Tag Archives: rhyme

Not nibbled by mosquitoes

lion-licking-its-paw-1886

Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.
A mountain in the meadows,
not nibbled by mosquitoes.
Light touching, throwing shadows.
Breath – longer than an aeon.
Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.

 

*Painting “Lion Licking Its Paw” by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1886.

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You pass me by

harlequinade-1911.jpg!Large

I walk the street. You pass me by.
Our eyes meet. You pass me by.
We laugh, we smile.You pass me by.
And all this while you pass me by.

Seconds run and pass me by.
One by one. They pass me by.
Silently they pass me by.
For what, I ask, they pass me by?

Stop, I beg, don’t pass me by.
Walk nearby, don’t pass me by.
Unknowingly you pass me by.
Why do you always pass me by?

Let us rest and pass me by.
Be my guest and pass me by.
Bravely go and pass me by.
Don’t look back and pass me by.

 

*Painting “Harlequinade” by Albert Bloch, 1911.

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Goodnight I say to you, my morning

 

wc-caspardavidfriedrich-der-morgen

Goodnight I say to you, my morning.
How was your day, I greet the night.
In this life, what’s worth exploring?
Is there something worth a fight?

Goodnight I say to you, my sunshine.
How was your day, I greet the gloom.
Close to my lips I hold a glass of wine
and sip it slowly till I reach my tomb.

Goodnight I say to you, my sunrise.
How was your life, I greet the dead.
Ignore the ground, ignore the skies,
what matters most is in your head.

Goodnight I say to you, my summer.
How was the snow, I greet the spring.
My piercing eyes fell into a slumber.
I cannot see clearly any thing.

Good morning I say to you, my late hour.
How was your night, I greet the day.
On nonsense I’ve spent my time and power,
while hoping to prolong this decay.

 

*Painting “Morning” by Caspar David Friedrich.

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Words, do not leave me, please

pheidippides-giving-word-of-victory-le-soldat-de-marathon(1)

Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.
Words, I beg you on my knees.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Words, come and be at ease.
Say something that no one knows.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.

*Painting “Pheidippides giving word of victory” by Luc-Olivier Merson, 1869.

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Raindrops beating upon my face

man-standing-arms-extended

Raindrops beating upon my face
as the wind outside is whistling.
The sun has fled without a trace,
With thorns my life is bristling.

Shadows move around in dance
as snowflakes drift from the silent sky.
Lost in my thoughts I walk in a trance,
Is there more than meets the eye?

Oceans full with shallow waters
as mountains sing sweet lullabies.
Tell me, friend, what really matters,
what’s worth to know and memorize?

Darkness looms through deserted lands
as rainbows greet the passersby.
Whose footprints run into these sands?
So far away and yet nearby.

Broken candles burning brightly
but all my rooms are dimly lit.
I close my eyes ever so slightly
to see the light that I emit.

 

*Painting “Man Standing, Arms Extended” by Paul Cezanne, 1878.

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Play the cards you get, my friend

the-card-players-1893-1

Play the cards you get, my friend.
Play the cards to the very end.
Play them uncomplainingly.
Play them freely, willingly.
Though the stakes may not be worth the winning,
Every day can be a new beginning.
Play the hand you have been dealt,
No matter what your heart has felt.
And if the game may not be worth the while,
face every moment with a smile.
Play the cards you get, my friend.
Play them bravely to the end.

 

*Painting “The Card Players” by  Paul Cezanne, 1893.

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To take all things as they are

small-girl-presenting-cherries-1780

To take all things as they are
and adjust my life to what must be.
Then in this world I’ll go far
beyond what any eyes can see.

To say not one dishonest word
and avoid all sham and deceit.
Then my mind’s eye won’t be blurred
and life will seem more upbeat.

To make the most of my lonely hours
and quit day dreaming about the past.
Then I’ll tap into my hidden powers
and live my life with joy at last.

To do what no one has done before
but know that I’m like the rest.
Then I’ll find a cause to fight for
and live my life with zeal and zest.

But I take all things as they are not
and try to sink my inner ship.
Thus my efforts come to nought –
what a splendid ego trip!

 

*Painting “Small Girl Presenting Cherries” by John Russell, 1780.

