Long Acres Poems
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Pleasant spring like day January 12th, 2020
Courtesy climate change
(think global warming),
I would never wish to exchange
unseasonable temperature
way out of range
far to balmy, undoubtedly
ole man winter
weather did shortchange.
Once thermometer readings rise
even smidgen one moost not minimize
Earth way out of balance,
I haint gonna catastrophize
as bajillion acres plus
one after another ocean dries
even the skeptic cannot turn
blind eye and believe contrary lies
when every species practically extinct
and self proclaimed éminence grise
doth trumpet and stubbornly tries
to claim plethora unearthed resources
as sudden goldmine
against wages of sin
former traitor joe redeemers actualize
to catalyze nth industrial revolution
teaching as heresy
ecocentric, which material basket
of deplorables power mongers bowdlerize
Concurrence toward meteorological
trend most all people agree
toward adapting, experiencing,
and witnessing increase -
fair in height degree
bestowed upon Thomas Newcomen,
Richard Arkwright, Samuel Crompton,
Edmund Cartwright
and James Watt first Industrial
Revolution conferred as honoree
appellation not necessarily
in retrospect donned as noble pedigree,
now hundred of years
later downside we see
of belching, coughing,
disorging... yes siree
foul, (née deadly)
cancerous, gaseous, noxious... pollutants.
Decreased dissension
grudgingly did abate
unclouded protests trumpet
Trump to abdicate
irrefutable proof generates
activist voices to accumulate
linkedin over Green Party
blessedly to administrate
hoop fully figurative tide
will turn and aerate
political atmosphere whereby
progressive minds will affiliate
otherwise business as usual,
cuz spewing deadly particulate
will only aggravate
dire straits, where series
of unfortunate events will airdate
prophetic apocalyptic fate
especially if nonprogressive
stodgy commander in chief re-elected
flush with bigotry and hate
increased chance (chants) ripe state
for revolution avast swath
of population to amalgamate,
and overthrow anachronistic government
absolute zero survival unless dramatic
nondestructive strategy eschewed
to supplant exploitation and mandate
radical transformation, which dramatic
shift off grid if lucky requisite
Earth friendly manufacturing
can possibly ameliorate.
What formerly got celebrated as adventitious age of exploration...
1492 unleashed, jump/
kick started, and downloaded
a bittorrent götterdämmerung
spelling genocide of indigenous peoples
occupying Turtle Island,
now surviving tribes
just a shell of their former grandeur.
At present Columbus day
linkedin with high dudgeon
courtesy scattered remnants
of once proud nations
occupying contiguous United States
plus calling Alaska and Hawaii
their happy hunting grounds,
enshrine actual or mythologized
spectacular pièce de résistance
instances when counting coup.
I recollect needing to know
scores of years ago
when a student attending grade schools
within Lower Providence District
as an important bit of information
contributing to (white washed) history
of western civilization
(and never forgot)
recalling the names Nina, Pinta,
and Santa Maria associated
with heroic measures undertaken
by Cristóbal Colón,
(but also been referred to,
by himself and others, as Christoual,
Christovam, Christofferus de Colombo,
and even Xpoual de Colón)
five hundred and thirty years ago,
who purportedly "discovered"
the Americas, when in
fact native occupants of the land
already dwelled upon
the then island paradises.
He/him and subsequent swashbuckling
gung-ho high spirited men
set sail across expanse of ocean(s)
exhibiting eager intent to claim
untrammeled storied quintessentially
opulently magnificent kingdoms
intoxicating greedy Europeans.
Blatant exploitation inexorably nudged
courtesy trickery vis a vis hook and crook
to grab good & plenty treats
forcibly wrested by violence
sabotaging the delicate webbed wide world
constituting millenniums of heavenly bliss,
where marauders wantonly ransacked
indeed lacking absolute zero selflessness
forcing diverse autochthonous nations
to acquiesce and surrender
ancestral grounds to aggressive, coercive
and offensive Europeans hell bent
to populate occupied territory
commandeering, humiliating, manhandling,
poisoning, subdividing, triangulating
every square inch
encompassing fruitful grand home
of rightful heirs to stolen
near boundless tracts
eventually hashtagging uncharted
pristine green acres
spanning from sea to shining sea
becoming commercial real estate
falsely claiming a haven
housing home of the free
land of the brave.
I’ve often mentioned Hilly in the poems that I have written,
and I’ve often said that Hilly with a brewer’s surely smitten,
so you’re libel now to see him in the state that I call ‘blotto’
but today he can afford it because he recently won lotto.
