Category Archives: Poetry

Imbolc

Today more winter is behind us,

Than remains in front of us.

For today’s the day of Imbolc!

A day when all the ancient folk,

Would celebrate the coming spring.

Back then it was a greater thing,

But if you look around, with any luck,

You’ll see a marmot or woodchuck,

Sticking his head out of the ground,

Checking if his shadow can be found.

How this started, no one knows.

But if he sees it, back he goes!

If you’re wondering how to celebrate,

Just light some candles. Dance! Create!

Clean your house or bake some bread.

Put a lampshade on your head.

Celebrate without a worry.

Or you could just watch a certain film,

That stars the great Bill Murray.

Don’t want to wear a mask

I never wore a mask before.

Don’t want to wear one in the store.

Don’t want to wear one in the hall.

Don’t want to wear a mask at all. 

Don’t want to wear a mask today,

Don’t want to wear a mask, no way.

You cannot make me wear a mask.

It’s really just too much to ask. 

It makes it hard to breathe and talk,

To ride a bike or take a walk. 

Don’t want to wear a mask today.

Don’t want to wear a mask, no way. 

But…

I really cannot tell a lie. 

Don’t want to become sick and die.

I do not want to lie in bed.

A ventilator in my head. 

Nothing to do, nothing to say.

Just breathe in and out all day. 

Don’t want to wear a mask today,

But I will wear one anyway.

Fruitless

There is a little cherry tree,

In the middle of the yard.

It really has one job to do,

But finds it really hard.

Its companion apple tree,

Makes apples every year.

But for some reason,

A single cherry has yet to appear.

Perhaps, a pollen problem,

But I do not think that’s true.

The neighbor has a cherry tree,

And it is fruitless too.

This year, there were no cherries,

Just like the year before.

And I wonder, will it be like this,

Fruitless, forever more?

 

 

Climatic Insomnia

Where I come from the seasons,
Are reckoned by the calendar.
Beginning and ending,
On the solstices and the equinoxes.
In a place with little climatic variation,
This is necessary.
Things are a little different in Sweden.
Seasons are determined not by the calendar,
But by the climate.
Even after the winter solstice,
It’s not considered winter,
Until the temperature is at a certain degree or less,
For a certain length of time.
It more or less follows the tilting of the earth,
The passing of the solstices and equinoxes.
But not always.
We were just informed,
By the national weather service,
That it is now spring.
They never announced winter.
You always feel kind of cheated,
When the year skips a season.
Especially summertime.
But when you skip winter,
It leaves you feeling uneasy.
As if you’ve forgotten something.
That nagging feeling,
That something is not quite right.
And you didn’t get any sleep.
Because Mother Nature didn’t get any sleep.

Crystal Midden

I dug a piece of ruby red glass out of the ground,
Pulled it up with the dead twigs of last year’s peony flowers.
It was intertwined with them, as if they were holding on to it.
Keeping a little treasure for their very own.

Like arrowheads in the Southwestern United States,
Such finds are fairly common around here.
Not too far from Nybro, home of Kosta Boda.
Here in the Kingdom of Crystal.

Yes, it’s really called that.

It’s hard to tell what this piece was meant to be.
Maybe a handle of some kind.
It’s curved and perfectly smooth on one side,
Sharp and jagged on the other.

This little town used to have its own glass workshop,
But it shut down many years ago.
No trace of it left now.
Apart from little artifacts like these.
It was probably part of a failed piece,
Cast into a waste pile.

A crystal midden, redistributed by bulldozers.
The little broken treasures lost,
Until dug out of backyard flowerbeds.

2020 Vision: New Decade’s Eve Thoughts

There didn’t used to be such things as years.

There were seasons, summers, winters, moments. But these weren’t reckoned in the modern way. Folks knew what to expect by observing the cycles of nature.

The concept of time was not measured by the clock, but was understood to be evidence of predictable change.

At some point, however, we decided to number and to name the natural cycles, while at the same time still adhering to their rhythm. To do otherwise could mean starvation, deprivation, and eventual death.

Great learned men, scholars, and theologians decided for the rest of us when the so-called common era began, based entirely on supposition.

Because of them, we now view time not as the occurrence of change, but as a ticking clock, with its eras and hours, minutes and millennia, days and decades.

Its relentless march resounds in our ears like the pounding of a drum, reminding us with each passing moment that we are that much closer to the moment of our own death.

Yet, we still observe the passage of a year with a celebration, even though one year rolling over into a next one is not particularly special.

Could this be a hold over from earlier times, when surviving a year really was something noteworthy?

Anyway, Happy New Year.
Happy Surviving 2019.
Happy New Decade.

Here, there be boobies

Not literally here,
(Probably)
But at that time,
A warning was requested,
It may seem silly.
(Really silly)
Nevertheless…
It was a seriously,
Curiously real request.
Can I cover them up?
(No, not mine)
The little fantasy figures I drew.
Faeries, elves, mermaids
(Some of which were nude)
Was that something,
I was willing to do,
At my exhibition?
Cover my own work.
Would I mind?
Some people might be offended.
Do I have any stickers,
For their tiny, fantasy, boobies?
I laughed.
Honestly, I thought he was joking.
(Or smoking something funny)
That’s a good one.
But no..
He was genuinely non-joking.
He was a teacher, you see.
And wanted to bring a student group.
(Not kindergartners, mind you)
Teenagers.
Who might ask,
Why are they naked?
(They might not like it.)
Oh, well in that case…
Absolutely not.
They’ll get over it.
But next time,
I’ll post a warning:
“Here, there be boobies.”

Process Blue

Invisible processes metamorphic,
Occurring deep inside the earth, formed it.
A deep blue stone of royalty,
That’s known as lapis lazuli.
Where first appeared civilization,
In the Mesopotamian location.
Where slaves were captured, bought and sold,
For some bushels of wheat, or for gold,
And the treasure blue under their feet.
Under the earth, the surface beneath.
Ground into a powder, rare and fine.
Adorned the eyes of pharaohs divine.
Baked in a kiln hotter than the sun.
The process forming a pigment begun.
A pigment of brightest blue ever seen.
That’s known as ultra marine.
It painted the robes of the Blessed Virgin.
And Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring.
Earth’s processes make the prettiest blue.
Which we process further into something new.

Process

~~~¤~~~¤~~~Process~~~¤~~~¤~~~

From a seed, the cotton sprung.
Grew up in soil and in sun.
In the summer heat it flourished
And with water, it was nourished.
Filled up with life, the cotton was.
So it made a little ball of fuzz.

~~~¤~~~¤~~~Processed~~~¤~~~¤~~~

The cotton then was harvested.
Balls of fuzz, spun into thread.
A textile made upon a loom.
All from a fuzzy cotton bloom.
A little plant, grown in the dirt.
Filled up with life from Mother Earth.

A plant sewn into clothes you wear.
Is the life that filled it up still there?