Poetry (Verse)

· Poems

A Pair of Acrostics

This pair of acrostics is written without the second half, which would end up giving away a complete name. I might include an verse written in Spanish, if the surname can be changed without violating the essence of the rhyme.

The first version, not necessarily the first one written, shows a someone pessimistic fellow.  Now, just for fun, in case someone tries to make a psychoanalysis of the writer, be it known, that alterations might have been made for the deliberate confusion of the analyst.

Reeling round within my mind,
Order do I seek,
Softly spoken is my find,
Even though my hopes are bleak.

Many other girls abound,
And some are almost sweet,
Rarely ones as you are found,
Your pleasures at your feet.

 Now follows another acrostic, this one more optimistic.  Nevertheless, female readers are cautioned that the last two or three lines do not reflect the nature of the author.  He believes that, in the supposed words of John Sutter or James Marshall, of the California Gold Rush fame, “Talkers ain’t doers”.  If “talkers” includes writers, this author either isn’t a doer, or he is, and the writing, just banal.

Roaring, hungry lion, say
Or do whate'er you may,
So that you'll be satisfied,
Even though my love you hide,
Many other girls abide, 
And surely if I harder tried, 
Reams of others'd be at my side,
Yielding then, and you defied.

It Never Rained

A year or two later, the following was penned.

The month was May, 
And every day, 
I tried to say, 
"Hello, Good Day". 
To say, I sought - But it was not 
In the month of May. 

The month was June 
And I said soon 
I must try, 
To say "Goodbye". 
Return obtained, 
It never rained 
(In the month of June).

On a Girl Surnamed Gallo.

This was written at university.

Gallo, I hear, is "rooster" in Italian;
A rooster - a "coq",
But that would mock
A 'lady': a coquette, 
Not to be taken seriously.
Oh, these birds:
A coquette; NachtiGALL (a NightinGALe)
Mockingbirds, naughty gals!

The last 3 lines are a contemporary additon, to add more wordplay, while resisting the temptation to include the words “hen” and “chick”. Living in Latin America, I am well aware that “gallo” has the same meaning in Spanish. To minimize controversy, with the plus of adding linguistic diversity, a French word has replaced the bird which crowed thrice in the King James and Douay Bibles.

Fin-de-siècle (ca. 2000)

The purpose of the following was partly didactic, as a pronunciation exercise for someone learning English.  It does, however, reflect, to some degree, the author’s thinking (when properly interpreted).


Though you may throw
 Crumbs through the window
 And have had the thought
 That what you've been taught
 Should ALSO be thus thrown
 Out, as to dogs a bone -
 For now, as Bourbons of the throne
 Learning's dethroned, now it lies prone.
 Yes, with it the world's through
 And only idiot-savants, though few,
 Thought to keep what you throw
 Under the feet of the motley crew,
 Which for now-wasted wisdom it gives no thought.
 Let learning's stands of books all rot
 Through and through - their readers too!
 And nevermore arise anew!
 Although inquiry to blossom tries,
 The vandal all its fruit denies -
 Pray, these things you haven't thought
 Through, thought too, though just a tot.
 Alas!  How tough's this fin-de siècle lot -
 Naught awes - just rough's the thought.



About a year ago, I wrote the following limerick for my article on Rye Bread, a Wry Story.

In Praise of Kvass [квас]

A “Quasi” Limerick.

There was a Lady O’Reilly
Who described bran bread rather shyly
But drank down the kvass
In a fine crystal glass
And praised the product most highly.

A Verse in the Rhine [Rhenish] Franconian (Rheinfränkisch) Dialect

I have no idea as to the authorship of this little verse, which is not my own.  After several years of trying to establish exactly what kind of dialect I speak natively in German, it seems most logical to believe in to be Rhine Franconian, based on maps and similarity to the grammar I use instinctively. It was recited by my father, and I include it here, first, because I have not found it on the web, and second, because I translated it as follows further below.

Ach, Du lieber Gott im Himmel,
In de Wiese wächst de Kimmel,
We’ mer backe, ha’ mer Brot,
We’ mer sterbe, si’ mer Tod.

Kimmel is Kümmel, German for caraway seed. As in British English, the final “r” of words is not pronounced. “Mer” is dialect for “wir”. I offer the following as a translation, the second line being extremely freely translated, as otherwise the rhyme would be difficult to achieve. Literally, it is, “In the meadow grows the caraway.” The last two lines are literally translated. Apologies if this is considered blasphemous, to try to minimize this possibility, the first line was changed to suggest the Lord’s Prayer, especially in the context of what follows.

Our Father, who art in heaven,
Give us caraway for our leaven,
When we bake, have we our bread,
When we die, why, then we’re dead!

Spanish Love Poem / Poema de amor

Mujer bonita, luz de mis ojos,
¿Soy polilla que me quemara en la llama de la vela
O me dejaría guiar bien, por la estrella polar, o –
Si no es blasfemia – me guiaría como a los reyes magos
A concocer una maravilla en cierne?

Mujer hermosa, manantial fresco
Para el viajero sediento, al querer apagar su sed –
Y si este romero fuera yo, en lugar de tomar a tu lado,
¿No caería de la ribera, para perderme,
Seducido por una sirenita?

Y si tu, como alguien en un barco
Confiases tu vida al capitán del bajel,
Y a sus velas y a su timonel,
Que no estrellase al final,
¿Sería para ti una aventura?

Y si fueras el campo de mis labores
¿Te atendería con mis amores?
¿Conocería yo a mis plantas cultivadas,
O me serían enajenadas,
Por ser mal jardinero?

[Escrito en los años de los 90. Primera publicación: 24 de noviembre de 2015]

Poem based on a news article about some ferocious cows, A Disturbed, Disterred Herd.

Poem based on Western reactions to Russia: Wi’ Eyes Wide Open [A Puzzle].

11 декабрь: 11 December 2012 ©  Paul Karl Moeller

I would like to post two translations of works, one, a German medieval poem, the other, by Lermontov. It depends on their being found.

I have had difficulties in formatting this page, and may have to make future corrections.

2 Январь: 2 January 2014 ©  Paul Karl Moeller

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