Best Mucking Poems
Like a warm cotton bud used to give inner ears a clean
there is something comforting about routine.
Knowing where you stand and the order of play,
knowing what to expect at every point in your day.
Living to a schedule, everything has it’s time and place -
knowing the slots you have free for any plans you need to make.
Wardrobe colour-coded, in garment order.
Wallpaper with a matching border.
Appointments at ten to, five to, on the dot.
Check, double-check, the doors are locked.
Yellow ball, green ball then pot the brown.
Big box, little box, upside down.
I like to gaze into the sky and dream, of an afternoon.
Relaxing. Like the scent of a chaste tree, when in bloom.
A cold glass of lemonade, a long and foamy bath,
humming along to the radio, a love that warms the heart.
Reading the Sunday paper, and making it an event,
the delightful things the kids say, things only they could invent.
His reputation precedes him: a disruptive, class clown.
Never completes his work, he’s always mucking around.
A big-mouth, show-off with far too much to say:
He asks if I ever considered teaching him in a different way.
‘A physical learner’ - he’s heard about it on the news.
There could be something in it…but I’ve far too much to do.
Cars whiz about, people in a hurry.
“I’ve waited over an hour for my curry.”
Twenty four seven lifestyle, word abbreviation.
Text message becoming the preferred means of communication.
Everybody rushing, to keep on schedule, to maintain status quo.
Everyone a cog in the system: You’re whipped, if you don’t row.
Seamless is the transition between asleep and awake,
when you just let it happen, not worry about being late.
An unrushed project results in a rewarding prize:
taking your time meant you got it right.
So bin the itinerary, flout the rules,
just for once why don‘t you try something new?
Go ahead, try to separate the races.
You politicians have egg, on your malicious faces.
Not realizing in your frozen hearts.
You toss imperfect, very hopeless darts.
Neither money nor educatiion
Can separate friends of the American nation.
Equity for Blacks only, you shout from your parapets.
ThatWill never separate us, not one bit.
So you fund hate groups to form derision,
Amongst hearts who have made, no such decision.
You paint whites as Nazis, blacks as slaves?
You think we are animals or morons, you hopeless knaves!
We have friends of all colors and religions.
But you go on fake news, as dense as pigeons.
You do all in your power to make this beautiful world dour.
You shout, “The world is ending by the hour?”
Filling us with fear, like climate change,
The ozone layer went up one percent, but not to Al Gore and his gang.
Whites mucking about, pretending they are Black?
It sickens me, Caucasians,it’s a racial attack.
Equity, as if, this were even ever possible.
We of all colors, think you are miserable.
So twenty years ago, I found a Black sister online.
Living in the hood, with loving heart that really shines!
She’s problems with sleep, as bullets fly about all night.
Seven hundred and thirty five, died in that city alone last year, what a fright!
DC bigwigs avoid the Hood like the Plague.
Yet demand Democrats vote for Blacks alone, don’t dare turn the page.
They tell them freedom is food stamps and a free phone?
It is such a lie, it makes me gasp and groan.,
Keeping the Blacks forever, on othe Plantation Nation!
You, while they are killed in the Hood, fly to Davos on vacation.
Dedicated to my Sistah of another mother!
Like you, Blessed Rita , there is no other!
With love,
Sistah Pangie
1/23/2023
"My passion is to see poets' souls, brilliantly on fire!"... .P. Romios.
" Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world!" Percy Bysshe Shelley, romantic poet
Without us being phony politicians mucking about with pants on fire.
We cannot change things without the courage ourselves to see evil, write about it, and see it ends.
The silence is deafening as the media cheers on Communism wearing the deranged mask of Socialism.
One day, we may lose this right to be truthful as poets forever.
Stop hiding behind butterflies and flowers, as none will keep you free.
Patriots will cheer you on, do not worry about those who avoid you."
"A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep."
— Salman Rushdie, award-winning writer
2/26/2021
~1~
Room 5 – that’s where it starts
It is always 14 minutes from being nowhere
You can settle in for liquid cocktails
Ordered up by an oncologist and pharmacist
The mixologist has 10 years experience delivering the Red Devil
No mucking about. She knows how to get you where you are going
And get you there in one ragged piece of your self.
You’ll walk out but your mind and muscles are punked out pieces of meat
It’s like going ten rounds with Ali. Punch drunk from a float and jab
You will watch his feet float like a butterfly and his jab sting like a bee
But you are always 14 minutes away from being nowhere
People will speak, their mouths will move like slow motion action
You will see the spittle and the tongues wagging wildly but again you are still 14
Minutes away from being nowhere
No one understands
They all care
Or at least they say they do.
Drum roll please!
Strike the drum smartly Ed.
Lower it to the ground
Room 5 – is always where it starts.
And it damn sure is 14 minutes from being nowhere.
fifty years
this house stood against
the tide of generations
leaving in its wake
lizards and roaches
still weaker
we wield hammers
and peer at each other
through glass windows
the masks went on
hauling the debris of years
to the curb
we came here to rebuild
we said, as the stove
hung its head and the fridge
slipped quietly out the door
teal paint chips
snowed in the kitchen
but couldn't touch us
in three hours
the sun lit up
soft brown bones
we drove home
as if home was
external, separate
from our work
and we were so
blissfully intact
the walls had to come
down first, he told us
I pored over my weather maps contriving a prognostication,
Of the weather forecast for the consumption of the British population.
