Wednesday, December 08, 2004


We welcome you to your new life
Upon this rock called Earth.
We grant in you all blessings be;
The peace, the joy, the mirth.

May you have all the air to breathe
That you will ever need;
Abundant bread to feed your soul
And share it without greed.

Oh, child of mine; oh, daughter ours,
Welcome to freedom, come.
In artful ways, spend all your days,
In playful realm, not glum.

In winsome mask shall you employ
Beguiling strands of whimsy.
Bedeck the days, 'tis yours to do,
With slithy toves of mimsey.

May you find that sunny days
And cloudy days, as well.
Give grace by divergent means
Upon you, gentle belle.

For you can sing a song of joy
No matter what the season;
To bring forth love so we may see
A zest for life most pleasin'.

Now, here you lie within your crib,
When all is done and said;
Let slumber rest your innocence;
Easy lay your tousled head.

We look at you, at your sweet smile;
You have come to bless this world.
We take this time, we take this while,
To welcome our little girl.

Norfolke '99


We are of Stardust made
And have been here since the beginning
If there ever was one
We will be here til the end
If there ever is one

If ever there was a Creation
This is it
Right here, right now
And nothing is missing

Are we not full of wonder
Are we not wonderful
For we are of Stardust made

(c) Norfolke '97


I wrote out a poem called
With the familiar line “And miles to go before I sleep”
I wrote this work by Robert Frost in pen
On a lined yellow pad of paper

My hand moved the ink
Over and around vowel and consonant
Up stroke and line curving each letter
To bring forth the words

Had the feeling of completeness
In each line and thought
Felt the joy of writing a famous poem
And what Robert may have felt writing it first
I did not have to edit a thing
For Robert had already done that part

This was not just a piece to read and leave
But to be involved with; in the creativity of it
The pleasure was mine as it had been his
We wrote together

Knowing the emotion of writing my own poetry
In words from my lexicon and mind
The feeling and intuition of my soul
I share as he shared the experience sublime

Someday I will write another poem
Maybe in my words or someone else’s
For to put pen to paper
Is to open and create

(c) Ron Eklof 2003


A wandering minstrel I
Met a fair spinstral by
The wood on a sprightly fall day.

And in my insouciant way
Asked the lass for a lay.
To which she spit in me eye.

Tut, tut, my dear little slut,
'tis it not time for a rut?
Let us pass the day in the hay.

To wit she replied
All haughty and snide,
“You sir, are a rascal, a bounder and a cad.“

I could only respond,
“And you, Madame,
Are a mackerel, a flounder and a cod.”

(c) Norfolke 2000


Naked came I from the womb of woman
And naked am I 'neath this cloth.
Yea, come the end of my time,
And I'll naked lie, eternal.

When the winds of change
Wrestle the palms by the shore,
And the heavens heave tumult below,
I stand a rock on the barren sands,
Braving the forces infernal.

'Tis an arrogant one who flippant be;
'Tis the foolish one who pushes his pride
Beyond the scope of rational thought;
To outwardly show what no one should see:
The tormented child held internal.

Jut of the chin says come punch me now.
Knock this chip off my shoulder.
Get up seven times
After seven times down,
A practice repeated diurnal.

Where, oh where has my little soul gone?
Where, oh where can it be?
'Neath a stony cold heart?
In the harsh words of hate?
In the icy black ink of my journal?

Naked came I from the womb of woman
And naked am I 'neath this cloth.
Yea, come the end of my time
And I'll naked lie, eternal.



A chilly Florida morning
Seems colder than the north country
Where winter gales impale the neck
And shiver me timbers down

'Tis colder here where the feet are numb
And the spine recoils from draft
I snug the jacket in wrapped embrace
And you,
Cold heart,
You say,
"It's only 48."


Norfolke '01


He walks along the shore with his companion
A bright summer morning, air fresh, sky blue,
The cool sand crunching under their feet;
Gulls call in the distance.

He stops to pick up a shell, she walks on.

Iridescent green and red shine in its inner spiral.
Intricate striations and knurls on its outside.
It is beautiful, perfect, a keeper.

He takes it to his friend.
She looks at it, observes that it is pretty,
But, it has a piece missing;
It's broken and not whole.
"You're not going to keep it, are you?"
She moves on, looking for her keepers
Further along the shore.