But Hilly’s really not that stupid that he wasted all on beer.
He bought himself some acres in the bush where at the rear,
Hilly dug a gaping hole to make some recreation space,
meant to be a quiet retreat with nature all around the place.
Hilly told me looking over water seems to calm more than the land,
especially sitting in a deck chair with a beer stuck in your hand.
But of course this time is wasted so to get an extra prod,
you have to add another interest, and that becomes a fishing rod.
We planted gums out in the paddock, and on the bank some creepers grew.
Filled up the hole with water and then we built a cabin too.
Then from the Bunyip and the Rysons little blackfish bless their soul,
were travelling in esky’s and ending up in Hilly’s water hole.
We’d often go there camping and improve the dam surround,
by making sure the under-story’s not a snake infested ground.
And at times we’d throw the rods in just to see the fish progress,
but we’re catching carp and eels of which we couldn’t care a less.
How they ever got into the dam became a mystery to us pair.
Perhaps someone playing tricks had put the flamin’ carp in there.
And then one summer evening there’s a hint we may be right,
for we heard some human voices who were shouting with delight.
Hilly first walked on the bank and I followed him soon after,
but the sight of us had soon destroyed the gleeful happy laughter,
for six young women in the dam, who some might say are rude;
with their clothes up on the bank and them swimming in the nude.
Of course the show that they put on didn’t last for very long.
They were screaming out “You perverts!” But we’d done nothing wrong.
So we stood and watched them panic where it’s not hard to believe
them saying ‘they’ll stay in the water ‘til the pair of us did leave’.
I sort of felt embarrassed with their company at the dam,
where Hilly took advantage of the ladies in their naked jam.
He said “You can swim there all day long” then gave his cheeky smile,
“You see the only reason we are here - is to feed the crocodile!”
Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
Form:
Through the hills within the woods of a mountain's slithering slopes,
A road winds its way, on which rides a car driven by a misanthrope.
Plucking from his pocket a pack of poison sticks with one hand,
To suck the smoke from a cigarette labeled with his favorite brand.
From the ashes of the cindered cylinder arises an airy sensation,
Which swirls within his head as his body suffers from oxidation.
After deciding with an apathetic puff that he'd had enough tobacco,
He flicked the cigarette through the open window with an apathetic throw.
As he drove he thought of the days to come and of his job and friends he'll see,
With the wind in his hair he happily traveled from nine at night to the morning's three.
He arrived to his destination: his parent's home for a weekend sojourn,
And in his childhood bed he drifted to sleep and awoke at eleven in the morn'.
Laughs with loved ones and home-cooked feasts had continued to unravel,
During this weekend which he ended with yet another nighttime travel.
From the suburbs of the foothills he ascended through to mountain roads,
With popping ears he picked with pinkies, producing several waxy loads.
Onward through the familiar roads which swerve along the curves of rivers,
Which pour from bleeding basins which, to below, their water is delivered.
Then, as the sun had settled its golden hue upon the wrinkles of the wooded thick,
Darkness spilled atop the forest's feathers to slather its leaves like an oil slick.
A sudden cessation of the leaves' silhouettes had slipped the sight of the distracted man,
Who, while he drove, had been lost in thought of the snacks he'd make in a frying pan.
Then, as the darkness had settled its cimmerian hue upon the naked wooded thick,
Flames spilled atop the forest's feathers which slathered its leaves like a lit oil slick.
Firetrucks battled the fire as the man stopped his car so he could walk,
Towards a volunteer fireman who stood before him to warn of the roadblock.
The man asked the firefighter what had caused the scorching of the trees,
Acres of woods burnt in smoking condensation which made the man begin to wheeze.
The firefighter responded to the man who began to trickle with sweat:
"We believe the fire was started by someone's casually flicked cigarette."
...Oliver had saved up the cash
to buy into his employer’s franchise,
bought his own store, aggressively courted
every rancher in the countryside.
Soon enough the cash flow was well in the black,
so Oliver and the bartender wed,
bought their own house and were soon expecting,
he cared nothing for what the people said.
Jack, still drinking, played the Hollywood scene,
was a fixture of the wild nightlife,
soon he was in the tabloids again
when he knocked up a girl he knew one night.
He managed to keep working in film,
supporting roles were the best he could get,
with alimony and child support
he found himself slipping into the red.
When he crashed his car into his front door
he was quickly shuffled off to rehab,
in what would be the first trip of many,
the addiction had a grip on him bad.
