Long Amateurish Poems
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On a sage green wall that once wore a blank look,
it dangles helplessly, without a complaint.
It is slightly askew, with a tilt to the left,
giving the viewer a crick of the neck
Hanging precariously, for an eager assessment
without much annoyance, or an "either" or an "or"
Just a "take me or leave me"
with a bolder assumption
that someone will like it, no fear of rejection.
No hesitation came from the hands
that restlessly hung it, with eagerly haste.
He hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and ardently placed it for eyes to embrace
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped garden
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
Now it is old.........dust to dust......ash to ash
he takes with him the pride he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
____________________________________________________
The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.
He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.
It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption
Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there, with pure ardent fervor
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
The amber was gold, the umber was bold,
rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash
With him he took all the pride that he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
___________________________________
For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life R.I.P.
4/16/14 Revised for Anthony's Contest
for your love i would do any thing
for anything you ask is possible
anything you want, it is my desire
that you have it
even the stars are not asking too much
because i can whisper words to make you
know there already yours
the sun on a cloudy day is what you'd feel
from the warmth of my arms around you
the full moon on a dark night is what you'd
see when you think of where my love is;
always over you
the ocean with waves that say: more love,
more love, more love, more love with infinite power
that covers the shore ever more, ever more
the mountains that reach the sky
and valleys that make the floor
the trees that give us air
and flowers that we love
i would do anything for you love
any thing you ask is possible
for you to have everything you want is my desire
any thing you want (is possible)
some what amateurish but a good start in the early 90's
I relish being hungry for popslop grub...
(on second thought lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protruding taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized with heart that goes lub dub).
She painstakingly lovingly doth strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this snowy December seventeenth
two thousand twenty
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.
Think of the missus not afraid
to experiment buzzfeeding me
questionable resultant glop pantomimed
for my guessing pleasure
never in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,
an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.
Thus, methinks himself wise
to don cooking apron
please do not ask why
trumpeting self as master chef boyardee
so move over wife and allow husband to try
his hand (using skill - let) me prepare Thai
and/or other Asian cuisine dish,
cuz when free to potschke
(To fuss or "mess around"
inefficiently and inexpertly), I haint shy
to blend (indiscriminately) ingredients
ofttimes yours truly barley able to ply
boiling water since significant other
does not give this garden variety
and generic, gimlet eyed
gourmandizing guilt free
Earth friendly gumption goaded guy.
Every so often yours truly
gets so hungry, he could
(not neigh sayimself) eat a horse
(yours truly jest kidding hoof course)
truth be told, I only eat one meal per day
all day from son up to son down, me a force
tubby reckoned with,
who if he gives way to vice
event chew wooly experiences remorse.
Hum glad to share mine reasonably rhyming hook
twenty six letters linkedin amidst
various combinations, formations, permutations,...
allows, enables, and provides a look
into the mindscape of Matthew Scott Harris
doth show himself with steely dangling
nonsense with sense and sensibility he forsook.
You are in your blue period -
turquoise swimsuit, buoyant in azure.
Behind your shoulder,
Brighton West Pier,
A snap taken at an amateurish angle,
you’re diving sideways into the waves,
the gaily painted structure
tumbling after you.
A day later, the pier burnt down.
Charred wooden bones,
black skeletal pilings stumped naked.
Vaudeville, lyceum, taproom, and arcade
once rocked beneath bunting and banners
now only wrecked rafters,
broken fingers grasping still at yesterday.
A hint of flames behind your image,
an esplanade crumbling
scorched waves.
It's the blue that saves you –
Your wide open blue eyes
your goofy blue bathing cap.
The photo is blistering,
it was a close thing,
nobody yelled fire when I took it.
~~~~~
The pier closed to the public in 1975 and fell into disrepair for decades,
However, on the 5th of February 2003 the historic U.K. Pier
was engulfed in flames.