It comprised all the towns, villages and shires from A to Zed,
To include the burgs of Wookey Hole, Wyre Piddle and Guys Head!
The towns of Crazies Hill and Cuckoo's Nest could expect clear skies,
Nasty, Mucking and Mousehole were included in this surmise.
Rain bode for Scrooby, Spital, Tiptoe and Brian's Puddle,
Ugley, Ramsbottom, Fitchfield and the village of Affpuddle.
Hail would visit the towns of Piddlehinton, Diddlebury and Pill,
Sots Hole, Inkpen, Birdlip, Scagglethorpe and Toot Hill.
I warned Catbrain, Clock Face and Daffy Green to expect sleet.
That also included Giggleswick, Kibblesworth and Cackle Street.
Broadbottom, Muggleswick and Barking were to be aware of fog,
As well as Yelling, Wigglesworth, Slaggyford and Black Dog.
Scattered clouds were billed for Crackpot, Beer and Fairy Cross,
And for the areas of Fugglestone, Great Snoring and Balls Dross.
Beanacre, Fatfield, Wham and Jump could expect some light snow.
Raging gales I predicted for Lickey End and Harrowbarrow.
Conditions change in minutes in High Brooms and Frog Pool.
I dare not divine weather for those blokes, 'cause I'm nobody's fool!
Autodidact
The small forest or the woods by the white road made of
crushed sea-shells was a place of enchantment squirrels
had no fear of solitary dreamers stumbling over oak roots.
I used to walk here when cows were milked, fed and
the mucking out was done and fresh straw strewn in their
stalls and the barn had chewing contented animals.
I could do so many things in the forest be an Indian or take
out of my pocket pornographic pictures the farmhand in
the village gave me and masturbate.
I was especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus the women
seem to enjoy this form of sex more, and I was horrified when
told it was not a manly act, yet the pleasured faces stayed on
my mind. Years later I drove the forest was a private estate high
walls and posh villas and no squirrels, I laughed out loud they
will never know my secrets here where I dedicated trained for
a hearty sex life to come.
The redneck was drunk as a skunk
Couple of dozen beers he had drunk
Staggered round the corner into his street
He noticed the flames and searing heat
Was burning fast and the flames got higher
Just then he realized it was his house on fire
Alarmed now, didn't want to loose his home
He ran back round the corner to the pay phone
Grabbed the phone and quickly dialed triple O
"Give me the fire brigade" he said "don't be slow"
"My house is on fire, can you please come put it out"
"Yes" said the fireman, there will be no mucking about"
"We will be on our way soon, so please be aware"
"Could you tell us please sir, how do we get there?"
"Hey? replied the redneck." what a dumb schmuck?"
"Why don't you just drive here in the red fire truck?"
Best be those who mind their tees and traps
for a green man lurks in the swamps
wanting to win over the lives of the tramps
mucking their way to rev up the amps.
Life costs plenty true and to be sure
so a pot of gold is good as green’s grass
to dampen the drizzle and tender a lure
for a game a golf will tempt any lad or lass.
But be wary for the trick is to know
On which end the rainbows pot will fall
One good trap will sink you like a blow
While fair sailing makes you feel very tall.
The truth is, oh lad and lasses, traps be quick
And traps be full, they hide and bely
Every hubris act that gabs it on thick
causes elf to ensure your success is but a lie.
50 pounds in our sacks bowed our backs
until we heaved them up to the scale.
Ice water from milk cans hit parched throats
and sent us back to pack the farmer's bale.
The sun bore through our flimsy shirts
and scorched noses while freckles bulged.
Sharp prongs pricked our fingers and clutched
the cotton as we wrested it from dry bowls.
We prayed for clouds to lend sweet shade
or wind to dry the sweat and cool the brow
as we toiled down the long rows of cotton.
A rainy day brought only delay and the ache
in our stomachs begged for our pay,
though at three bucks a hundred, it was rotten.
Your sister was only two, and you were four—
two toddling squirts, mucking in the dirt,
who found joy in a great place to play.
While we tugged our load, you two shared
true fascination with a squat, fat toad.
Inside The Mysterious Enigmatic Fragmentary...