But still he managed to get some work,
and when folks saw his face on the air,
they’d look at Oliver, mumbling how,
“That brother never went anywhere.”
Now Hollywood is a hot-bed of rumors,
and a disturbing percentage are true,
soon tales spread of Jack’s early acting days,
and all the things a new actor has to do.
Rumors of giving favors to producers,
insinuations of oral sex,
some said that was why her drank so damn much,
and why relationships left him vexed.
Whatever the case, on the internet,
the rumors became an ongoing meme,
his reputation thrown in the toilet
by GIFs and infographics obscene.
Oliver, back in fair Nebraska,
really had no reason to complain,
he had three kids and sold big equipment
to half the ranchers on the Sand Hills range.
Nobody was making memes out of him,
no reporters were snooping through his trash,
tabloids were not undermining his marriage,
and he was making more than enough cash.
He had six stores and a seventh coming,
and a hundred acres tied to his home,
a life or both family and friends sincere,
the general public did leave him alone.
The only thing that could worry Oliver
was what would happen to his brother Jack?
How many stars had walked down that same road,
and how many of them had never come back?
Though Jack’s state would weight hard on his mind,
and hear feared to see him drowning in despair,
Oliver couldn’t help but laugh at the folk
who thought it was he who was going nowhere.
Memory houses soul asylum vestige...
where complex edifice once anchoring
venerated Glen Elm demesne once stood,
now nothing except vinyl city!
I recall breathtaking, expansive, incredible
numerous, tremblingly awe inspiring views
billion miles (slight exaggeration) heavenly
sights comfortably ensconced, while perched
high atop sadly long since demolished complex
edifice anchoring Glen Elm demesne – summer
mansion property captain Leiper (circa early
nineteen hundreds) more'n century ago once
encompassing hundred plus acres whittled to
approximately 2.42811 hectares upon purchase
February twenty eighth ninety sixty eight by
papa Boyce Brandon Harris, insync with help
courtesy paternal grandpa Aaron Harris, the
former who invested blood, sweat and tears,
when not yoked, tethered, obligated... to
incumbent duties consonant with assignments
linkedin, when gainfully employed as top notch
mechanical engineer at General Electric, he
slaved away gentrifying neglected fixer upper
(matter of fact single handedly reshingled roof)
that same exterior hideaway offering solace
against imprecation, ostracization, ultimatum...
damnation, humiliation, laceration, (albeit verbal
lashing against yours truly), when exhibiting no
motivation to work (courtesy thank debilitating,
immobilizing, paralyzing anxiety/panic attacks),
now though still plagued with same understood
as congenital (possibly in utero) malady, yes an
abominable, execrable, implacable..., nemesis
which unpleasant memories haunt me even to
this day, whereby nothing but utter failure cast
dark shadows analogous to edge of night oft
times accompanied with suicidal ideations,
whereat damned, continually bereft, abysmal
bereft legacy testimony marginally functioning
as the token "scapegoat" throughout twelve
torturous years yielding absolute zero aptitude
unable to comprehend, (I strongly suspect die
hug noses along high functioning autistic
spectrum - case in point youngest of two sweet
progeny (both daughters) afflicted with yepper
aforementioned cognitive learning disability,
she benefited social services since birth, and
can attest to much more positive academic,
and socialization endeavors well on her way
living clear and free empowered at twenty
orbitz round the earth.
This story begins with Julio Jones,
a logger who worked trees in the Cascades,
never married or had a family,
he was a loner, that just was his way.
Now he was no hermit, by any means,
he would show up at the town festivals,
volunteer his time so they ran smoothly,
he always seemed to enjoy them in full.
But the man mostly would keep to himself,
and was most comfortable out in the woods,
he’d been felling trees for twenty-five years,
all the industry knew that he was good.
One year the National Forest Service
gave him a contract to fell some old trees,
once done another company would come
and haul the trunks away for industry.
It was fifty acres way back in the hills,
accessed by a half-forgotten dirt road,
ten miles away from any building,
in solitude to this site he would go.
No an old pro like our Julio
knew exactly how to make the trees fall
so it would be easy to load them up
when the truck came the gather them all.
One day while cutting, about a week in,
he was felling trees by the lease’s edge,
when his chainsaw touched up on a big cedar
he heard a growl from a nearby hedge.
Next a brown head poked out of the bush,
Julio was so stunned he could just watch
as a seven-foot figure straightened up,
he was staring at a God-damned sasquatch!
He retreated back from the big tree trunk
and the warning growl quickly ceased,
when he tried again the growl returned,
Julio quickly figured out the beast.