He walks with her,
Still holding the shell,
And knows that, to him,
It is whole and complete,
In and of itself.

It is not deminished by what is absent,
But is perfect just the way it is;
Just so.

He puts it in his pocket.

Rather than looking to find perfection,
He finds perfection where he looks.

Oh, look at that...

Norfolke '99

Tuesday, December 07, 2004


I SAW A WOMAN with rings on her toes,
Rings in her ears and rings in her nose.
She brings her persona wherever she goes.
Wants to be diff'rent, I guess, I suppose.

I SAW A WOMAN on the way to her work,
Not as a waitress, not as a clerk.
She wore a grey suit, making ev’ry head jerk.
Wants to be diff'rent, I guess it must work.

I SAW A WOMAN with blue hair on her head.
Her rouge was not blush, but orange instead.
Insouciant lips were painted blood red.
Wants to be diff'rent 'til the day she drops dead.

I SAW A WOMAN with mind all asunder,
Going around stealing the thunder,
Spouting faux pas and political blunder.
Wants to be diff'rent, I guess it’s no wonder.

I SAW A WOMAN wearing gypsy-like clothes,
All in a jumble, this costume she chose,
Some of it shabby, like the runs in her hose.
Wants to be diff'rent, I guess, I SuppHose.

(c) Norfolke '99


I will not, cannot, must not pursue my dream
But crush any bliss I would have
And hide my light under bushel, within dark closet
Beneath ignoble rock

Not for me a pursuit of legend, joy, and great stature
Rather, in gloom of day, I plod the drudgery road
No star to guide, no ship to return
As none was put out to sea

Yea, I fear of death, simple evil
And the unseen power of an unglimpsed future
I revile these gifts wrapped within
Have contempt for talents that lie undisturbed
Yet ask no grant or favor to break the chains in me

So, keep this fold upon mine eye
That I not see through disquieting fog
Ray no light to reach my skin
Nor allow me view the moon of aspiration

I clutch my cloak of dark despair
Muse be gone from me
When Time is come to loose my mortal illusion
I dread to meet feared fire

Yet let it come while I am unready

Ron Eklof (c) 2002


So the hair on my chinny-chin-chin
Is better than a hair on my nose.
Can there be a whinny-win-win?
It goes without saying, but I'll say it, I suppose

That the rhyme of all reason
Calumny tantamount to treason
In the vilified season
This hair sure ain't pleasin'

Let us guillotine the offending shaft
Off with it's 'ed, send it to bed, no, to the floor instead
But, we are rebellious, and not a little bit daft
Yet like sheep to the sheerer, to the barber we’re lead

Is this what we want? To cut what we soweth?
It’s utterly fantastic, a solution so drastic
To sever so sublime a gentle growth
Of this umbrage, I’ve become quite spastic

For the eye of the beholder, beholds a great wrong
In public I'm told it, in private I'm scolded
To bring my appearance to high standards erelong
The ego is crushed; it is bent and is folded

Belay your baleful eye; withhold your viewing
of this hair you're eschewing
Who do you think I am, a pimpled-faced soda jerker?
For it's not just the nose, but my persona you're skewing
Me thinks I'll go Islamic and wear a grey burkha

With slits for the eyes and shod in my sandals
I hide in the tents, hang out with the camels
In darkened alcoves lit with small candles
Avoiding the glances of two-legged mammals

I love this little one curled upon once proud snout
Our lives are filled with pain and sorrow
I want you here, hair; others want you out
Be us resigned; hair today, gone tomorrow




Come to me, o muse of pen
And course across the page
Let words flow out of sense
And paper be thy stage

Let fly the ink to indelible stain
From a heart that finds its speech
Once writ it lies for every eye
To see the inward reach

May this trail of penciled lead
Scribe over smooth pulped wood
A tale of import and delight
Easily understood

To be carried from this day forth
In hearts ever young
On lips, place this song
That it be ever sung

For ‘tis not I who creates what’s writ
But serving for thy use
I give you chance to make clear
What once seemed obtuse

Tho’ accolades of hand and word
May come to find my ear
I, in simple gratitude,
Thank you for being here

Ron Eklof (c) 2002


After "Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese." - G. K. Chesterton, I submit the following:


Silent frommage
Contained it holds firm, odorless.
Yet freed from the bonds of containment
Crumbles unto the plate, aroma unleashed.
Feta compli