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With no plan, with no purpose

planning-for-the-future

With no plan, with no purpose
I walk around in circles.
I feel calm, not nervous.
With no plan, with no purpose.

With no worry, with no fear
My path is straight and clear.
Here I am to disappear.
With no worry, with no fear.

With no hope, with no promise
I look into the silent abyss.
Everything has gone amiss.
With no hope, with no promise.

With no thought, with no mind
My eyes are dark and blind.
Myself I daily lose and find.
With no thought, with no mind.

With no sorrow, with no pain
I repeat my sins again.
I cannot cleanse this ugly stain.
With no sorrow, with no pain.

*Painting “Planning for the Future” by Basuki Abdullah

 

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Today my poetry went fishing

the-poor-fisherman

Today my poetry went fishing
and caught this one cheerful verse.
Meaningless is all well-wishing
except if said in reverse.

Today my heart went wild and restless.
In my darkness I found light.
No words this feeling can express.
Gone are all my fears and fright.

Today my dreams went up in smoke.
I seek no fire in these ashes.
What is left seems to be broke.
The truth appears in flashes.

Today my thoughts went round and round
till they stopped and came to rest.
All my wisdom fell to the ground.
I’m glad I got it off my chest.

Today my life went down the drain
and I was left with this simple verse.
What have I to lose or gain?
I’m one with the universe.

*Painting – “The Poor Fisherman” by Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, 1881

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What if all my thoughts are due to illness

a-mortally-wounded-brigand-quenches-his-thirst-1825(1)

What if all my thoughts are due to illness
and my dreams because of pain?
Maybe that’s why I cannot rest in stillness
and all this living seems in vain.

What if all my days are not numbered
and the future is in my hands?
But if so, why am I so encumbered
with useless nonsense and silly plans?

What if all my stories are wrong
and my knowledge is mistaken?
But if so, why do I go along
with views I have already forsaken?

What if all my secrets were found out
and my troubles – made public?
Maybe then I could live without
worry and don’t care a lick.

What if all my moves are known in advance
and my free will is an illusion?
Then I live this life by chance
in senseless noise and confusion.

* Painting “A Mortally Wounded Brigand Quenches his Thirst” by Eugene Delacroix, 1825,

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If God exists, then where he hides?

john-brown-reading-his-bible-1942

If God exists, then where he hides?
In the center or to the sides?
High up above or down below?
This no one seems to know.

Explain what does your god mean,
how he differs from things not seen?
Can you produce one bit of evidence
beyond that of mere pretense?

Quoting scriptures won’t change my mind.
No proof of god in these I find.
I do not trust in your anecdotes
and neither in your stories, quotes.

All this religious business
stands in a way of progress.
All faith is out of season,
beyond all thought and reason.

Hence, my friends, it is now clear,
All this to me seems very queer.
Let children play with their gods
but to me it makes no odds.

*Painting – “John Brown reading his Bible”, by Horace Pippin, 1942.

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In his heart the fool will say

the-fool-1904-1 (1)

In his heart the fool will say:
There is a heaven and a god.
Instead of learning he will pray,
meditate and cry aloud.

These filthy little believing beasts
who spread their poison in our midst.
All you prophets, preachers, priests:
You have no right to live, exist.

All you mystics, seekers, saints
who corrupt the youthful minds.
What evils, crimes and moral taints,
in your presence one often finds.

You call your Lord in times of trouble
and you beg for his saving grace.
You’ve been living in one big bubble
shielded from your own true face.

You say that you enjoy god’s bliss
and that you have felt his touch.
What kind of nonsense is this?
Your pretty words do not mean much.

You think that God is by your side
and watches over your every move.
You hold this fancy for your guide
but all this you cannot prove.

You claim that God is beyond reason
and yet your mind is never still.
Beliefs and dogmas are your prison
that you have built at your own will.

*Painting – “The Fool” by Pablo Picasso, 1904.

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Some people say their dreams out loud

dream-of-icarus

Some people say their dreams out loud
but I prefer them to enshroud
in darkness, rain, storm and cloud,
with my strength and might endowed.

Some people yearn for gods, spirits
but I prefer my mind and wits.
No exceptions my rule admits.
In my soul no deity fits.

