Best Bushed Poems
We forced her into menopause well ahead of her time.
Mother Nature’s prematurely changing and we’ll regret our crime.
We cut off her tresses that once bushed across her land,
polluted her oceans and soiled her golden sand.
Moody and unpredictable her volcanic eruptions flows,
fed a daily diet of plastics, pesticides and GMO’s.
We sweated out her edges and turned her temples gray,
while her hot flashes melt the glaciers that dissolve more each day.
Her skin is dry and arid as she blazes across her earth,
destroying crops and animal life, unyielding, no longer giving birth.
We ravaged her Amazon where green algae and flora once flourished,
only two days shipping while populations starve and many undernourished.
Waken with a splitting headache as earthquakes and tornados roar,
we have become her burden with our excessive cries for more.
Gas emissions have choked her and left her in a daze.
The damage is done, too late before we change our ways.
She is like a bridge as our weight has caused her back to bend
with greed, corruption and the unconscionable conscience of men.
How will humanity survive when Mother Nature has no more to give,
what will become of our children, where will they have to live?
This is a time of urgency, but we have been fore warned.
Her end is rapidly approaching, for “hell has no fury like a woman scorned”.
Sharp piercing pains
rendered me breathless
I double over,
crouching low like a panther.
Fire, searing fiery fire
leaped at my sides,
licking my backside.
I groan and writhe,
growl and curse!
only the ticking clock
dares to surpass my loud moans.
Sweat trickles down my backside,
flowing down, forming rivulets as
they meet and scamper downwards.
Another tormenting wrench!
This time a wounded lion’s roar echoes.
And so it went on—
Doctors and nurses
mumbled words meaningless
in the face of my helplessness!
I was gripped in the throes of labour pains;
my body betraying me
as it struggled to give life to another.
Seconds, minutes, hours ticked away.
and finally at the eleventh hour,
my energy spent,
my body bushed,
she burst through--
piercing the birthroom with a keening protest!
I lay down my head,
too exhausted to even offer her
a proper welcome
but a weary smile.
Antics dealer
I dealt in antiques as well as antics
Once chased a sterling ‘bronze’, very unique
It stood its ground and just blushed
Till, by and by, I felt bushed
And chastised, quit things risqué and of risk.
03 jun 12
In this wonky day and time,
this favored temperate clime
dares suggest wisdom's course
espouse prevalent societal force.*
Family tree boundaries,
stretched by current modes
like an old elastic band,
accept new branches
hung precariously
on the old sturdy trunk.
Old Limbs are newly bushed
with leaves bearing prefixes
with measuring sounds;
third, adopted, step, half -
or followed by modifiers;
in-law, live-in, significant other.
Partners and lovers
get tied on with slippery ribbons,
names entered in a ledger,
but not with permanent ink.
Disjointed families, add-ons,
and second family births
leave our children wondering
to whom they belong.
*Adulterated quote from “A Traitor to Memory”
by Susan Elizabeth George, Published in 2001,
Bantam Books, a Div. of Random House, Inc.
Top of Page 87
#5
I asked myself
Why can’t I be like her?
Calved in a very luxurious life
Loaded with an abundant wealth
She might never felt this
About all of these worries that I hold
That I also had a dream
A dream that I believed
A concreted one
Such concreted till I could probably just have reached out my hands and achieved it easily
I hold onto that dream for years
Went into a good institution
Forced myself to do everything perfectly
I put my own laziness just to make it happen
Was struggling and hard working
Motivated myself each time I bushed
But when it’s time for me to continued it
I realized
That I didn’t have enough money to spend
To helped me achieved my biggest dream
I cried and prayed
I confessed to whom I always believed as my creator
I asked Him but I was too afraid to do so
Because I already asked Him that much
I told Him about my worries
But I still didn’t get the answer
Father, just let me know
That I could still be success one day
Though the path wouldn't be as smooth as I expected
Papa, I am sorry
That I can’t keep my promise
I promise to make you proud
I promise to reach that scholar and study abroad for you
I am sorry, I couldn’t even make you happier during your life
Papa, I am sorry
Pronounced side effect upon my dreams...
courtesy Fluoxetine hydrochloride
Fluoxetine Hcl (C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective Serotonin
Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,
and obsessive-compulsive disorder
the above symptoms
profoundly experienced by yours truly
said prescription medication
seriously impacts sleep (mine).
