her daily life
And she slides in the needle
That helps her to find
The matching opacity
Of her tortured mind
Her strength and her addiction
That gets her through each day
Of the life she has to lead
To find the money to pay
For the contents of that needle
So you think her eyes are dead
As you pass her on the street
Just two dull orbs in her head
And sometimes you may think
From her dull eyed stare
She’s not in this world but
In her own hell somewhere
And she nightly works the streets
Harassed, ridiculed, abused
And so many occasions
Just paid for and used
And sometimes for a while
Her eyes are opened wide
Until she slips in her needle
And relief pours back inside
And she resumes her life
As an underclass pawn
As those curtains in her eyes
Are closed and tightly drawn
Categories:
ronde, addiction,
Form: Rhyme
Beyond this poetry with soups far apart,
Cabbage with snail traces of temptation,
"Papana?i" in sweet palace of cheese,
"Gumboti" - plum dumplings`nation
Scented with cinnamon on their knees
Kind of the three musketeers`story
- Although we like four- for your glory!
Sweet-sour Hungarian-Wallachian`desert.
Many of my poems are just like... cabbages!
My attempt to add serenity`s smile to all ages:
Now and then, you may find a cauliflower
With thyme and dill and tarragon`s power.
Actually, it's not about art of cooking dreams
Of vegan menu, without any sausages-rhymes;
Nor hot Brazilian ”saudade”- with tea and ice;
Oswald de Andrade's, who is really so nice!
As dedicated body and soul to crown
Gourmets eating themselves; invisible:
In the most post-modern way possible;
I pay a visit to great poets of the world:
I do not wear a shield and a sharp sword
Like in films with pretty ladies and knights
Singing "Chavaliers de la table ronde"-twice;
But I think I love you all, everyone, everyone!
Categories:
ronde, art, best friend, poems,
Form: I do not know?
When crocuses first blazed beneath the trees
as harbingers of warmth and light to come,
I met you, and the curved continuum
transported us beyond high summer's ease.
Thanks be to God above that things rotate.
The bloom is ruptured by late summer's breath:
its seeds, in flying, validate its death.
Our cycle is complete. The hour is late.
Yet every night is scattered by a dawn,
each fallen oak replenishes the soil.
If life-in-death brings on us endless toil,
the pains of birth and grief, I will not mourn.
I know new shoots will strive up from dead ground,
and love will flame again, though now snowbound.
Categories:
ronde, love,
Form: Sonnet
When crocuses first blazed beneath the trees
as harbingers of warmth and light to come,
I met you, and the curved continuum
transported us beyond high summer's ease.
Thanks be to God above that things rotate.
The bloom is ruptured by late summer's breath:
its seeds, in flying, validate its death.
Our cycle is complete. The hour is late.
Yet every night is scattered by a dawn,
each fallen oak replenishes the soil.
If life-in-death brings on us endless toil,
the pains of birth and grief, I will not mourn.
I know new shoots will strive up from dead ground,
and love will flame again, though now snowbound.
Categories:
ronde, nature,
Form: Sonnet
MOON MORGANS
On a clear night long about October’s end
When the wind is wailing a dies irae
And your brain befitting the season is newly webbed
With la ronde des lutins (the round of the goblins)
Laughing in eerie chorus
Catch!
Swallow hard!
Then look ye up!
The great golden eye will appear slightly misted and
Flitting much like strange derby-wearing cigar chewing
circus criers
Are these small pot-bellied men with wings
Called by weird mystics “Moon Morgans”
You will hear them sing a burlesque tune
They hover just above mother earth
Though they appear quite close to the lunar apparition
So far away - mind’s eye and ear you know
“Too ra loo ra, pumpkin pie
Too ra loo ra, up in the sky
Too ra loo ra, my oh my
Too ra loo ra, oh how we fly!”
“This is nonsense!” you will say
But of course!
Moon Morgans are ineffably stupid
Categories:
ronde, funny
Form: Narrative