Inconsistency in the ice

Holiday in Antarctica is really nice,

We found an inconsistency in the ice.

A section that’s almost as transparent as the rest,

Inspected up close, like two people abreast.

When touched, it felt warmer than any of our hands,

So we canceled all of our previous plans.

Decided to stay there for a while,

Lie on the ice, beach-holiday style.

A blizzard was raging above and all around,

And we, just chilling, our clothes on the ground.

The sunscreen we packed found more than just our faces,

While we tanned in the UV radiation’s embraces.

The holiday was quite not what I expected,

Better than the plans, I stand corrected.


Nine days rain

It rained for a day and it was fine,

One day to sleep all day like a swine.

It rained for two and that was okay

I had enough to read to keep the boredom away.

It rained for a week and I got upset

No work, no sport, my body would fret.

I would pace around the house very agitated.

“There’s work to be done, a week we’ve waited!”

After nine days, the sun came out,

Little was I to know, to signal a drought.

I ran out like a happy little goat

Grabbed my axe and unfastened my coat.

Swung the axe over my thick head

Winding up to strike, well-fueled and fed,

I chopped on a log and became fully soaked,

Especially now, having de-cloaked.

For nine days, the wood had drunk

And took its revenge when the axe-blade sunk.

Logs don’t laugh, but they do grin,

On the expense of this small Finn.

Timber florist

Stealing wood from the government forest,

Feeling like a timber florist.

In the middle of nowhere with no one to see

I won’t be caught when I work like a bee.

Hey Mr. Oak, meet Mr. Chainsaw.

He’s a nice guy with only one flaw.

He’ll cut you up into pieces by the foot

Later: meet Mr. Oven, turn into soot.

Stealing wood from government land,

So I won’t freeze my toe or hand

When I sit one the sofa in March,

Under my roof, an oaken arch.

Mushroom tracks

I went for a walk today, and happened upon a dozen parasols. They’re delicious, beautiful, and made me think. The perfect mushroom.


Imagine a field,

At night when you don’t see,


The mushrooms break free.

The moss shakes slightly,

Moved by the cap,

Shoved aside quite politely,

Makes way for the curious chap.

It will not stop,

They will always keep pushing,

While you sleep, shop,

Very slowly, never ambushing.

The only signs

You ever might see,

Upturned moss on the sidelines,

Innocuous cap, standing carefree.

When you walk,

Do you look at what’s around?

Might come as a shock,

There’s more to be found.

Autumn is here

Autumn comes soon

Singing the tune

Of the sharp scent of a hoarfrost moon.

Darkness comes too

The nights we knew

Become black and cold with stars in vies.

Rain comes as well

I retreat to my shell

Reading stories that my books tell.

Cozy is all

Under the shawl

I am the blanket’s faithful thrall.

Waking up is hard

When, out on the yard,

The patter of rain is the beauteous bard.

Autumn is here,

But I have no fear

As I stay inside for the rest of the year.


Adults are not children, that’s not news.

The former are bigger and can untie their shoes,

Walk on paths well-worn well before.

The latter explore much closer to the floor.

Leave it to a child to find a hole in the fence,

Or testing how many meters and cents

Is between the roofs of the neighboring houses

And if you can construct a bridge from blouses.

A bird cherry tree lived where I as well,

I tested every branch, and my mom did yell.

Something about safety, and fracturing bones,

I fell down many times, sometimes on stones.

Not an injury in sight, not counting the scrapes,

While finding out where you can harmlessly traipse,

Where you can clamber, where you can creep,

Where you’re not seen, and where you can sleep.

The bark of a bird cherry is not soft,

But I used it as a bed more than quite oft.

Where am I going? I don’t know.

Exploratory danger made me grow?

Nine in ten

I’m reading a book on the most up-to-date information on the native peoples of the Americas. The diseases brought from Europe were simply unbelievable in their destructiveness.


Nine in ten dead from burning sores

Families, towns wiped out.

Piles of bodies, scores and scores,

How can there ever be any doubt?

Bustling cities, now no one in sight,

Farms taken back once again.

Entire peoples taken by blight

Nine in ten, nine in ten, nine in ten.

Smallpox, typhoid, measles are

Not known for much kindness.

Traditional healing arts from afar

Were like milk for blindness.

Immigrants from beyond the water

Came to see the destruction.

Told their sons and daughters

“This is all God’s construction.”

Took the lands that used to be

Homes to millions of mothers.

Tilled the soil, cut down the tree

Not much unlike the others.