Tag Archives: Poem

Mr. Nobody

skydivingNobodiness is a malady
That affects almost everybody.
Won’t somebody tell everybody,
Sir or madam, as the case may be,
Won’t you please, please, please
Say a kind word to me

It is bloody hell being a nobody
One damn day after another

Some things are lost in translation.

Les nullités sont seuls modestes.

Nur die Lumpen sind bescheiden.

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To be or not the bee

To be or not the bee

bee

Let it be Rosemarie

Don’t read this, it’s meant
Just for me and not for you
Who stumbled on this poem
Just by accident.

Like Rosemarie
Who smelled a pretty red, red rose
Dreaming of her handsome sweet, sweet love
And so, was stung by a bee

Was it on her lip or on her nose?
I’ll let you guess
What became
Of Rosemarie, her love and the bee

Comme ce soit c’est fois

Ne lisez pas cela
C’est seul pour moi
Pas pour toi
Qui a arrive a ce poème
Juste par accidentellement
Comme Rosemarie
Qui sentait une rose rouge rouge
Rêver de son amour doux doux
Et a été piqué par une abeille
Était-ce sur sa lèvre ou nez?
Je vous laisse deviner

bee-in-the-approach

Lost

Lost in Buenos Aires

pulperia

Perdido…

Toma un descanso,

Respirar.

Abre tus ojos

Ahora cuente hacia atrás de tres …

Dos, uno.

Tienes quince años, niño inmaculado y

En absoluto lo que tu madre piensa

Solo ir a caminar

En una calle oscura

Se ve la pulperia

Estaba abierto, estaba cerrado

¿Qué secretos estaba dentro,

Mama mia

Te preguntas…

Que te costará

Lost…

Take a moment,

Breathe.

Open your eyes

Now count backwards from three…

You’re fifteen, spotless child and

Not at all what your mother thinks

She sent you to the mini-mart

And along the way you saw the pulperia

Was it open, was it closed

What secrets lay inside, mama mia

You wonder…

What will it cost

Quiet

The woods are not quiet. It seems still and quiet because the sounds are different from the noise of the city. Listen and you will hear the rambling creek as it chatters with the stones, the birds up above darting in and out the branches, the squirrels in the leaves, all talking about the strange being:

Who shouldn’t be where he is but is.

1-path-2There is no reason
I stopped
My car to walk
Down a shady path
Do I need a reason to walk?
Underneath the trees
And talk to the babbling brook
It could be spring or fall
It matters not at all
But to get away
And look and listen
For nothing at all
And everything
For birds that sing
For squirrels that scamper
And announce the coming
Of a strange being
Who doesn’t belong
Out in the woods
Alone

Look at the beauty
Of a path in the woods
Meandering left and right
Lit by the light of the sun
Through the towering trees
On a dusty old path of memories
Like my scatterbrained thoughts
That go nowhere
But straight to my heart

Tiny mushrooms

Pretty little mushrooms on the forest floor, such a beauty to behold. If you look, you will see baby mushrooms, tiny sprouts, little bubbles from the earth. From above, white parachutes softly landing, from the side, white umbrellas carried gaily by a Geisha. In a Polynesian tiki cocktail a delightful twirling thing of fun.

large-top-poster
magical, mysterious mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly…
Sylvia Plath says
Meekly
About the mushroom’s
Mysterious ways
Here one moment
Gone the next
Was it eaten
Was it beaten
Trampled by
A weary traveler
Too tired to care

tiny-mushrooms-side

Dans la nuit, très
Sombre, discrètement,
Très silencieusement…
Sylvia Plath dit
Docilement
Des champignons s’épanouir
Pour le moment, puis passé…