The other day I was mixing up some cottage cheese and blueberries, and had some verses in Polish pop into my head, so I wanted to record them here for posterity.  And it’s my first poem in Polish!

Jagody, jagody, w moim ogrody.
Tak gruby, tak mokry, niestety mrozony.

I like to make up little rhymes or songs throughout the course of the day.  Mostly stuff for kids. 

Today while I was washing up a bowl of blueberries, with some Celtic music in the background, this little critter popped out of my head:

I’m gonna eat the berries; gonna put them in my belly.
I’m gonna chew them up real good and turn them into jelly!

I’ve decided that I need to start jotting these little guys down, at least to share them for other giggles.

I’ve always wanted to write for kids, so maybe I’ll make up some more cutsie little poetry and put together a small book or something.

Here’s a little poem I put together for my grandmother’s birthday a few years back. 

It’s fun and quirky, and I haven’t been able to write anything new, so I thought I’d share it while I try to rekindle my inspiration.

Xronia Polla to our favorite Yiayia
who reads dirty books while she bakes moussaka.

Her kitchen is always as warm as her heart
and our stomachs are full before we depart.

She cares for her family and raises our hopes
and does it without ever missing her soaps.

The life of the party, wherever she goes
for only a sip, and she’s red as a rose!

Today is her birthday, you already know,
so give her a hug and say "S’agapo!"

"Poppie, Poppie, look here at me!
I have a magic boat!
It’s free to ride, so come inside!
And watch it! Watch it float!"

"That’s good, my boy, now take your toy
and hurry off to bed
with Mother’s song, where dreams belong,
God rest your little head.

"Now when you wake, make no mistake
in darkness, dreams will stay.
Your dreams will fade as summer shade
beneath the light of day.

"You’ll realize dreams are foolish lies
to comfort little boys
And later when boys turn to men
you’ll find no simple joys.

"Hard work and sweat to pay your debt;
the meaning of a man.
You do not do what you want to,
you just do what you can.

"And then some day, when old and grey
you’ll look back on your life
and sigh relief in disbelief,
then lay down with your wife.

"You see, your play can’t take away
the need to do your chores.
Through sun or rain, or health or pain,
they cannot be ignored.

"But when complete, naught can compete
with that accomplishment.
So now, my son, I pray you’re done
with wasteful merriment.

"Be not confused, you’re not abused
I do this for your good.
You must prepare and be aware,
as every young man should."

"But father why is it that I
must toil till old age?
What’s wrong with fun while work gets done –
so long’s I earn my wage?

"Is it so wrong to sing a song
whilst I trim the yard?
Where comes this thought? Have we been taught
that all that’s good is hard?

"Can not the simple things in life
be purchased without strife?

"Don’t misconstrue, I still love you
and all that you have done.
But were I you, and you were me, I’d tell it differently.
I’d tell my son to go have fun
For not all dreams are free."
 

This poem was originally about a boy offering pumpkin seeds to a baker, who brushes him off.  The idea was to have the boy return later with pumpkins which were in demand.  But it was kind of corny… and I really liked two of the stanzas I had, so I kept them and rewrote the rest.  The result is an old man lecturing a small boy.  The idea is that the grown man sees no use in playing, and that life is about hard work and the rewards.  But the old man paints such a grey picture, and the boys world is so bright, that it’s obvious that you can’t neglect your dreams.  It’s not very deep, and doesn’t really need an explanation, but you’re getting one anyway!

I’m not sure I like it, but It’s complete enough to post.  I broke my structure in several places, but I think it kind of works…  I don’t know.  I’m tired, and this is my first forray back into poetry in ages, so it’s bound to be sloppy.

To bed to rest my weary head
Where dreams and fantasy are wed 

To close my eyes and see the sights
that can’t be seen beneath the lights.

To wake refreshed with autumn’s dawn,
my first breath crisp and deeply drawn

To toil through the working day
and then return to home to play

To play until the playing ends
and rest again, among my friends

I wrote this in the Fall of 2004 as an away message on AIM that I expanded on and refined.  I like it a lot, but I’m not sure this is the same as the version I was using online.  That one has been lost for now.  Hopefully I can recover it, but I had the above version written in a notebook, and transcribed it here.

I set myself at ease beneath
My favorite hunting tree.
Across my lap carefully lies
My chosen weaponry.

The sun had yet to climb atop
Yon eastward peaks of birch
When from above descended dove
Whom on my hat did perch.

"Does he not know that I am foe?"
I asked to none by me.
That bird, he heard, and then replied
By chirping merrily.

Then all at once from over hill
There came a mighty breath.
The trees around me then began
To whisper songs of death.