Tiny little hole in the wall
Their real business putting on plays
But wee mini art exhibit
Open to the public
During the day
How I loved to slip away
At lunch time
Just a five-minute walk
Entering their park was so peaceful
For the workaholic in me
A most self-pampering outing
A rare delectable treat
A church-like silence greeted me
Quiet yet ever so intense
And there they were
Art pieces clamoring for attention
Craving for any bit of admiration
Sometimes the works were amateurish and disappointing
But for the few times they were awe inspiring
It was magnificently grand
Either way always worth the outing
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
~Running the Gauntlet ~
Simplistic in its structure…
Nearly amateurish…
Unpolished attempt…
Superficial…
Facile…
Without subtlety…
Nonsensical…
Journalistic attempt at prose…
Lack of complexity…
Unimaginative…
The underlying message is vacuous…
Unsophisticated…
Puerile attempt…
Your submission is not appropriate at this time…
Not for us…
Not the right fit…
Not quite right for this publication…
We invite you to submit more…
Do you have any other work we could consider…
Your style is unique…
Our interest is piqued, however…
Enjoyed your work and would like to move forward…
Please submit the first fifty pages…
Thank you for your work we will be publishing…
When caught mid-flight
End to bloat against gravity
Thanks, rejection is not of the earth
My eyes are welling
I won’t hold back with shame
Even warriors often times loosen, weeping
A good mother’s breast thrust
Not in for the oldest trade
Gives the child, from infant, the best trust
The sexton is a pagan
Lushness of the hashish field
Makes his story from Canaan
Morals pillar nobility
But nature spares by –
Insofar as the choice is moderacy
Over me they seek to keep
They can shape me, me too a shaper
Just that I start a peep
A quest to solve the world
Challenged to fix my head
Get me defined – no word
Launch talks for luck
One screen sets parts
Grace, lone-stands, earns buck
Formless strife made me worry
An envoy made as of succubus
Made me awoke being sorry
He who sounded the gong
Has done it wrong
And rhythm’s lost in our song
The earth, about the Sun, rotates
Science, my house remains on its plot
Lies make the pupils dilate
Africa! Here some questions
Khartoum, Mogadishu, Malaria, HIV, Genocides . . . ?
Orients through Occident find me solutions
Muses – a kind that’s potent
Might make me hit the laureate’s podium
And be free of amateurish latent!
Even though she never went to college, she watches Jeopardy each night and gets all the
answers right.
Even though she never had the need for a passport, she can talk about foreign cities as if
she grew up there as a young girl.
Even though she bore seven children into this world, she never lost her form and figure.
Even though she reads practically every book on the New York Times Best Sellers List, she
still finds time to read my amateurish drivel and brags about how much she likes them.
Even though she was raised in a strict Catholic environment, she easily and lovingly
accepted my brother’s announcement, and somehow convinced my ex-Marine father to do
the same, when he came out of the closet.
Even though she knew nothing about what was happening on the mat, she attended all my
high school wrestling matches and hers was the only voice I could hear, much to my coach’s
chagrin, amongst all the shouting and cheers.
Even though she had never worked a day in her life, she got a job as an accountant at fifty
years of age when my father was laid up for a while. The owners of the company loved her
so much they did not want her to go once my father was back on his feet again.
Even though she says her mother never made her do a domestic chore when she was
growing up, she maintains an impeccably clean home and is the most wondrous of cooks.
Even though she took care of seven kids all week while my father worked all day, she
always let him play golf on Saturdays or lounge around on the couch should the weather not
cooperate.
Even though she now has twelve grandchildren, she treats each one as being special and
displays a knowledgeable interest in the unique skills each one possesses.
Even though she turns eighty in one month, she has not heard this son tell her he loves her
enough…
Mom, I love you very much. Thank you for being you.
Entry in the Mother contest.
Counsellor
He was an independent therapist
for people who thought they were drinking too much.
His first question was: why do you drink so copious?
The answers were varied; he asked them to address
their problems, and desist from alcohol for six months,
Sometimes it did the trick.
Those who could not see he sent to A.A.
He had experience from working at a private clinic
where the religious aspect played a vital role.
The expert rejected his system, lost his licence
to practise his amateurish an uneducated views.
He has met people who thanked him for finding
they were not alcoholics and by those he had
directed to A. A.