Fahrvergnügen

For Fireblossom Friday over at Toads.  German words, interesting meanings.  Pick one and write about it. From the past years when I used to do doubtful things. My word is Fahrvergnügen – enjoyment in driving. The vid is from 1990…a classic.


Enjoyin’ the Drive!

“Travel is about the gorgeous feeling of teetering in the unknown.” Anthony Bourdain

2:00 a.m. the summer night is warm
and fragrant as bath water –
The air smells of honeysuckle, wild jasmine –
The moon is huge and lustrous,
its white light limning the landscape in argent tones,
striated straight black trees flashing past my car –
A stereoscopic display of
Blackwhiteblackwhiteblackwhiteblack –
My Fahrvergnügen, my enjoyment of driving
comes from chasing that full moon,
From cutting off my headlights and flowing
along the shining road.
No one else is driving in the moonlight.
No one else is flowing like liquid Mercury,
being shaped to the curves,
Rolling up to the top of a hill
And stretching out to course down it.
The air streams in the open car windows
whipping my hair in my face and out the window. Driving the ghost highway.
I feel around in the ashtray and find the joint stashed therein.
I light it and inhale,
crank up the CD player.
Oh yeah.
Tramps like us, baby we were born to run.
Dah dah dah.

 

The Evidence Clearly Shows…

For Poets United, Midweek Motif: Evidence.  A brand spanky new never before seen by anyone poem.  Years ago I made extra money doing autopsy photos.  This was the day before all the technology and photographic and DNA gizmos.  It was simple – black and white.  Snap, snap, snap.  The coroner removing body parts, weighing them, pulling back the skin, spreading the ribs.  Speaking into a small hanging microphone while a clerk stood by transcribing and a photographer walked around taking photos of wounds, the body exposed, etc.  The summation usually ended with, The evidence clearly shows death by…This is also being posted for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night

The Evidence Clearly Shows
“To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.” Oscar Wilde
No evidence of drugs in his system.
No evidence of foul play.
No evidence of auto-erotic asphyxiation.
Just him, hanging from the shower stall.
I wonder what dark place he visited
before he embarked on his final journey.
I wonder about his thoughts before taking the last step
into parts unknown.
One has to wonder.
One has to grieve.

Simple

Another poem for Brendan’s prompt on resistance also posting at Poets United Poetry Pantry.

Simple
“Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there
is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity.
Perhaps wisdom… is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.” Anthony Bourdain

I am a simple person.
I am not an intellectual pulling deep meaningful quotes from people long dead.
I resist change.
I am like the creek that flows at the bottom of the hill,
clear water flowing smoothly over rounded stones, warn by the years of my progress.
Leaves float on my surface,
swirling on my soft current
until they move on or drop to the sandybottom.
I often climb a certain oak and sit there listening to world around me.
Often I sit in silence.
Sometimes I play my violin
I watch the wood creatures going about their daily lives
living life one step, one mouthful at a time.
I am like the creek that flows at the bottom of the hill.
I am a simple person.
I try to be the change.

copyright Kanzen Sakura

the Bowl

The Bowl
I was going to drink a glass of milk for dinner but
then I remembered Heidi,
drinking milk from a bowl.
I pulled down my favorite bowl –
A small yellow bowl that looked like a beehive
when it was turned upside down, with a small crack at the top.
It was my grandmother’s bowl when she was small.
I poured the milk into the bowl
noting the contrast between the white of the milk
and the creamy crackled glaze of the bowl.
I drank deeply.
I drank until the bowl was empty.
I rinsed it out and put it on the drying mat.
I thought about my mother always wanting that bowl
for her grits and butter
with the over light egg in the center,
salt and pepper sprinkled on the egg.
I dried it and reverently placed it back on the shelf.
I wonder who will get this bowl when I die.
I wonder if they will love it as much as I.

Writing Poetry

A double alphabet sestet with a loop for Brendan’s prompt at Real Toads – Resistance.

Writing Poetry
Resistance is futile – let it all go.
Quit trying to write – you will never make a poem.
Poetry is for sentimental fools.
Obey the naysayers and keep your heart to yourself.
Never write what you really feel.
Make war not love.

Make love not war.
Never give up trying to improve society and yourself.
Obey your heart and write your soul and share it.
Persist in seeing love in the world around you.
Quietly shout out your truth to the skies, the trees, the water.
Resistance is futile – let it all go.

Autumn Shows its Face

For Lillian’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. a double sestet and a loop poem. I have chosen the letters D, E, F, H, G.I.


Autumn Shows Its Face

Indian summer shows its face in colored leaves.
Hibernating animals and blue skies,
Golden pumpkins in the fields,
Foraging squirrels and birds.
Equinox will divide the season –
Dew turns into frost.

Deciduous trees let loose their leaves
Enraging OCD lawn owners.
Fresh frosty air reddens cheeks.
Golden flowers bloom glorifying ditches.
Holly and cedar adorn themselves with berries
Indian summer shows its face in colored leaves.

public domain image

The Picture

Another poem in my Dorian Gray series, submitted for Susan’s Midweek Motif at Poets United – sunset.

The Picture
Sunset.
The thin handsome young man stood in his garden
watching it bleed onto the smooth snow.
It was cold but inside the glass conservatory
attached to his home,
roses bloomed – red, orange, yellow, deep pink
echoing the colors of the setting sun.
He breathed vapor in and out,
like a golden dragon
not seeming to feel the cold.
He stood until the last vestige of color
leached from the sky.
In the darkness he stood and finally felt the cold.
He went inside and poured himself a sherry
and quietly walked to the secret chamber.
He looked at the hideous portrait
hidden from view of all except himself.
“Sunset old chap” he murmured.
“It is sunset for you.”
Dorian Gray gave a grim laugh.
“But it is always sunrise for me.”
He lifted the sherry to his lips and drank.

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