The chill ran up and down my back
But shivered not my bones.
Unlike my face, my heart was warmed
Thanks to the dove’s fair tones.

Though shadows short I stretched my jaw.
It was the song that lulled.
Then I, the hunter, proud and strong
From hunt to dreams was culled.

While in my dreams there came a stag
Who stood before my gun.
With nothing but a gentle squeeze
I’d have my trophy won.

But something stayed my trembling hand
And calmed my ragged breath.
I could not interrupt the flute
Of life with horns of death.

Instead I voyaged throught the lands
Untouched by hands of men.
Where if some day I get the chance
I’d like to go again.

The dove continued singing though
His song fell on deaf ears.
The duet played of flute and horn
Is not what it appears.

Now if you travel to that spot
And look beneath that tree.
A monument to nature’s might;
A statue you will see.

This is the last one to transfer over from the archives. I wrote it in January of 2004. It was partially inspired while I was out hunting, where I pretty much always fall asleep. The idea is that the hunter decides he feels safe and comforted by the dove, and while dreaming realized that nature is too beautiful to introduce death. But in reality, he was being killed by nature, and freezes to death. It seems like I’m a fan of the irony, and I guess that’s true. There’s parts of this that are pretty hokey, but also parts I like.

Let not your anger pass to me
With my own eyes I, too, can see
And what they miss my ears will hear
For unlike you, my thoughts are clear.

Disturb the nest and bees will sting.
Upon yourself this pain you bring.
Sweet honey you cannot resist
Though desperately the bees persist.

But under different circumstance
And looking more than at first glance
I think that you will come to find
The two are of a common mind.

For if you were in your own house
And came upon invading mouse
Why would you share with him the meal
That he had come intent to steal?

I wrote this one in December 2003, and it’s a fairly obvious "practice what you preach you hypocrite" type deal. It was also a little bit of telling people to mind their own business. Also a little about greed.

Sweet summer smells, Milk-Butter swells
As bee returns to flower.
Cock early crows, the farmer knows
Mid-morning it will shower.

He lifts his head off of the bed
To take a look around.
No time to wait or hesitate;
His feet are on the ground.

Without a thought as he’d been taught
On instinct he reacts.
The coming rain releives the strain;
Today he can relax.

The seeds are sewn, though not much grown
God’s work has just begun.
The cooling mist is to assist
The warming of the sun.

When skies are grey, there’s time to play
No chores hang overhead.
A bluer sky makes spirits high
But work is done instead.

Ironically this balance be
Required for all life.
To work in light and sleep at night is
Man’s eternal strife.

This one is one of my favorites to date. It went through several iterations, and inspirations before it became what it is. I wrote it while I was in Ithaca, and it was inspired a lot by the influence of nature and farming that is prevalent there. Milk-Butter is actually supposed to be Buttermilk falls. And the "Cooling mist" line came to me in the shower. I ran to write it down as soon as I got out to be sure I wouldn’t forget. Kind of silly. It’s basically a commentary on the paradox of life, how we take advantage of the nice weather to get work done, and then when we can’t work, we can’t play either. Oh well.

Let forthflow from in to out
Let demons pass without a shout
Let fade into the failing light
Let darkness overcome the night

When pain of mind makes body weak
When mouths of coming shadows speak
When chill-bumps rise on still warm skin
When clockwise the waters spin

Then shall you sleep and not awake
Then no longer dreams be fake
Then discomfort is no more
There upon the tiled floor

This is one of the more dark and depressing things I’ve written.  It was supposed to be  about a suicide, but it could also be about throwing up.  It’s really up to you, anyways.

I rode the train out to the end,
Got off and then got on again.
But now the train is going back
The way it came along the track.
I pass the stops I did not take
To find where I made my mistake.

Around me always something new;
An everchanging point of view.
The people come and then they go.
No time to stop and say hello.
They run to places I have passed
While sitting still, yet moving fast.

I do not understand the way
They go about their lives each day.
When there is so much they don’t see,
How can they live so carelessly?
They fear of things they do not know
While running fast, yet moving slow.

Until they try to figure out
Those things that they have come to doubt,
And they go back the way they came
To see the world in different frame,
All by myself I shall remain
Among the faces on the train.

I wrote this one in Boston, back in 2003. I went to visit a friend, but was early, so I took the T and did some sightseeing (and writing, apparently). It is a bit of a commentary on rushing, and how, for all our frantic efforts, we really don’t accomplish any more than if we would take the time to enjoy and savor life. It was also about how we really don’t notice or appreciate the things right next to us on a daily basis.