Debilitating panic attacks
wrought (particularly years gone by)
physiological displeasures chiefly constituting
vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,
whereby Prozac (brand name regarding
aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable, unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, jackknifing... functionality
hijacking life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Essentially yours truly experiences
dilemma analogous to sleep deprivation,
cuz ofttimes upon arising,
I feel utterly tuckered out, exhausted, bushed...
thus zapped body, mind and spirit
ill suited to physical,
mental or spiritual endeavor
subsequently lovely bones (mine)
(pine to join grateful dead)
rather than feebly kickstart
lame effort to write, read or meditate.
Thus respecting Sir Isaac
Newton's first law of motion
a (human) body at rest
inertia keeps said entity at rest.
Interestingly enough as
daylight doth wax and wane
casting dark shadows upon urbane
countenance buzzfeeding hidden reservoir
exerting estimable energy
decreasing arduous strain
therefore purposefulness,
I seek renewable resource to imbue
garden variety generic
doubting thomas and ordain
him (i.e. me) with spontaneous
magnificent grandiloquent enlightenment
ala Orson Welles Citizen Kane
laughable comparison linkedin
with story extraordinaire quite insane
September 4th, 2020 insight one can gain
perchance even coaxing passable poem
from deep within Matthew Scott Harris' brain.
Unfaithful marital transgressions
self admitted indictment,
crime and punishment,
no longer think high lee
entailing no mister re: demeanors,
I searingly weathered
(George by bushed, albeit thankfully,
no unwanted child left behind),
nonetheless one unforgettable
indelible, execrable, and abominable
professedly owned his
civil warring battle of life
transgressions undeservedly heaped
(Uriah hit about that)
(carnal feral hormonally seething
gone astray nightwalks)
woven by basket of deplorable
emotionally painful selfish object lesson
forever etched upon mine psyche
(left by one bobbing sponge -
cheeses crust station of his life
within sea of human life now
affixes moniker re: mister crabs)
inflicted courtesy yours truly
said marital indiscretion (philandering)
one among many issues discussed,
during treatment plan earlier today
February eighteenth 2020
concerning complex edifice
regarding mein kampf
existential bleak house
(figuratively crowded cheek to jowl)
with and hard times
fraught with many
unattained great expectations
unwittingly accepts psychological fallout
(among kissing kith and kin,
a shellfish chicken and hen thing for sure),
despite years elapsed ex post facto
deploying, incorporating, narrating, signifying...
narcissistic, opportunistic, and phlegmatic
self incriminating doom
visualize deus ex machina
betrayal rendered adopted smugness
invariably set in motion domino effect,
whereby emotional alienation
devastation, humiliation, maturation, suppuration
(yoking impossible mission
to shuck off penitence, the price to pay),
thus rightfully, truthfully, and veritably...
ably, readily, and willingly
allowing, enabling, and providing
incomplete resolution, (hence iresolution)
thwarting rancor thy deux daughters
(livingsocial many time zones distant)
embark quest to guide their own
metaphorical maiden voyaging ships of state
countless transpired hours
at counseling facility, where poetic papa
aired and mulled over bothersome
anguish to complete requisite treatment plan
to receive psychiatric appointment
next (and last) Tuesday of February 2020.
Off the case! Why am I off the Red Light case?
Not that Rodney, this Shadow killer case.
I am letting homicide head that one up, It's not Vice,
Captain, when a prostitute is attacked and her pimp gets
whacked, No pun intended, that makes id Vice doesn't it?
" Rodney, just what do you know about this case?
Captain, from the evidence I've seen, what we have here
is from all indications, a modern day Samuari Shogun
with a very sharp sword called a Katana. This person knows
how to use it, and so far only on bad guys who like hurtin
women. So far only at night, comes in quiet takes care of
business and goes out quiet very quiet and virtually unseen.
Anyway you slice it, their dead and bloody
" Just what in the name of Judas is a Samuari
Shogun person you are talking about Rodney"?
