Long Akimbo Poems
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Battery (for Hyundai Sonata) Needed Today
Frugality worn by fiat generated
by alternate fickle finger of fate,
the plus side being said vehicle
parked here in public Salem's lot,
where I live with said diabolical mate
at highland manor apartments
penury run me underground in potter's
grave adversity doth unfortunately accelerate
curse to finance repairs of titled automobile,
more'n six months ago plus of late,
where saving impossible mission more
difficult than resurrecting the dead
even an atheist (like me) could activate,
thus this poet blithely doth adumbrate
posthumous renown much more likely than
mine corporel flesh (a complex conglomerate
edifice), essentially if present automotive
woe continues, one beastie boy aggregate,
oven ironic steely dan sing nature
unstoppable trooper, respectable,
and likeable rubber re: soul apostate
ascending, bridging, and
crossing unscheduled airdate
not set, whirling wide arms akimbo
webbed spirit world whose
self worth did depreciate,
this future disembodied
essence death will alleviate
he can deliberately leverage,
imagine, and envisage, I do articulate
mean, kickstartering (ill) luck knowing
postage overdue, I anticipate
outstanding debts unpaid
monies ash should urn
at grave robber's rate
within an eternity and
credit debits to eliminate
delay getting transported
into another dimension
NO colorful bedecked Apartheid
of time space, nonetheless
perhaps choosing reincarnate
entity formerly matter
of Matthew Scott Harris
doth unconsciously assimilate
painlessly whatsapp pining
for xfinity (away off into
verizon) accommodate
ting with easy equipoise no
difficulty to assimilate
linkedin with alternate
universe, where "FAKE" prelate
will presidentially usher
trumpet, shutterfly, annunciate
one successful Earthly gadfly,
donning imprimatur to communicate
with bone a fide skull fullness!
The rain---sounds like catapults fired on our roof
drops like palm kernels---splash on the back cover
of our black pots, Stamping the roof like horse
galloping on a narrow bridge. Is it war ? we ask
ourselves. And its comes along with Jealous wind
beating trees to pulps. The plantain treesare no more
standing with their toes but lying belly faced to the
ground, the palm trees in razzmatazz dance to the
calypsos Of the wind their hips fixed but their hairs
swirls
The sound of the wind
plays the tune of an invincible piper who was well
paid and skillfully trained. The African rain Is like
a tornado sent by a weird mate to greet a foe his,
competitor So as to end the play of his dancers stop
the beat of his drums and gongs. On his feasting day
as he refuses to settle the ground
We in groups
of seven, eight, nine ten---at the heart of the town,
nooks and crannies and front of our compounds
with belly flashed open unto the maker chanting
poems in unison to tell how beautiful we love it
when it pours.
With sandy coloured panties,
we dance In ecstasies to the unrhythmic beat of
the rain drops, splashing dirty waters on each
other body parts a sign to depict our new happy
days ahead whoever misses out this fun is a loser
we dance dance!! dance!! and dance the winner
the best dancer Is carry on the shoulders with
awards of applauds and joyous loud wailing
calling loud his name in repetition.
At times we catch little fishes In the frontage
of our homes as the nearby rivers, and
streams overflow into the dirty clean streets
with drainages stock by polythene nylons---
and our joyful mothers, who sing songs of
melody In their heart for a heavenly pour
to greet their water pots for a cool drink,
are seated in poetic manner l while some
stand at akimbo thinks the disasters it
might cause them their roof to cure.
Usually at nights mother goes around
Our beautiful clayed hutmaking little
amendments to our brown blistered
basket
mouthed roof and the drops it had
sneaks through. And the prayers our
hearts we pray its rains no more---lets
little ocean is our comfort.
https://youtu.be/hdZqDP0vMfk
I am slid into the core of the big white tube.
It will reveal all my moving parts
all the flagging and wheezing organics
that reside in the same apartment block,
share the same airducts and plumbing,
but otherwise hang in semidetached hutches
strung around my walled city.
My neck hurts, the cat scan takes time.
I get to thinking about cats,
how they curl up to rest
in the most unusual places. Cat’s would probably
sleep well in this softly clicking tunnel.
My head needs a pillow, arms akimbo aching.
After ten minutes of thinking in this sterile cylinder
I am an annotated movie of my life,
a surface feature for the paranoia of clinging plants.
I trawl stagnant pools for whale calls
or anything that can sing in my turgid being,
but only a headless language
floats up.
I can only listen to organs stirring; some drool,
some open small gummy gobs and gills.
Dim rheumy senses squint. Pulpy cisterns gurgle,
glands groan under a weight
only a shut-in darkness can weigh.
Transportation hubs and their arteries
continue their tireless gift-wrapped deliveries.
Muscular chemicals continue their Peloton workouts,
but the body as a whole is still wearing away
what it can’t afford to lose.
“All done,”
a disembodied voice declares.
I am conveyed outwards
on the worlds shortest rail track,
leaving parts of my mind behind to clean up stray fears -
remove the litter of mad ponderings.