Some people search for happiness
but I prefer to digress
from all the honor and success
to a place with no address.

Some people crave for love and sense
but I prefer to dispense
with such pride and pretense
at my own risk and expense.

Some people want to be great
but I prefer my own fate.
For better days I cannot wait.
To live today – it is too late.

*Painting “Dream of Icarus” by Sergey Solomko

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Everything will be alright

sylvester-smiling-1914

Don’t cry for me, my little girl.
For you alone my heart will swirl.
Take my hand and hold it tight.
Everything will be alright.

Don’t cry for me, my precious gem.
But If you do, I won’t condemn.
I stand beside you in this fight.
Everything will be alright.

Don’t cry for me, my lovely dove.
With you alone I am in love.
In your presence I take delight.
Everything then is alright.

Don’t cry for me, my sweet rose.
What future brings, no one knows.
Set these words before your sight.
Everything will be alright.

Don’t cry for me, my unknown friends.
This is not how my story ends.
Though shadows may appear tonight.
Everything will be alright.
*Painting – “Sylvester-Smiling” by Robert Henri, 1914.

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Myself I do not understand

self-portrait-1916

Myself I do not understand.
Nothing ever goes as planned.
I try to live the best I can,
In this world I am a man.

Myself I do not really doubt,
I am dishonest yet devout.
My silver spoons will never bend,
nature has no final end.

Myself I do not really create,
I am a little quirk of fate.
The world is as it should be,
I am in chains and yet still free.

Myself I do not really trust.
I am driven by greed and lust.
The truth is found between the lies.
It always comes as a surprise.

I ask myself who is this man,
who lives his life the best he can?
Do I know you? From whence you came?
We are so different and yet the same.

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Let me write a shitty poem

twilight

Let me write a shitty poem,
So that I may win your love.
Memento mori and carpe diem.
There is no holy god above.

Now that I have my first verse written,
I feel good about this crap.
With these words you have been smitten,
I have lured you in my trap.

Where are the worries and the cares?
I laugh at death and so should you.
My mind assumes all lofty airs.
I place all virtues under taboo.

This is how my fourth verse starts.
Nothing fancy, just nonsense.
From common rules this verse departs,
I keep my readers in suspense.

Shall we move to deeper waters
where air is fresh and whether sunny?
Only one thing really matters –
is your purse filled with money?

Now, I may have lost my senses.
Forgive me, please, if that’s the case.
To hell with wisdom and pretenses.
Tell me the truth I have to face.

Though you may dislike this poem,
Remember me – I cursed it first.
Memento mori and carpe diem,
Admit that you have read much worse.

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What an artist lives in me

odysseus-by-the-sea-1869

What an artist lives in me.
How far and deep my mind can see.
So I walk. Upright and proud,
Ignoring voices from the crowd.

What words and phrases I can spin.
How much love I hold within.
Lift up your chin and flash a grin,
My soul to you is near akin.

What demons, spirits I possess.
A legion of them, I confess.
In place of No, they say Yes.
I have to live somehow, I guess.

What tales and stories I create.
Some are crooked, some are straight.
To none of them I can relate.
My life is sealed, so is my fate.

What cities, mountains I can build
My hands are able and very skilled.
Gods and angels I have killed.
My days are blessed and fulfilled.

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I am sitting at my office desk

portrait-of-josep-cardona-1899

I am sitting at my office desk
and feeling very Kafkaesque.
No wall or fence is picturesque.
My life is strange and grotesque.

I am sitting on my toilet seat
and feeling small and incomplete.
With useless thoughts I am replete.
All this I hope now to excrete.

I am sitting on a crucifix
and watching the sunset and eclipse.
Nothing left in my bag of tricks,
I return to emptiness and nix.

I am sitting at the feet of Jesus
and hoping to avoid diseases.
He looks at me and then freezes.
He says: The lord does as he pleases.

I am sitting in a railway station.
locked in my anger and frustration.
My past is lost in translation,
death remains my true foundation.

I am sitting in a Chinese temple.
What wisdom is there to assemble?
Before the Void I meditate and tremble.
Oh, what fool I now resemble.

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