Well Cap'n a Samuari Shogun is from Japan, old Japan
Dresses all in black, with only the eyes visible and carries
a single edged sword. At night would appear to be a shadow
" How do you know all this Rodney"? Well I spoke to
the M.E. after he was done with the stiff and we looked
it up you know kinda like doin my job. Police work and all
Besides Cap'n, Homicide is short a couple of guys
and what they have left are well sort of green
they have only been here in homicide a couple years
Face it Cap'n they could use the help and we both know it,
I already got a leg or two up on this case anyway, ya know
" Rodney, I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll have a talk with
the Chief of Homicide and put in a word for you"
If he is ok with it, I'll let you go homicide on temporary
assignment, only temporary got it? we'll go from there"
Thanks Cap'n, can I go now I'm kinda bushed?
been up all night and all," Sure Rodney come in
in the morning and we'll see what homicide says
Brick went to his locker and put his things inside
everything but his weapon's and his shield.
Brick always carried a stow away on his right leg
After that Brick went to his desk to make sure
that his report was all in order so he could turn
it in, by this time it was one in the afternoon
Brick was ready to go home for some needed rest
as he walked out the front door he headed for the
subway, Brick didn't see the eyes watching him.
" Shogun"
Wanton words or bits of paper
Flotsam and jetsam or progenitors
Damp squibs or ticking time bombs
Collect..and recollect
Their golden worth, silverfish and all
Revived or transmigrated
To touch earth’s core and zodiac zones
To recreate vibes syncing with a smart sun
On pretty turf bearing its sweet burden
Of coy blooms or breeze bushed
On mornings lying about in yards like spilt milk
Words that wouldn’t miss the woods for the tree
Moving along paths, straight or wavy
Slicing through sheer life
Leaving left and right little islands
Of sunshine or sombre nights,
Bristling,though, with rain on fresh page
The epic stage for an unfinished call
Once left reticulated with a dumb aridity.
For Carol Brown's 'Pieces of paper..A poet's heart'
By: S.Jagathsimhan nair, 14 sept 11
No.1 in the above contest
O Dear Lord! I`m real bushed
to bear my shabby cross.
It is so hard an` I`m collapsed,
legs sinking under loss.
I close my eyes and have a scene:
a flock of men on a road.
By viewless power it is set,
in its strict limit hold.
And one by one they move along
the way in single file,
marking a day with a white stone,
bearing crosses the while.
As well I drag mine on the ground
with might and main forlorn.
To me their crosses are just found
not to be very long.
Being very tired, drop my log
and saw a little part,
for me to carry, furthermore,
for it just to be short.
I keep on going, soon I see
a point of destination.
There`s an abyss in front of me,
I cannot reach the nation.
Those people, without any buzz,
to join the parts together,
put heavy crosses over abyss,
of two evils the lesser.
I stand alone. It is my fault.
My easy cross fell down.
I cannot pass, alas,... that part...
a lump felt in my throat.
I open eyes and have a scene:
here lies my shabby cross.
By viewless power it is set,
I have to take it, Gosh!
(from a Christian parable)
in the mist of proposal rivers of recovered water.
the master of them all existing Aquarians appeared,
all went mixed.
the muscles of this bolded river dilated,
fear raged on the small hearted creatures,
trafficking of disposals added heterogeneously,
power of the enemies increased with regards to their smiles,
dreams seemed to ride off the coats,
waters flowed with no limited acceleration,
wonders became the topic of the mind,
nerves expanded and pain slides went on,
voices boxes failed to hold that heavy load and all went out.
all eyes where on the victim but none desired to assist.
it was all in these river with breath of the daily life,
a small river created together with its twin sister.
why would they recognize it because it is bushed with loneliness,
all it has its a dark shadow seen by no one,
even its body turned to be visible to the blinded.
how easy can it be for the good sighted to spot for they are too busy in the counters of their own self-makeup
oh thou river hold on
its a fact that every start has a stop point
As I lay upon the floor
Hubby at the bedroom door
Ready and steady
What girl could ask for more
A smile upon his face
A twinkle in his eye
Jogging on the spot
A shy man he is not
Preparing his pace
I give him the nod
I am ready now to go
and waiting for my beau
One
Two
Three
Go, go, go…
He pushes
He shoves
He thrusts
He shunts
I wiggle
I waggle
I jiggle
I twist
But still they resist
We collapse on the floor
exhausted and bushed
we shoved and we pushed
In the end we gave in
As I slowly stand up
All that thrusting and yanking
has really worn us out
So beside my open window
with one almighty shout
lifting up my arms
I throw my Spanx* pants out
I am free
I can fly...
