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Best Poems Written by Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein

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Polynonsensicalamorous

I'm polynonsensicalamorous;
For me,
Romance is calamitous,

I woo and charm,
And raise some alarm,
When I try to arouse,
... By flexing my arm!

Some days its almost ridiculous,
Whatever I do, 
It's frivolous!

So I dress to impress,
But I'm always despairing,
When I walk through the door,
I hear: "What are you wearing?"

They told me love was fabulous,
If you want the truth:
It's strenuous!

When I try to hit,
I always miss,
That hug I got,
...Should've been a kiss!

But if all is fair in love and war,
I should keep trying until I score,
And maybe one day I will cease to fuss,
If only I wasn't...
Polynonsensicalamorous.

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

The October After

How far have we come,
love,
with these days growing tall
like long smooth laurel,
tell me,
how can I go on,
no longer reaching,
your bare marble skin, blue eyes,
too wise to cry,
I know,
I must, forget you faster...
yet the hours do not go,
for I'm still yearning,
searching,
but our footprints
are lost,
with the falling
leaves.

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

These Days I Live In Lullabies

Escape. 

Blue sky with milky stars, spiral your way here
and I shall trace your yellow circles all night long,
because breathing is not easy and passion often sleeps.

We sat under the cover of nightfall, drinking wine
and taking in the majesty of night.
Paris 1947, no more war.
The bullets took my father away from me,
now the evening air consoles me, playing with my hair.
“A croissant my dear?” I laughed at the cliché of it all.
Some things still will never be the same.
The taste of the death is the same for everyone;
first it gets hot and then it gets cold.
 
I draw on the window fog,
a finger slides on cold glass, squealing.
“Escape”. 
I can see right through the letters.

A man walks along the shoreline, waves licking at his feet;
erasing his footprints, deleting his presence, making him complete.
I once could hear freedom in the echo of seashells: “Hushhhh…”

Somewhere among the snowy dunes, a solitary tree stood bare
with its limbs spilling into the sky like black ink on a grey page, a refuge
for owls and the thundering foot of a spring hare. This is my home.
I am nestled amongst dry leaves and damp wood, a family of squirrels
has taken me in. 
Nature is gracious, wolves don’t belong in public.

These days, I live in lullabies.
One reality is better than none at all.

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

Psychedelic

12 disciples,
circle uncycled,
positionary...
uncirculated,
recycled:

We are the chosen ones
around the mountain of steel 
and diamond, collecting bones
and ore. Can you feel us?

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

Seasons of the Bhodi

"Mahakavi...tell me, what is the body?"

'It is: the candle desiring flame;
    it is:  the universe self-contained;
       it is:  the realization of love,
          through the gratitude of pain.'

 

"Mahakavi...will you let me know,
   what is the nature of the soul?"

 

             'It is: the unwritten page;
         it is: the empty picture frame;
    it is: the absence of the self,
through the charity of change.'

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Romadness

When the seasons change,
We'll meet again, if not now
in the wilting flower of our youth,
then in our dreams,
or the grip of madness,
when the soul escapes 
like a whisper
from the cracks in-between our 
teeth.

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

Good Morning

It's my zone, my element, joy
bleeding out into the embellished landscape
-a felled enemy & his prize.. 
and although it isn't much, 
if you've made it to the next day.

Good morning

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

The Ski-Jump

I stole Milne's painting,
now in photographic film, splayed
on a foreign screen,
in a landscape void of life,
and hey- I'm not too proud of it.
But who would be?
of an image within an image,
a facsimile of vision,
and a breath of death,
exhumed with other bones:
those  scattered remains 
of Great Canadian Poets,
and I shudder at the name-
"A Country North of Belleville…"
untouched on the page,
and never the same,
as uncovered 
by that beer-drinkin' man,
stumbling through the trees
like trylobites, like bones,
like soft outlines of fading beige
turning brown 
as long fallen leaves,
entombed under a siege of snow,
expressed, under careful scrutiny
almost a century ago

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Dukkha

Is it duende, if I say 
the streets are empty, 
the nameless streets,
empty, but watching,
hollow, but watching,
as if with soju eyes...

as if with eyes that see me
only as I seem, always as I seem,
but never as I am....

would you call it beautiful,
if pain is beautiful,
would you call it duende,
if there is art 
even in solitude?

would you call it duende,
... or call it suffering?


*** The title of the poem 'dukkha' 
is the Buddhist term commonly translated as "suffering".
Additionally, 'duende' , or tener duende ("having duende") loosely means having soul, a heightened state of emotion, expression and authenticity, often connected with flamenco and poetry (see Garcia Lorca). Lastly, 'soju' is a traditional South Korean alcoholic beverage (the location wherein this poem was concieved) ****

Details | Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein Poem

I Will Die In Saskatchewan

Those big rolling plains,
                    as if the ground with golden sun is stained,
                 and that sky as if the oceans northward rised,
                                      layed flat above:
                           the sky and earth are making love.                    
                                       
                                        
                                   There, I breathe the air,


               As if my final moments             here, are laced with God,
                                             a divine plot,
                         and the end                     is drawing near