Results will be days away,
until then black cats in lightless rooms
must find a way to be seen.
Some time ago, when we were free to do;
ten I was, or twelve?
I walked along a misty lane to school
the etched patterns of ferns and trees
on my window when I awoke
now echoed in the frozen grass
and early ferns
being gently crushed
by each step I took.
The sun had begun its morning due
to warm the earth,
and generate the day's miasma mist;
as did the breathing of the gathering crowd,
which hung upon the hedge
of privet, hawthorn, yew,
to rest upon a thousand spider webs
a myriad of droplets dew.
And there it was
the spider
fat and yellow;
waiting.
Not in the shadows,
as the others I had seen
but, eight legs akimbo
in the centre of it's now opaque web
taunting.
I had a cricket in a matchbox
in my pocket
A prize from yesterday's
sweet forage.
I placed the wriggling insect
upon the web and watched
the attack
the bite
the wrap.
And so I write
Maidens often tells me she love me,
But can that truly be?
One who does not to me respect show,
But always my ideas she akimbo.
I asked my duplicate,
Whether it's a thing of my fate.
"Can someone who loves you,
Show no respect to your rule?
Can one who loves you,
View you in your seriousness as fool?
Can one who bear your affection,
Often cause you variant infections.
If truly she loves; I qoute,
Then,does she always me wrong qoute?
When my abilities toss me to speak,
Then will her mockery raise to it's peak.
She'll often mock my ingenuity,
Which pierce into my versatality.
Does she really love?
Tell me,or does she want me like a whot
shove?
'Cos by all my intuity,
I can't trace the particles of love's
conformity.
Let say she disguises,
Must she take it too far to this phases?
My quest for her personality,
Is now melting down like a scorched lead.
Tell me,does she really loves me,
Or only enjoy my spirituality?
Tell me,Tell,Tell me
Tell me, Tell, Tell me
Tell me, Tell, Tell me
For i'm pressed and squeezed like a bill.
Does she feel so pompous,
That made her conceive that i wroth her
purse?
Does her beauty stir her so hardly,
That her aroma disguist my belly.
One who i bare sickness with,
One who i share illness with.
One who my heart travels to greet,
Every hour while on thought's street.
One who i persuade 'I AM' for,
Don't even care if i fall.
Should i believe them,
Or pluck my garment at its hem?
Cos my rein did wept,
And my affection forever crept.
In search of an abode,
That will be to her a Lord.
Should i say she's by jealousy toss?
Or methink her that i her friend toast*?
Tell me,Tell,Unveil to me,
For this no more a secret.
I made 'I AM' so compassionate,
To make her edified in faith.
My intestine fought with my worms,
For the course of this maiden's norms.
But here is the tragedy,
Nay,should i say Blessing?
For this maiden of which my mouth is fixed
on,
Is the bone of bone of which i'm loan.
This stamped me on the fence,
With no idea whether to stay or hence.
For yet my shout and screams,
And affection for her is still like the tree.
But here i don't know if she truly loves,
Or if she wants to give me to the fox.
Let’s go skiing ! Said my wife
It gives you such a thrill
So off we flew to Canada
To face the bitter chill
We took a bus from Calgary
To Banff’s National park
Found our hotel, went to bed
To get up with the lark
I brought a bright red jacket
My mate Stuart let me borrow
I thought at least I’ll look the part
When I hit the slopes tomorrow….
In the bright blue morning
I went to hire some skis
And boots that felt like concrete
I could hardly bend my knees
The minibus dropped us off
By a mud stained snowy drift
My wife said “ I’ll get the passes”
Just go meet me by the lift “
A group of red faced skiers
Were gathering in a throng
To sit on a revolving seat
That didn’t stop to let you on.
“I cannot get on that” I said
As I stared in disbelief
With slats of wood upon my feet
I knew I’d come to grief
“Come on Mike” my dear wife said,
You’ll be fine once you get on
So I stood as was directed
Then “whoosh” and I was gone
Hands gripped round the safety bar
As we rocked on metal ropes
Thinking “how will I get off this thing
When we reach the nursery slopes ? “
The chair in front began to slow
I heard their bar go “clunk”
They deftly skied away with ease
While I prepared to flunk
I ejected from my seat
To a ramp of icy snow
I soon was sliding on my back
With both legs akimbo.
Sailing down the green runs
My instructor in a strop
Kept telling me to slow down
But I didn’t know how to stop
I saw some awesome sights
I learnt the “pizza” wedge
I heard a muffled scream
When a friend slid of the edge
I lasted just three days
Till we skied toward lake Louise
I handed in my ski poles
When I couldn’t feel my knees
Time to sample “Apres Ski”
In my warm, hotel retreat
Dipping bread in fondue
Was much more up my street
While My wife “carved the powder”
Meandering with such skill,
I rubbed ointment on my kneecaps
And took a pain reducing pill.
