The autumn wind of fourteen-
ninety- nine
Blew over Basel in a crisp, sharp
line,
Where Swabian battles found their
silent close,
And from the ash, a sovereign
peace arose.
On twenty-second days of that
September chill,
The ink was dried, the clashing
swords were still.
The Holy Empire loosed its ancient
hold,
As Swiss resolve was etched in lines
of gold.
The treaties signed, the mountain
cantons free,
To chart their course of armed
neutrality.
While far away, across the shifting
deep,
Old empires woke from centuries of
sleep.
The month drew closed, the
modern world awake,
With every bond the Swiss had
dared to break.
A second half of autumn, fierce and
grand,
That drew the borders of a fearless
land.
Along the horizon, the Swiss Alps rise with a deep calm,
their slopes holding a pale, steady radiance~
not the brilliance of noon,
but the quiet glow of a soul at rest.
The lake below mirrors everything
with a devotion almost holy,
its surface smooth as a held breath,
a silver-blue plane where sky and water
forget their differences.
Trees stand in contemplative ranks,
dark brushstrokes of patience,
as though they’ve spent centuries
listening to the mountain’s slow wisdom
and have learned the art of stillness.
Nothing moves;
yet the whole scene feels alive~
a pulse beneath the silence,
a soft, inward turning of the world
toward its own serene center.
And as the eye lingers,
something in the heart settles too,
as if Hodler painted not a place
but a moment of inner clarity~
Breathe in
Dive in the numbing water
Freeze off all the guilt
Use the rusty meat cleaver
Chop off the rest
Speak into the nothingness
Have the river current speak back
Understand the minnows?
Stay in groups, leave in ones?
Be adventurous
Mumble to yourself at karaoke night,
crushing the non-alcoholic drink in your red solo cup
Pretend you peed yourself so you don’t seem clumsy
Red knuckles on the rotten wood
One bang away from bleeding
Sit by the same river
Move to the little island not yet overtaken
Night fall
Skip the stone like your worries
Hold the sky like your burden
Fail
Remember the Swiss Army knife can’t spread butter
Think of Grandma’s kitchen
Be normal
Swim
Swim relentlessly into the empty night
Be the constellation the light of the stars reflects against
Move on
Move forward.
Marly’s gasconade about her chalet in Switzerland was not braggadocio
I sat for two hours keen to see it all, stunned by the dazzling clear water
Captivated by the lace topped Alps, the air was crisp and clean.
Her description of a delightful dazzling scene was not an embellishment.
Ravishing flowers beside the cool bench where I sat were vibrant
within the Alps I heard the crisp tweet of a songbird.
This was an innocent place, I was keen to see more.
This gasconade does not do this alluring scenery justice.
A ravishing, captivating, enchanting, marvelous wonderland
the Chinese diet
simple and unique ~ all you
need is one chopstick
a guy falls off a
ship yell man overboard ~ a
gal? full speed ahead
the Swiss invented
a bra plays musical notes ~
"The hills are alive ... "
*brain stall--will add/kinda old jokes
Some responsible humans, are beating a path to
A nondescript country' may they focus real heat.!
On the coldness we know of' how much more hides away?
Is there love in that nation; maybe those native will say.?
I would they will come out in welcome? flowers to place.'
Before these good spirited visitors, who care; all's not to waste
Are there good Swiss folk? Who'll succour? Believing no lie'
People who'll accept other humans.' Maybe they'll stand up?
In their thousands, to reject evil plans.' Linking arms
Sharing stories of how better things could be.?
Will they challenge any prejudgment, indeed it might be me?
Yet..No.) I am, as are those marching, ready to cheer!
Should the Swiss' prove their mettle' in a denying of fear.! Oh
May such so be.' And if God wills? there"ll be quality too there' so great!
And also much honour, we all watch to see.! A lot rests with the Swiss.'
Will they now. Rise? To find..' Good reason, and spirit'' of truth
Also liberty? Maybe just in time.!
The Swiss painter Emile Nolde*
used artistic licence 'til very old
Not of scenes too local
but in visions primitive&tropical
*https://www.wikiart.org/en/emil-nolde
SWISS CHEESE
The major connoisseurs of swiss cheese
as incredible as it may seem,
are not the Swiss basement rats.,
are the "voles" from the underground of the
politics....
THINKING OF BEING HAPPY
Just thinking of being happy, our hurried
friend tied the sorrows at the foot of the table,
he took a nap on the riverbed, and when
he woke up ... put his foot in the jackfruit, put
a jacket and went to party in heaven
mouth of the street ...
POLLUTION
The noise pollution is so intense,
the sound volume is so loud that
soon, soon, soon, soon there will be
queues of patients wanting to do
ear transplant ...
WEDDING
Marriage goes through several phases until
that comes to ending ... or not ...:
Initially marriage is a love movie.
Already at home living in two, it's drama ...
In the separation, it doesn't matter who is guilty,
it's either a comedy, or a horror movie ...!
