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.

The Point


The point, in mathematics, is an indication of a place,

A thing of no dimension, no extension, merely a mention

That it is here we must pay attention.

This dot of spot must gain prominence of occasion

Through persuasion of particular occurrence of event.

A lightning bolt to jolt, to mine significance from intent.


Lives are lines inscribed on time and space that cross and tangle

Merging, transgressing, configuring multitudes of possibilities.

A he or she, a this or that, an undefinable sensation of the vaguest intimation

Can correlate direction, connect and swerve the azimuth location,

Raise or lower elevation to a wide or minor angle

And crash or salvage fragile hopes from tentativities of integration.


An unfamiliar taste or smell. A scream, perhaps a yell, a cry of surprise

Can seize the concentration, blind attention, corrupt surmise

And thereby a universe becomes alternate exploding fate

So any frantic switch to correct becomes too late.

It is this infinitesimal moment in time, this here that flashes now

Wherein history and destiny arrives to grant us how,

Then vaporizes, exits to leave behind destructions of hope and mind.








In The Case


No stuffed bird in a museum display

Can convey the twitch and swirl that

Events hurl at something struggling to stay


The march of feathers in a wing or breast

That infest this static creature dead and dry

Deny dynamics out of which their disciplines arose.

The claw, the beak that could wreak minor destruction

On prey, have had their day, and now mutely testify

To something that could fly, swim in the atmosphere

And play with the wind.

Those glass eyes never could surmise that wild reality

But the thing itself retains electric memories of living fire.

This clever preservation prompts expectation

That the head might turn, the eye might hesitate,

The creature leap from its dry twig

And crash against the glass in vain expectation

To be free.




Anyone who has lived a while,

Accumulated times that should not have been,

Suffers, not from misdirections, not from what was,

But from what was not, but

Never could have been.


Deaths, destructions, things missed and unretrieved.

These are the unhealed wounds that ache,

That never heal into scars one can neglect.

They pulse in long nights of memories.


Realities are realities, the bones

That minutes, hours flesh with necessities.

One must breathe, eat, sleep and sense

This time alive and react in concert or cease.

There is no easy release.


One must accommodate, possess, presume

The sharp blade of fate will not cut deeply,

Miss vitals and slide past what remains.

No doubt there will be blood and fear

But morning may demonstrate one still is here.