It was just defending its territory,
letting him know when he had pushed too far,
so he retreated back to another
and put this new tree-trunk to his bar.
The bigfoot cared not when he cut trees there,
in fact it watched from a boulder in shade,
it looked on as if it were curious
as Julio went about his day.
And when he returned the very next morn,
he spotted the big creature once more,
along with a juvenile bigfoot,
they watched big trees plunge to the forest floor.
Now Julio remembered seeing once
a gorilla that head learned A.S.L.,
f that ape could do it, why not bigfoot?
What type of stories would this cryptid tell?
Julio knew how to make the signs,
his only brother had been deaf since birth,
he had an idea and bought some apples,
then brought them next day when he went to work...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Each holy man there is, is convinced he's better than the next,
as his right hand tightly clasps prayer beads, whilst he judges others with his left.
Piety the reason that he wakes up every day,
just to forget that only God can judge, even if someone is gay.
Whether devoted to the gospel or in submission to the Muslim holy book,
many of these zealots cannot be told apart from crooks.
Their lies are so often inspired by an agenda that remains hidden
amongst claims they will be forgiven for each slip, no matter how forbidden.
Living in the future, they are consumed with the afterlife,
but it is so convenient to forget the rules every time they take another wife.
These hypocrites misinterpret ancient words however they see fit,
when the truth holds no advantage from which they could somehow profit.
Wars have been fought over less than a few acres of land,
both sides convinced the blood was spilled as part of their God's plan.
Self-righteousness surrounds us, humanity has ceased to exist,
replaced by laws made by hateful pastors and religious nuts like Kim Davis or ISIS.
Who can say that religion has done less harm than good,
when it can be held responsible for divided neighbourhoods?
When practiced with humility, it can be a beautiful thing;
praised for the prosperity it brings, and turned to for guidance in times of suffering.
But more often than not, Ten Commandments are ignored whenever we commit seven deadly sins,
we are so conscious of all our imperfections but ignorant of our blessings.
False prophets preaching in the streets take advantage of our desperation for something to believe in;
the confidence with which they spread their ignorance is rarely seen as deceiving.
Mankind will only survive this state of emergency if we unlearn all that we know,
once we accept that religion hinders us more than it helps us grow.
There is nothing wrong with having a little faith,
if it inspires love and does not advocate messages filled with hate.
God has no religion. There is no more need for these unholy wars,
let us not be so insecure that any offense is one worth fighting for.
Muslim, Christian, Hindu, or Jew; there will always be power in numbers,
lest we forget that before our dogma divided us, we lived together as sisters and brothers.
Imagine Earth itself to be just another Troy, from which, after having raged
In countless battles from Tyre to Megiddo has not been conquered, only aged
And now, having defeated the Spartan race, destroying Priam’s home
Odysseus is captain of a spacecraft with the direction of Ithaca not known
On land to land, world to world, asteroid to comet, sun to galaxy he will wander lost
With endless delay, look askance-or with wanderlust-be unable to define a host
Of angels, like the first home, who—with celestial sound—closed God on a throne
Only future starmen will proceed without God's advantage, in empty space all alone
The victory of God against Satan, here, unproclaimed with all men lost, in between
The endless battles of lucifer and the deity; heaven's splinter to the devil's spleen
The past ages of travail, a mere testing ground of efficacy, the master's saving grace
With the bulk of humanity, like chaff of wheat, having been sifted, as if only a race
Mankind, having run as a race, a race, quite long, the original cause forgotten
How corruption had entered, how the fall began, when Eve traipsed the garden
Yet the race of man; his nature, his spoke, his mind, like a wheel intermingled
Along with the path of the gods--their flight, their call--the Seth of Eve first jingled
How could he not but cry out, from crib, in inter-mixed and complex strain
Since so saith Adam's wife, doting upon her first real child aptly named
Appointed to replace her prior kind, one stricken and one banished
Shepherd Abel first, died, from blight of Cain, latter, whose soul famished
If not his body, since fed with fruit and till of the land, in parched curse
His work distilled into nonsense, and measure as much less in worth
Then the gentle, strange and loving work of the Shepherd's hand
From Shepherd to shepherd, the Maker gave not to Abel land
Since he roamed from brook to brook, or down into gentle meadow
With his staff in hand, and flock afoot, only the caves like ghettos
Learning manly ways and singing with chest open and bare
Under open sky, canopy misting light, and all of life seeming fair
The Lord, himself, culling Abel's rapport and favour, giving him trust
Rather than partition acres, cubits or parcels of land, if only just just