Touching Finality


The faint scent of death pervades

Latter days.

There are ways to wave away that trace.

Present time strikes one

Full in the face

With bouquets of touch and sound,

Surroundings bright with colors, light,

And even in a quiet night

The Moon can sooth to peaceful sleep.

But sleep itself can raise the care

That something threatens deep out there,

Barely discernible, it stirs,

A rip in time,

Discontinuity, and then,

And then, who knows what?

What squat frog of fate awaits?

What totality now lurks?

And so, awake, to watch

The ceiling lights of passing cars.

The marching troops of what had beens,

The avatars of what could be.

Until the weariness of empty sleep

Envelopes all concern

To swiftly endow

The yellow sun of morning now.

Another Day


Morning photo

Time calculates

With the smallest particles of moments.

My clock spits minutes

In its assault on my life.

They dust my floor with memories

That sparkle and whirl away

In the wind of necessities.


Each morning must I reassemble

This odd similarity

I recognize as myself.

Not quite the same fabrication

That flopped to bed

The night before.

The underwear, the socks and pants

The shirt and shoes

Complete the structure

Topped by the aging head, white hair

Smeared with a grin of completion

To sign the victory for another day

Of questionable enterprise.


Sperm and egg

I breathe, I smile, I walk a mile,

I cook, I look, I sit a while.

Lots of things that can be done,

Can be a nuisance, can be fun,

But, professional, these are none.

Many ways there are to fuss

But always serendipitous

I watch the sky, I do fish fry,

I read the news and wonder why

People do what people do –

That puzzles me without clue.

Sometimes it’s habitual,

A funny kind of ritual.

Mostly for due recompense

For lots of time and little sense.

There is, of course the money thing

The chime of cash register’s ring.

Without cash all life would crash.

One must keep an eye on stash.

You’ve got to eat and sleep and fart

Plus, of course, there’s sex and art.

Some keep dogs, perhaps more,

Rarely, there’s a dinosaur.

Some sons-of-bitches like to kill,

Many settle for a pill,

But always there’s a way, a will

To have a say for time to spill.

But time just comes in discrete ways.

We’ve all got limits on our days.

A hundred years  – we most go poof.

It’s a short life on the hoof.

Towards the end, we start to wonder

Where the Hell has been our thunder?

Einstein and Napoleon

Thought little of simoleon.

What the hell, what the fuck!

When you’re dead what good’s a buck?

But then again, reputation frays.

Are there better ways to spend our days?

No need to stomp and scream and shout

If life gives franks and sour kraut.

Not many sperm make birth to Earth

To figure out what life is worth.

It’s quite a prize to get a peek

At a universe that’s quite unique.



To argue with eternity,

Conceive that patches of locality

Can be extended end to end

To accrue to infinity

Misplaces values of precision

Blurs the qualities of vision

Contemplates with metaphor

To lose befores and afters

And sacrifices preciousness

Of less to more.

Einstein’s time and space petrified

Cannot capture laminations of the instants

That grow to manufacture our existence.

The glowing crash of a lightning stroke

And the angry after shout of thunder

To confirm it failed to claim extinction

Donates life and joy that we persist.

The evanescent scent of salt and sea

That suffuses dancing foams and waves

Weaves moments of unforgettable delight

Captured forever in memory’s enclaves.

To be active and alive is special.

No less a miracle than the universe itself.

Each moment is a glory quite unique

Time crystallized in jewelries of instants

That can endow only wonder and silence

In impossibilities to speak.

Fall, Helsinki


The first cool hint of winter

Came this Sunday morning

From a pale blue sky

To shine

With lemon light on yellow leaves

And fire up maple reds.

It jostled stiff brown stems

To rustle in the flower beds.

So frail and shy a creature

With the slightest touch

Transmutes the summer’s feature

By not much

In such a gentle evil way

One does not even quail

To feel the softest brush

Of faint death’s tail.

Has this ghost pupa hatched

From out the extra hour

Set to sleep through summer

From the Spring?

Or merely tipped and spilled

From Time itself

Which wobbles

With the planet’s bobbles

In its sunswept swing?

No matter.


It glitters in the weakened sun

To stiffen out its membranes

With their needle spines.

Cooling breezes tease away

The heat of summer

Shed like a sunburned skin

To sweep like flying silken scarves

Far down to Africa.

It needs three months

To gnaw away the green to brown

And brown to black,

To fill its lungs with poison cold and ice

And crack the shell of life,

To spill the snow with frozen birds

And mice

And etch its black-white artistry

On dead gray clouds.

A moon-white sun

Awaits for when

The Earth slides down its path

To certain rendezvous with life

Begun again.

Just Listen



I have yet to hear an apple scream when I peel it for a pie.

Admittedly chopped onions do evoke a cry,

But conversations, exclamations, out of communications

With other living beings evade, to great extents, intelligence

In all its subtle elements that totally defy

Selections of connections that simply pass me by.


I’ve squeaked at mice, chirped at birds, buzzed at a passing fly.

I mew at cats, woof at dogs, but never wailed at whales.

Cats just stare, flies don’t care but dogs can wag their tails.

I say hello to people and sometimes get a grin

But in Helsinki where I live “terve”’s the word that’s in.

The crows are those that watch me when I caw.

Though a peanut’s quality’s the thing that really makes them thaw.


Insects, inside, may decide my gestures render greeting

And cozy up to take a nip to assume I invite eating.

So, I’d advise it would be wise to caution to discriminate

And keep an eye at mealtime which friends worth to eliminate.

But many bugs are not thugs, merely enigmatic,

No lips to smile, nor eyebrows for guile, and eyes completely static.

They chirp, they hum, they wiggle some, but never laugh or sneeze.

So, friendship can be fragile to put one at one’s ease.

And conversation topics are difficult to find.

Gossip with grasshoppers can drive one off one’s mind.


There are items on the net that are hard to deny.

Even plants communicate – at any rate, supply

Messages of danger, indications, perhaps kinder

Than the normal words of warning, more reminder

That plants require community just like you and me

And appreciate the visit of a butterfly or bee.

I strongly doubt philosophy could bring their cataclysm

Nor that they fiddle much about with logic or syllogism

But, nevertheless, greenleavish contemplation

Seems possible, or probable within most vegetation.

So, it seems, the entire world gossips with information.







Goblin Time


Fold the sky like a paper sheet,

Shift the Moon to the Pleiades

Quandary is complete

Give the gods my sympathies.

Quantum links enmesh all space,

Time itself kicks out the clocks,

Distance falls upon its face,

The wolf has eaten Goldilocks.

Terror creeps the streets at night,

Governments are killed with gold.

The air is choking us with blight

Advisors guide where souls are sold.

Telephones chew on our brain,

Zombies screech from every screen

The seas boil with methane

Jack is planting every bean.

Nuclear war is the current notion

The complete world is shaken

There’s no doubt of a rising ocean

It’s welcome time for the Kraken.