Long Alluding Poems
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Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address
no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,
thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even
on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome
ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.
Universally glueing
Black holes traversing
In neural networking
Transmitting thoughts
Swirling around galaxies
Inside the mind
Keeping time
Firing neurons
Within space and time
Birth of thoughts
Planets spinning
With moons rising
Seasons of cycling
Gravity spinning
In seeds of cohesion
Birthing galaxies
Fibers suspending
Hijacking reality
Questioning our being
Is space really freeing
Or is our timing
just alluding in recycling
the macrocosm of reflecting
Our mortality rating
Dedicated to my son Brandon. The environmental engineer.
Innovative and creative soul.
ALAN Walker Sing Me to Sleep song
every March seventeenth, the glint froom
a perverted imp finds me achin'
and if aye dig deep enough,
this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin
can figuratively unearth a puckish
(gnome like) elfish sprite
with a layer ring ga Erin
which byte size (key) ah man able troll
help pan for treasure hunters
plume bing the underworld
with his (aye farm lee bull eve
moost har male) sly grin
stirring thy faux set (head)
feigned Irish with in
new mutter nada trace,
(boot perhaps juiced an iota)
o' Brogue kin
Celtic gene found
within me genealogical tree,
an itty bitty min
newt chromosomal thread,
(which with assistance of Crispr)
i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin
point how this predominantly
(decrepit ole coot)
Semitic baby boomer tub hoot
(whale hugging
ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)
can locate long buried loot
according to legend
(plus devout avid fervent
Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root
(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected
cuz ova technical,
and/or mechanical glitch
truth to the tantalizing myth
whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,
that would make a par man rich
and put an end
to mine fingers that hoo twitch
which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)
alluding to healthy appetite,
sans tea zing alluring
(whet started as byte)
size nar invisible craving,
which fantasy easily didst excite
(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light
lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),
cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!
Form:
. for public domain
All Too Well*
Come, my Love and marry me.
A faithful man I'll be.
A family fine for all to see,
some children, you, and me.
"Oh, no." she calmly me replied,
"Your eye yet wanders wide.
Your soul is tethered as to the tide
comes and goes." she sighed.
For Love knew me all too well,
and so I took to sea.
I shook busy docks in seaside ports,
unloved, and angry me.
Wearily, I sought me home,
my back turned to the foam,
and pledged no more to wander and roam,
no more the sea to comb.
Wealth, and riches, gathered I,
a lifetime of supply,
yet never have I heard my child cry,
mourn by my Love's bedside.
* alluding to Othello, "Of one that loved not wisely but too well",
ACT V SCENE II
.for public domain
I would stop for a time to catch my breath,
on many long day's journeys onto death. *
Short winded, there was little that I could attain,
but I hopped back into the fray again.
Now here with my living nearly over,
more feeble and mostly bending over,
I pray dear lord please take these bonds from me,
let me at long last, rest easy, breathe free.
I'll not be idle, nor serve the devil's work,
my daily prayers you shall not find me shirk,
but give me a moment, let me believe
my life was worth living, before I leave.
* alluding to Eugene O'Neill's dreadful, "Long Day's Journey Into Night"
Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Even as old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being beat into pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
There is so much deception
Diluted reflections,
Alluding to perfection
But denying the resurrection,
Changing what was formed during conception,
While claiming they are an exception.
It’s only a matter of time,
Before the righteous shine
For these trials are benign
In the grand span of time.
All these tests,
Bring forth the best,
And separate us from the rest.
Some think they are so blessed
But they are goats, I must confess
They are breaches in this mess.
Selling daughters
To the Order
Draping sin
In fine linen
Making love… a financial gain
While your sons go insane
Drinking blood sacrificed to demons
Making wealth off a man’s seaman.
Idolatry clothed in the "common good"
Many have forsaken what God said they would.
Perfecting holy words to fit a style
Don’t you know God says its vial?
Fear of man rather than the one
Who can cast you to hell and heal your son.
The infinite power, love and grace
Has suddenly been altered and replaced
By doctrines of devils and smooth operators
There is only one God and the rest are all haters.
But many go along with the times,
As if time won’t stop and require a fine.
We all have a date with an eternal fate,
We all have a dance with an eternal romance.
The question is what kind of dance will you eventually partake
Will it be pearly white gates or a fire filled lake?
By: Sabina Nicole
There's no need to be jealous and ban
the freedom I Love and I will express
in every emotion, in every gesture unfolding;
there's no need to put my plans
on hold, hope is the air I'm breathing,
and somehow I'll escape from your den...
without asking for space,
or alluding to distance.
The precious freedom I love
gives me life and more;
you'll pay for your cruelty:
living alone and without me.
Don't tie a rope around my neck
and suffocate me thinking I'll obey;
you are unfair, insane, and cruel
all you want is owing me for yourself
and you hate when I talk back...
put down that bottle and say,
" I apologize for being a fool. "
Yes, you can redeem yourself!
The precious freedom I love
is a commitment I'm proud to declare with a shout;
never hold me down and think I'm completely yours;
never suppress words that conflict with mine,
I have fallen for you once, but not twice...
being treated unfairly leads to resentment and tears!
The precious freedom I love
is priceless and it's something I'm not willing to give up!
Plato says that Heaven is perfect things,
that nothing pure or good exists on earth.
We leave the Ideal World when, at our birth,
like ants who've briefly flown, we shed our wings.
All infants cry, in Shakespeare's view, when first
they leave the womb, to find this Vale of Tears
is what they must inhabit four score years,
dreading hardships into which they've burst.
Our human life, so Seneca would say,
is prone to failure, suffering and pain.
The only shreds of solace that remain
are stoic calm, acceptance of decay.
They're wrong, of course, to tend towards this view:
but then, my Perfect Girl, they didn't know you.
Perception is alluding or even amply deceptive,
people may seem very strange and so delusive
in the interaction with sophisticated society:
where the norm is to display intellectuality
in the way they dress, the way they speak;
God help them when personal secrets leak,
will they expose their unflinching character?
I suggest all remain true to their valued ideals,
and despite the possible derision from peers
not brought up with a strict criteria of morals,
it won't make anyone feel less than an individual:
who has made an effort to stand out from all?
Figure out who'll be enraged and criticized!
Consider the fragility of spirit not reassured by self-worth,
but firmly strengthened by strong temptation and want;
the accumulation of riches without the value they impart,
pile up mountains of it only to show their immense wealth!
One of the richest men that ever existed pondered upon this,
hoping that his chosen heirs would be shrewd and not squander it
for some wits, but managed it wisely remembering his many sacrifices:
would they honor it with the certainty, not with the fear it wouldn't last?