I like to make the mundane fabulous whenever I can” Rufus Wainwright
Open Sesame
Abracadabra!
How well do you know your algebra?
It is as easy as one, two, three
Even before you can boot your PC
The carriage of comfort
Has lifted you upwards
Your destination dead ahead
Nothing more left to be said
“The monster in me, before coffee, believe you me, you really do not, want to see” Gun Roswell
The Coffee Monster
In the early morning hours, the alarm went off, waking up, with a large yawn
It was that time of the day, too early to be frank, when it’s still not quite dawn
The darkness, lying heavy and so, are all the eye lids
At this point, when nothing yet works, all you want to do is quit
And then, the monster within, rearing it’s true and ugly nature
Everyone and everything, even the mirror image filled with hatred
Better steer clear of it, or else, some heavy duty shit
Will be thrown upon you, with words, carefully not chosen nor chewed
“Do not speak, do not question
Do not even try to give one single silent suggestion
For this, is the way of the coffee monster
And, as the feelings of evil getting stronger
Until the time of the daily doze
Please, do not, try, to oppose!”
Because, only when the calming liquid has done it’s job
And the changes are so visible, like the turning of a knob
The beast within finally sedated, only smiley faces remaining
You may approach, even join in the early morning session
Of having a cup (or few) of the now, sanctified blessing
But do not think for a moment, that the monster is gone
Because if, heaven for bid, the coffee would be lost, or somehow gone
The monster will return, and this time rest assure
That no one, not a single coffee less person, will be safe!
“Fluffy are the clouds and so is the mood, on this, hot summers day” Gun Roswell
Fluffy summers day
Sitting. at the end, of a long pier
Looking. at the clouds, as they appear
Changing, their very shapes, as they slowly drift away
The waters surface calm and blue
Perfectly matching, the sky’s hue
Feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin
Nothing moves, nothings stirs in this moment
It seems, as if the clock, has stopped, all movement
The birds and bees at flight, frozen in mid air
As I close my eyes, I still spy
The world around me, feelings of being free
On this warm and fluffy summers day
“Sailing, what a wonderful way of weightlessness” Gun Roswell
Sailing to the sunset
Just like in an old school romantic movie
Trying to get things in my life once again grooving
As I am setting sail and off into the horizon disappearing
Never looking back, not giving the sails any slack
With the wind behind me, pushing forward towards the horizon
I am staring at the sun’s last rays before the moon’s arising
In this image so very quaint
The audiences will surely faint
The dark aura, away fading
As I am gently but surely sailing
Towards the eternal sunset
“A panoramic view, of the summer’s hue, how quaint!” Gun Roswell
Summer Rama
Sitting, in the perfect of places
Where the sunshine, and the long summer, always, stays
The temperature, always, perfectly warm but then, cool, at the same time
Which in itself, is a contradiction, but for me, it works really fine
My head, spinning and turning, like the exorcist chicks did, almost one three hundred and sixty degrees
Trying to get in, all the lovely scenery, but, at the same time, feel the warmth of the sun and the cooling breeze
A panoramic photograph, finally done ending up, in my own crocked mind
And then, a little while later, on the great wide web, for all the followers to find
Oh, the Summer Rama!
What would I ever do without ya?
“Travel the world, see, everything!” Gun Roswell
World Wide Wednesday
Monument Market
Exactly at noon
When the scorching sun
Hits the zenith
The local marketplace
Starts buzzing with life
As the tourist and other types
Come out to play
There is no shade
And certainly, no shame
As to:
What you do
What you wear
What you eat
Who you look at
Who you talk to
Who you ignore
And don’t forget
The glorious set
Of monuments, buildings
History of any era
When you roam around
The old school agora
The water and sun
Can also be a source of fun
When the day is ending
Then, consider some time
In the harbour spending
“With age comes wisdom… Yeah, right! So not true! I am as stupid as I have ever been.” Gun Roswell
Age
“Years just keep passing by… twenty-nine, twenty-nine, twenty-nine…
Oh, wait, what year is this?
Holy shit, I am over fifty… one, two… Oh, never mind!”
Age is just a number and all the rest of the cliches, which all those nice quotes in cards keep telling me. Feeding me, with false sense of hope, that getting older, and even each dammed year (unfortunately, like Mondays, which pop up every week, birthdays too creep around the corner each year, no matter how hard you try to deny them, or push them away) will somehow make me wiser, more comfortable, more mature, more of everything really. But, all I feel, still, is the same insecure little toddler I was all those years ago (no, still not counting).
But, here I still am, waiting, patiently (read impatiently) for the promises of age to come true. Should I maybe someone sue?
