Short Stockholm Poems

My beautiful lady
Wields a mean katana
And you dikeledi
Don't love your rapist
The stockholm syndrome...

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I thought I was rescuing all of them,
but now I realize that they are all feline victims of Stockholm Syndrome....

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They believed a Capitol riot could make a loser a winner,
After failing, they cling to changing facts by terror and thunder....

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Every night I cry
myself to sleep for I
cannot see the point
in life after you die
My world shattering 
all around me
My quivering heart 
an amputee
It doesn't matter at all
I'm just waiting for the fall...

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I miss your bones
Colliding into mine
I miss your skin
Leaving marks 
on my neck

I miss your knuckles
Bruised as they are
I miss my tears
Cascading 
down 
my 
face

I am 
your 
heaven
You are 
my 
hell.

Flesh and blood 
forever be
I
miss 
you
hurting 
me....

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Swedish Flower
Hair blonde,eyes blue.it couldn't grow in dark and cold Stockholm without having sunny hair and oceanic eyes in it self.
if i had a Swedish flower in my garden i would make it warm with the heat of my heart and i would give it water with my tears.
If i had a Swedish flower,if...if... ....

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I've cried for you I've lied for you 
To this day i'd lay down my life and die for you
You could smile watching me bleed out on the floor, you could hit me in the face and i'd blame it in the door 

You are my favorite type of misery the best method of self destruction I've ever had
you are the one I love you are the one I hate 
my forever and always...

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My Stockholm syndrome
crosshatch strokes across my rickety easel
lavish lavender blends of oil and spice
dye this powerless infant
catapulted into a cradle –
the dead center
of a clandestine circumference

Each hair on the stencil brush
an acrylic incision
a caressing crimson mutilation
of the narrow slit
leading both bishops and cardinals
to the vineyard of
ripened blood
- the apostolic apex...

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Essence of self existent presence, pristine and illumined is unimpacted by the veils of delusion borne darkness surrounding identity for the onus is on the ego resident within mind body to align itself with divine love in surrendered stillness to experience and imbibe the elixir of ineffable rapturous bliss unendingly radiating from the source.

Stockholm syndrome 
We are our own tormentor
The door is open...

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We never used an ATM
In Stockholm, on our trip.
The guide on our free walking tour
Took dollars for a tip.

For every other purchase
We used charge cards like the Swedes,
Since coins and bills, it seems, are things
Today nobody needs.

A sign in a museum 
Made the point with quite a splash:
"We accept just who you are but we
Are not accepting cash."

How strange to visit someplace 
With no currency in hand.
Perhaps someday all cash will be
Considered contraband....

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Before we left Stockholm
I purchased a stash
Of licorice tubes,
Using credit, not cash.

I followed their customs
Where money’s not used
And licorice rules.
(I, of course, was enthused.)

The treats that I bought
Have a lemon-filled base
Which black licorice spirals
Do snugly encase.

Every night since I’m home
I indulge in a bite
Which, aside from providing
A taste to delight…

Brings me back to my trip
In a sensory flash.
I’ll be sad when I finish
My licorice cache....

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Indeed, we have given up.
Freemen, once...now happy slaves?
No longer able to drink from a Church cup.
We are the most willing knaves.
Tragically, to those who unlawfully 
locked us up.

Stockholm Syndrome has us by the throat.
We are grateful to our masters for our lifelong 
sentence?
Never realizing we must be the butt of jokes.
Contended as our end draws near.
Taken prisoner by a phenomenal,
life-demeaning hoax.



    September 12, 2020
          7pm PST

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