Cherish the divine
As stars twilight down
Over the earth and seas of enchantment
As they intertwine
With alot of fulfillment
Cherish the divine
Water rushes over the dam
Making a beautiful design
Where the fish all have swam
As the wind blows the Swiss mountain pine
Cherish the divine
Bay of rainbows over the seas
Wow how strong they shine
You can fill the breeze
As it drifts through the trees
Cherish the divine
The day moon extinguishes
With everything combined
Relishing the glows
As the sun starts to decline
KLD 2001
We need those who keep us precise
Like the Swiss clocks and chimes
And engines so nice,
Oiled, clean and shiny at all times.
We want to be sharp and admired
By hones people who love us,
Be in precision and never tired!
We can see it as a blessing
To increase and perfect our powers
To serve God and confessing
All honor to be given
In the School of Precision
His will on earth, as in Heaven
Will be the right decision!
On a dark and rainy afternoon
Whence I’d been sentenced to my bedroom
For my crime of failing to take care
To not be a pain in my mother’s derriere
As it happens, I was a lad of six
Full of mischief and annoying tricks
Apparently, I had failed to take warning
That had been admonished all morning
Thus, when afternoon did arrive
Tried, convicted, and sentenced was I
Confined to barracks until further notice
Oh, what the heck, I’d make the most of it
I played for a while with a couple of toys
Yet, this furnished so very little joy
There on a shelf sat a book my sister said
I’d really enjoy if I wasn’t so thick in the head
I looked at the cover and it did look fun
The title was The Swiss Family Robinson
Now this came to pass, though my heart didn’t swoon
A love affair began that very afternoon in my room
I while still at tender young age was that day engaged
As I fell in love with words on a page
On a day a number of centuries ago
John Calvin met the great heroine, Joan of Arc,
they both had much indeed in common
in their lives, on God's side, they made their mark
Both were born and came from France
so language was not a problem at all
they had both been mightily used of God
humbly both bowed to obey God's call
John spoke admirably of Joan's bravery
asking did you really hear a voice?
one so audible so clear to be God
oh yes Joan said it was no ordinary noise
Joan spoke of Calvin's work in Geneva
what was it like to see such transformation?
John answered it wasn't me, the spirit of God
it was His work to speak through God's revelation
So much to share can't tell it all now
John and Joan were now real true friends
their great love for Jesus their saviour
who died for their sins for their souls to mend
(I've brought together John Calvin the Swiss reformer(1509-1564) and Joan of Arc who rescued France from English domination. (1412-1431), both French by birth and both mightily used of God. They both lived in different periods of history but thought it would be nice to bring them together and imagine what friends they could be)
The taste and the delicious aftertaste,
Makes cheese a wonder milk production;
Healthy in sandwiches with chicken paste.
Well known grated in Italian dishes
Nothing tastes better than Parmesan,
For it as strong as was Ugly Betty.
The popular rubbery like Cheddar,
Used mainly in school sandwiches;
Commonly as birds of a feather.
The distinguish the Dutch Edam,
With it’s famous with the red skin;
It’s a pity it was in the time of Adam.
The holy cheese very sweet and tender,
The Swiss Gruyere my favourite one;
It is good to keep the body slender.
There are many more but I am not bothered,
Hoping with this one the contest I have conquered.
Monday 12th November 2018
Write a Poem About Cheese Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Barry Stebbings
The Pope and statues
Confounded old age, I keep looking on a black screen, on a plateau of nothingness
Except for the ridiculous idea, I ought to travel to Rome and see the statues
I once wrote about, and perhaps meet the Pope, and we can talk about this and that.
I must meet him now before the Vatican machinery brainwash him into a Pope
wearing glorious robes, a person of empty rituals.
If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, and we could go for
a walk and look at the statues together.
Drink beer and eat Brazilian sausages with Italian flare; tell him a secret so deep
he may think me deluded.
Dear brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb,
but I was kidnapped by the Roma people and grew up in poverty the underdog
in our democratic world; and you are the bishop of Rome.
There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embrace me
or he calls the Swiss guards; whichever he will not forget me and the statues.
The Pope and statues
Confounded old age, I keep looking on a black screen, on a plateau of nothingness
Except for the ridiculous idea, I ought to travel to Rome and see the statues
I once wrote about, and perhaps meet the Pope, and we can talk about this and that.
I must meet him now before the Vatican machinery brainwash him into a Pope
wearing glorious robes, a person of empty rituals.
If I get to meet him, he could dress up in a smart Italian suit, and we could go for
a walk and look at the statues together.
Drink beer and eat Brazilian sausages with Italian flare; tell him a secret so deep
he may think me deluded.
Dear brother Frances, your name is Erik, we are twins, shared the same womb,
but I was kidnapped by the Roma people and grew up in poverty the underdog
in our democratic world; and you are the bishop of Rome.
There will be a stunned silence, either he accepts my story and embrace me
or he calls the Swiss guards; whichever he will not forget me and the statues.
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