I would not trade these memories
I will treasure them for life
I am not built to be a skier
But thank you my dear wife !
Gaggles of ghetto girls mollycoddle, dandle cranky babies;
some cradled on arm and hip, some hustled along
on low-rolling rides. Granma’s noodle their talk
together with headshakes, busy body elbows akimbo.
Thin men lounge outside bodega’s, soft-soap,
play imaginary guitars, flash smiles at the slack sun,
dare it to glitz elsewhere. Daughters and aunts sit
on the steep stoops bare knees out and breezing,
smoke the tarry air with dreamy eyes, pass their whispered
words around like ticking tome-bombs. Street pigeons
rubberneck and preach like pavement parakeets.
Many a backyard mechanic bends over an engine block,
imagines curvy garbs air-dancing, blown outward from
street grates - hems billowing from vents, hormones hang
as heavy as greasy clouds.
The brownstones take a knee, sweat breaks over rooftops.
A scurry of hands work the rumbling city, roads beep ways
to late shifts. Those that ply less punched-out trades
slip into hankering gaps, the alleys, all the half-way loitering’s
that flicker into sight and are electrically juiced by the scatter
and clatter of bat wings.
The town steps down into basement bars, warm cars click like clocks,
beer cools the hotheads while on a midnight stage
wild women bump and grind for the sporting crowd.
who like all devoted followers of the tinsel and neon arts
launder old dollars inside the G-strings of plump
and twerking nymphs.
The town unravels itself then knits its windows out of the dawn
to ply its daydreams shod to walk and strut once more.
Mama's Golden Pond Cried
Mama loved to chew
off the Golden Pond
bone
chew the fat
of their autumn leaves,
dressed in splendor,
a scenic lake and cabin,
her pseudo stage,
of her new found barbies,
smiling at her
smile they did
so minted the american dream,
their lives golden.
These.
These
pocketed keepsakes she kept
next to the chip
on her shoulder.
Yet her music plays
ill forgotten lore and simile
of her family and children,
scruffy unkempt dogs
she never proud,
she drummed over and over,
her catch phrase.
We watched the movie
long ago,
in her element,
in her tempo,
bated breath,
tears falling
and detached.
Yet her music plays
so content
and spawning such a fondness
in her heart,
of them rowing a boat,
aging, golden.
Yet her music plays
sadly
in her heart
of emptiness
at home
dying,
lifeless grey eyes.
Yet, so steely
her song
snow blind of her son
sitting next to her
in the darkening theater,
her wintry chill,
so indigenous,
taking life hostage.
Just my child
her teeth
chattering
to piano keys
playing,
playing in her concerto
dancing on golden pond...
such a waste her lips mimed.
Her keys.
And mine sink low.
... Just my child
she sat akimbo,
in silhouette,
tears I imagine,
and her voice
... and her voice
once icy then
now a scar,
a ghost,
... scruffy come here.
connie pachecho
6/30/17
They come in
doing that familiar shuffle
arms
legs akimbo
and eyes
never quite resting on mine
I wonder where their mind has gone
what thoughts crowd their
jagged corners of thought-
They come in
day by day for appointments
doing
better sometimes
and othertimes
they've lost the teather that held them
on solid ground
where reality wasn't shifting by sight or sound
They come in
sometimes strangers to each other
but familiar in their addictions
comfort in numbers
depleated in resources
and lonely in spirit
they move across this space and time
as ghosts who crave satisfaction
still I pray I have no judgement
of them
as I would not like a judgement of me
and hope that one day
they too shall be free.
Lay down noiselessly,
as long as you stay still
and breathe lightly, then they will ignore you.
You can smile under your eyelids,
you can pretend that they have legs
and wear business suits.
You can imagine milking the poison
out of their hollow fangs;
like sperm it will ease your mind.
In the viper pit
let the forked tongue's sense your resignation,
let the forked tongue's lick your meekness.
Let the forked tongue's wrap you up
in their sinuous dreams.
On Monday morning they will be waiting
to interrogate your presence,
Their tight shiny pants dick slick
and cocksure. Their pointing shoulder pads
puffed up like rock adders,
high hips sharp and akimbo
pencil-sharp eyes probing,
testing your capacity to still undulate.
If you are male, screw red thorns upon
your rodent parts.
The mice around your spine
are freezing,
wrap them in fox skins
you haggled for at the meat-market.
Grin with your back teeth.
If you are female,
If you have hands,
then hold them up, reveal your armpits,
cream your pheromone-laced musk
into their morning coffee.
Loll with the water-cooler moccasins,
laugh at their venomous jokes.
Feed them scraps of velvety rabbit skin
you have shaved off your inner thighs.
Wear your skirt just a little bit higher.
At the end of the work day,
if your eyes are filled with dried-up slime
remove the crud with a cattle-prod
then slither into a deep sleep.
Dream of eating the juicy white meat
of roasted pythons,
or disemboweling a writhing nest
of Anacondas
with a razor-sharp, steely forked tongue.
.