“Act your age!”
Another thing I do hear a lot too. So, when I ask the person who just scolded me.
“How old do you think I am?”
They just stare at me and don’t really know the answer to that. Well, imagine the shock when I reply.
“I am nineteen.”
After some consideration, the response might be something like.
“Oh, well, looks like you really had a rough life then.” or “A tad of the weary side, or rundown maybe.”
So, what,
If I am feeling like a youngster in my wanna be teenage fashionable clothes and, then, making jokes, suited for a person, of a middle school level, when I should be dressed in business casual, retorting funny anecdotes from some adult reading proved magazine.
So what,
If I laugh out loud after reading some not so funny thing, while on a bus, when everyone else is so quiet and sulking, because the weather is bad or life just sucks (especially Finns, they never really socialize. I should know for I am one of them).
So what,
If I like to do some hopscotch or the level of my conversation is better understood by some five year old at the yard than the up stuck colleagues from work.
So what,
If I don’t feel my age, act stupid sometimes (read: a lot of times), sulk and pout like a two year old if I don’t get my way.
So what,
If I am fifty-four (yes, i did the math), like the latest gadgets, dress in colourful clothing and go out dancing, beating even the younger people at their game of staying up all night
OK, so some days, I feel like nineteen, others like one hundred and ten, but all and all, pretty good, for any age. Talk to me about age again, when I turn one hundred and fifty-four, then we really have something compare, but for now, it’s just guess work really, because I, am just, fifty four 😉
“What the hell? It’s August already, and soon, it will be December!” Gun Roswell
2019
It’s gone!
over half way,
done!
in just,
a small blink,
of my eye
Oh shit!
the time,
really,
does fly!
August, you sneaked around the corner so fast
Having the power of a major bomb blast
Kicking me right there, in the very gut
Did you really think, it did not matter so much?
April, May, June, July
All those names of months, were just fine
So, why oh why, did you have to come by?
I was just preparing for summer, only to realize
It had so quickly, so unnoticed, going, going
Until gone and December will be there, so very strong
What remains for me now?
I don’t have a clue and most likely will have a cow
Well, she is standing there in the meadow
Blissfully ignorant of the eternal rant
Of seasons changing and soon, indoors
Poor her, too, will be closed
So, fair warning, dear August
Do not try to change the weather to gust
I had enough of that with plenty of dust
Let the nature and my mood be in summer
For a while longer before that old bummer
Winter strikes and then, I will loose this fight
The end,
of the year
is near
even though,
you might state,
it’s not too late,
as it’s still,
only half way,
plus a few,
plenty,
before it is,
two thousand,
and twenty
(O.M.G.!)
“It’s always calmest before the storm, that’s why they call it Sunday” Gun Roswell
The Calming of Sundays
The presence of calm today is lulling me to false sense of security
As, today is Sunday, I know with almost a hundred percent certainty
That it is only a fake state
Before it is too late
For me to realize
That Monday, is once again upon us
Thus, bringing the horrific storm of fuzz
The weekly strugle, the mundane strife
The grind which all of us want to escape
But, on this day, on this hour, it is much too late
The holy weekend is over
As the darkening clouds start revolving
Over our tiny heads evolving
Bringing forth images do scary
It is a miracle any of us survive
Live throughyhe night as the winds are howling
Your very essence scowling
Preaparing for the worst to come
And leaving you stunned
Too nervous to think or move
Yes, the weekly grind, the huge storm
Definitely, has you schooled
To be, act and live
By only its one rule
At least, Monday through Friday
During the weekend
It’s not a concern, how your time is spent
“The black cat crossed the road, at the traffic light” Gun Roswell
Black Cat
The familial of any self respecting witch
Witch, a female, with a black feline
Feline so agile, with a fur so sleek
Sleek as her movements you can hardly see
See when she turns up from simply out of nowhere
Nowhere like a dark flash of light
Light so dark, she’s almost invisible
Invisible against the black night
Night, as the time when the feline hunts
Hunts for pray, which better be aware
Aware if you are a rodent or other type of pest
Pest, vermin, which are eating all the crops
Crops which are important for the survival
Survival for us all, both human and animal
Animals such as cats the familial of the witches
Witches who take care of their pets
Pets, a cat, the black cat, may just be
Be, but sometimes, it can be something else
Else, other, something completely different
Different from the other, you will never see
See you just might, if you concentrate really hard
Hard and let your imagination run wild
Wile as the black cat does
Does when she wildly runs
Runs over the land and then comes
Comes back to her master the witch
Witch, where the familial only exists
Rantings Of A Third Kind 