For despite hubby's efforts
I could not get them on
Watching them fly high
we both burst into song
and now we love my wobbly bits
in Spanx they don't belong
The moral of this story
is to truly celebrate
those lovely
cuddly
wobbly bits
are part of you - don't ever hate
So
flaunt them
love them
shake them all about
Dress them in chiffon
and let them all hang out…
Written 11th August 2019
*Spanx Shapewear - That Will Make You Feel More Slender & Elegant
Contest Strand Select L
Sponsor Brian Strand
2nd Place
Dixon Bullinger braced himself against
another frozen blast of winter wind,
riding through the front range to Denver
where his family was a-waiting.
It was morning on Christmas Eve,
and he was a long time overdue,
but Boss McChord had paid him double
to rescue horses from being consumed.
They’d taken out a problem bear
and had a drink to celebrate,
he’d exchanged good wishes with the boys,
then had set about upon his way.
He rounded a corner in a craggy gorge,
and there he saw a stunning sight:
Santa Claus sat on an empty sleigh,
brooding sadly amidst the white.
Dix rode up, and doffed his hat,
saying,”Father Christmas! What are the odds!
May I ask why you are sitting here though,
‘tis the skies that you usually trod?”
Santa then sadly shook his head,
said,”My boy, you don’t understand.
I stopped for a rest and was robbed blind
by a gang of five masked men!
“They took my sack and with it
all the gifts for the boys and girl.
if I cannot somehow get it back,
there’ll be no presents for the world.”
Dix frowned deeply at the thought,
a coldness creeping into him.
Christmas may have been more than gifts,
but try telling that to the kids!
He said,”If you’ll ride with a fool cowpoke,
I’ll gladly help you find the fiends.
A Christmas with no gifts to give…
that’s not something this world needs.
“I have some skill at tracking, see,
from months chasing stray cows.
If you point me the way they went,
we’ll lick these bandits, and how!”
Santa nodded and pointed off
to a narrow slot canyon,
“That’s the way they all took off,
when the foul deed was done.
“If you start along tracking them,
I will follow as soon as I can.
My reindeer are bushed from today’s work,
Donner is nearly all done in.
“But once they’ve had a breather,
I’ll fly them up into the air.
If you leave a trail for me to follow,
I’ll catch up and meet you there!”
Dixon nodded and removed
his brand new, red, silk scarf.
He cut off a piece and then said,
“This here is bright as any spark.”
With that he took to the trail,
riding down that rocky cleft,
to save Christmas for the little ones
he’d undue this savage theft…
CONTINUES IN PART II.
Open granite quarries now swimming holes
Blueberry bushed hills once ocean washed
Soft Birch forests covering up old Dogtown
These are the days of my childhood spent
Traversing these old and winding pathways
Leading me to a time of my great-grandfather
Motif fishing shacks buried in the lobster traps
Calling out to me “It’s time to come back home”
Old stone walls leaning and falling across the fields
And close by the Babson house rickety standing
Resting roadside in old farmland abandoned by time
A forsaken reminder of a lifestyle gone by
Still, as dusk approaches and the evening settles
The crickets join the herring gulls in symphony
An ocean greened and bronze skyline
No city lights or sounds to disturb this perfection
Reminding me what a lovely place to be in…
My hometown of Rockport.
Note: All the places listed are the landmarks of my hometown, founded in 1661.
As a teen I wanted out, and as I grow older, I find I miss it more and more.
Bushed
scrambles
straddles the
belled flower strands
for a treacherous hold camera pose
2019 September 21
#3
howmanysyllables
1,2,3,4,10