Mortal Mind Of Matthew Scott Harris
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Seedy gobbledygook ergot
visibly argot bubbled, burbled, bustled...forth
yea...give garbled, jangled, warbled shoutout
if ye doth render
mug gadabout totally confounding,
this unfettered voluminous confection
ruff lee in toto as sample
doggone freelance gargon
sublime red rover - misaligned with
twenty first century time
emerging, fishtailing, kvetching,
slithering, whipsawing
during springtime
thaw - oozing out primordial slime,
schlepping aboard bissel mishuga train
while kibitizing with longfellow
ghost hosts Bartleby,
thee Herman Hermits,
and Stray Cats caterwauling
scrivener circumlocution showtime
evidences troubadour prima facie
tremendous struggle rustling rational rapport,
ruminating, citing his dismal schooltime
track record muddled, and hence
questing to cobble a rhyme
distilling, harvesting, and
leaching (out pulpy, knotty,
Max Headroom Ancien regime
filmy... gray matter) in realtime,
while strains of Ragtime echo
from late nineteenth century
tin pan alley, nsync, linkedin
cubist, dadaist, existentialist...
mine poetic melange jerry rigs
flashes random discordant phrases
kickstarting hotmail...faintly
analogous to processing quicklime
mucking with abstract alphabetic
mire ranks as playtime
forging whimsical tactical trippy thoughts,
nursing eternal idealistic Earthly peacetime,
worrying away looming mortality,
noshing post death as pastime,
welcomes input and alien abduction – ME,
mine "FAKE" existence, sans charade,
facade, masquerade onetime pantomime,
no second act allowed, nor
revising questionable tour de force
I claim NO pièce de résistance, nor overtime,
asper waning game
of thrown away Life
approaches nighttime haven
soon...forever rest in peace
surrendering requisite burnt offerings,
sans (cremated ashes) - meantime
fete grateful dead
scythe lent hoodlums on warpath
to incite bedlam
postprandial mealtime prayer final -
deathly hallowed gleeful grimace
witnessing successful electroshock therapy
of yours truly emotionally frozen
decades long comatose state
thankfully oblivious, when impending
curtain call signals finis!
A Piece of Cowboy Fun
I know that once the West was wild
This I learned when still a child
The matinee on Saturday was the best
To see the cowboys clean up the west
My favourite was the man in the mask
‘Who was that masked man?’ I hear some ask
None other than the brave ‘Lone Ranger’
Who rescued all who were in danger
With Tonto who was his very best pal
And always there was a glamorous gal
There was Roy Rogers and trigger too
Cisco and Pancho, to name a few
Hopalong Cassidy, Tarzan and Jane (oops they slipped in)
And who can forget ‘Big John Wayne’
After the flick we came charging out
Galloping our horses and mucking about
Holding up buses with pretend guns
Hounding poor dogs for cattle runs
These days of innocent fun are gone
But in my mind they still live on.
Every once a while, we should let loose and let all out...
Letting off steam, it cleanses and refreshes inside out...
But in unloading our sorrows and giving off heated steam..
We might sound overly dejected and advised to see a psychiatrist. ..
Psychiatrist sounds a bit drastic as compared to a counsellor.....
Rephrase that and assume he's a highly paid counsellor...
Of course if you shop around, he can always be a she...
And her service and advice could be well worth her costly fees...
Just to put in my 2 cents worth since we're on this topic...
Of sounding off our heavy crosses and feeling over-burdened..
Guess we're not alone for life is full of challenges however you view it.....
These are problems when you look at them from another perspective..
The secret to enjoying life to the fullest is how one balances...
Straddling the fine line that separates the jolly from the melancholy...
It is an even finer line that separates the sane from acts of insanity...
There have been so many of incidents of people acting beyond human sanity...
So to be brief, and not to sound condescending at all....
Life is all about making the right choices while mucking through it all...
Count your blessings, there have been so many, even the little ones....
They are all antidotes for each negative, strike them out one by one...
For just like the law of opposites, or physics if you must know...
There is always a reaction force when there is a force...
Likewise in life, discover the positives to offset the negative ones...
After all, life is too short to be worrisome or to suffer through it all...
Knocking on the door, can your mate come out to play?,
or is she grounded for yet another sunny day?.
Meeting up with your mates, hanging around the park,
getting up to no good, until way after dark.
Listening to music, all night party's, having a dance,
Fitti over there giving me a glance.
he was 16, i weren't a teenager yet,
oh yes my dad would hate him, you can bet on that.
Then me mum mug's me off, 'Max get down the shop'
'all this mucking around girl, it's gonna blimmin' stop!'
Shut away in my room, put on me headphones,
bit of Shalamar? maybe some Stones?.
Sharing a bedroom with 3 boys was proper manic,
everything of mine broken, me mum in a panic.
Tower block by the Thames, 2 bedroom flat,
not enough room to swing a skinny cat.
Dad was a car crusher, worked every hour god sent,
put food on the table, no money was ever lent.
mum was too proud, to sign on the dole,
working class family, full of heart and plenty of soul.
School was fun, all me mates were there,
but instead of learning, I would just sit and stare.
Dolly daydreamer by name, scatty ann by nature,
destined to be nothing but a council girl waster.
Just a little look into my life as a child growing up on a council estate in South London x
Maxine xx
What, I cannot say,
A feeling something's wonkey.
Like mucking muddy sand at the bottom of the ocean,
Beneath acrobatic, trapeze artist monkeys.
What can be said,
About the snorkeling tigers?
Or the underwater chainsaw juggler,
Breathing fire?
There's a soggy clown around somewhere,
Spitting spades and hearts, and clovers.
It's a three-ringed circus sideshow -
It too, will soon be over.