Feb 23rd

This is supposed to be a haiku poem about my car accident on the 23rd Feb but i like it better arranged this way.

Just another night,
Left, right, left, right,


ATTENTION!!!!!!


And “BAM" : In. Your. Face.

Let Me Out!

Let Me Out! By Bluewind

Let Me Out!
I am denied, wronged and burnout!
What rights do you have throughout
My life, my soul, to brush it out.

“You should be demure.” You say.
“You should be happy.” You say.
“You should be content’d” you say.
“You should be smart.” Still you say.
You say, you say, still you say.
When is the time I have my say?

“What do you have to say?” You ask.
And what a question that you ask!
To be honest, I don’t know.
What I’m left to say by now.

So what a cell to shut me out.
Built by you, by me as well.

Victorian Boredom.

Symphony in White No. 2

by Whistler James

.

.

Victorian Boredom. By Bluewind

But, what absurdity is that,
the withering face en face in the mirror
A face not mine belong
reflected faithfully through the looking glass.

Am I not the appropriate, respectable
contented lady of the Victorian era?
Graceful white dresses, peaceful expressions
fanning myself with a fan of Japanese hues?
showing the riches of my husband,
displaying the affections he has for me?

Yet, what face is that in the mirror?
Of hunger, of desires and wistfulness
neglected and suppressed for centuries.

Yet I shall not ponder further.
For thinking futher makes days longer.
I shall burry myself in household chores,
Until his footsteps readily heard at the foyers.

As for the face, I shall forget.
Dimly, in my memory, will it fade.

A Lurid Vision

Wheat field with crows by Vincent Van Gogh




A Lurid Vision By Bluewind

What is it that you are trying to spell:
Of nameless fear and endless sorrow,
Confined in a murdering cell?

Richness neglected beneath troubled sky,
Sign of misery flying across the vast.
Two hidden roads lead to uncertainties,
While the obvious third lead to sufferings.

Compressed and contracted,
All into a liquid vision
A lurid dream, full of hues,
Speaking of a soulful spirit
Perplexed and confused at the slightest shake.

What is it that you are trying to spell,
By this suicide note painted on canvas?

Prague faded By Bluewind
(To remember my visit last summer)

To review Prague is Bittersweet—
Friendship made, kindness received,
and knowledge toiling earned.
All stuff my heart with swelling pain,
When they revisit, unexpected.

All the murmurs whispering to me,
On Charles Bridge, late at night.
Where have all these ceased to be,
When capture I try so hard?

Or the lost souls, wandering aimless
At Staróměsto, when clock strikes twelve?
Are ghosts confined by boundaries,
When visits, so frequent,
But never ever since?

Hidden alleys and secret passages,
weaving a web of great confusion.
Walking within and Frost accompanies:
“Do you wonder if you will return?”

Kafka was right, Prague does have claws.
Unwilling to let go, when memories fade.

Kandinsky- Composition

Why the circle and
Planetary orbits must
Equal a yellow triangle,
I just do not understand.

Why the single chopstick
Balances three psychedelic onion
Rings is an equal mystery.
And does it, anyway,
‘almost’ equal the yellow
Triangle, and when will
The baby blue dot return
To its mother, a nucleus,
Single-cell, letting in
(or pushing out?) the orange
Oddly-shaped spermatozoid?

Yes, the chopsticks will
Form their informal triangle
And point to the centre,
Splaying their exotic legs
(It seems to me) and
Contradicting the freemason’s
Measure, whose legs must not
Ever be splayed, please.

Yes, it is a plate of food,
A dish to set before a
Colour-blind King –
The blackened steak with
Two-tone fat
Having a chat with Euclid.

Another Bloody Rainy Day in Paris

(My holiday in Paris last year)


Who are those handsome and bourgeois people on the
Right side of Gustave Caillebotte’s picture?


Is it you and me, eyes right on the left bank,
Strolling along the silvered streets nonchalantly,
Domed protectively by our condom umbrella,
Arm in discrete arm, Mr. & Mrs. Respectable?

Or is there another story of us on the left bank,
Where nothing on the left is right at all and what is
Right has nothing left and the car-less avenues
Have been cleared for strollers horny for nostalgie?

“Sir, yes you sir, what precisely have you got to hide
Under your big hat, sitting atop your handle-bar
Moustache: is it a cheese baguette, a snack for later, or
Your Meerschaum pipe with a tin of filthy old tobacco?”

“And you Madame! I am considering your underwear,
Victoria(n)s’ secrets to be sure, under your charcoal grey regulation
Overcoat and dignified wifely decorum (plus hat) and wondering
About skimpy lacy things, sheer and see-through.”

Just who are you anyway on the
Right side of Gustave Caillebotte’s picture?