Long Approximate Poems
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Most everything written
(and learned ya in school)
Yukon coon sitter, (and bet
your bottom dollar) tibia bunch
of contrived information
all details bu...bu...bull...low knee
within this poetic missive
after spending a lifetime crunch
ching numbers, the following
singularly just my hunch,
but despite minuscule
approximate i.e. kid size lunch
meal, (sans two clenched fists,
and weighing about 1.5 kilograms),
not much to munch,
yet if smacked in the kisser
by a pugilist visited
square in the jaw deadly (Judy hush
hiss) sucker punch
whereby the unlucky
recipient may see "unlucky stars"
after brows severely scrunched,
thee above poppycock, and potentially
"FAKE" though (Ripley deed lee)
believe able to ye,
nonetheless behooves me
to segue-way (by Segway) to pre
sent a "TRUE" revelation see
(gnome hatter, aye
cheese silly contradict
mice elf alias Stuart Little) prithee
please just accept what I write
with a grain of salt
(from the Sultan Sea),
cuz yawl do yarself grave
injury and lodge a gree
vance against this harmless
right ham handed cree
chore from the outer limits
of the twilight zone, thus
I STRONGLY ADVISE thee,
NOT to stake eh knee
un mensch chin hubble cogitation,
and figuratively swallow,
hook, conga line
and sinker thine highly suspect re
dunk yule us gobbledygook mee
cully (meekly) reed this
more so asthma
childish entertainment, hence oak key
jist put aside any urgent task
to revel as sigh bee
devil logical syntax
with sum man tricks
playfully wasting yar
precious time free
cully (freakily) inventing outlandish nee
incoherent yawping, towering,
and brutally butchering,
Brooklyn speak (homer over
mayor later mother), she
nearly always... er added
letters "er" at'er the ender
her sentences - er stain?
Waking up, I'm shaken by an awful thought:
it's not a sunny February morning,
but heartwarming wishes on Facebook
alleviate the anxiety of a gloomy feeling
to enliven the mood and be immensely grateful
to God and do what is worth living for, but
is the state of being old that word so painful?
Should aging looks be an embarrassment...
comparing me to a frail Captain Hook
who sailed in rough seas without fright!
People I run into stare at me strangely and guess
my approximate age by the fine line and wrinkles,
but they don't see how young and virile I am inside;
if perfection and handsomeness are the advantages
of the younger men to pursue women and attract,
what are the disadvantages of the older ones?
Is the perception of an enfeebled body a horror to hide,
or an accomplished milestone to make an impact?
Wily wordsmith wields wisdom and wit
renders requiem welcoming thee to visit,
no matter foisting poetic riffraff (mine)
necessitates applying figurative tourniquet
to staunch potential
life threatening hemorrhage
oozing out fifty shades of
your gray cerebral moon unit,
thus best be extremely cautious
heed warning to preserve
self interest and quit
while ahead, i.e. stop reading
now lest noggin contents
rendered into pureed blivit
causing irrevocable damage,
now just for fun grab
amusement park ride ticket,
and picture yourself
in a boat on a river
squarely bobbing along...
within skeletal ricket
tee skiff analogous to
time warped white picket
fence forever lost and seasick
out of desperation imploring malefic
powers that be while moored thick
within (think) Scylla and Charybdis
not caring a lick
despite super tramping cheap trick
worse fate than death,
where metaphorical flick
finds one human flotsam and jetsam (ye)
violently sucked into realm wick
head witch, which
in toto along metaphorical yellow brick
road nsync cues soundcloud
faintly reminiscent of Herman's hermit
mid nineteen sixties approximate
time Beatles made mop top headlines
both bands selling
one after another smash hit,
where half crazed lasses frenziedly
screamed and threw maniacal fit
activating advent of groupies
they made nun sense sickle habit
to shadow many rock and roll band
initially majority identifying as Brit
nowadays global musical hodgepodge
synthesized linkedin with fitbit.
Consider this:"An average American English speaker engaged in a friendly conversation speaks at a rate of approximately 110–150 wpm. The following are approximations of conversations between my friend and me (Feel free to check the math): A minimum of 1200 Sundays in 25 years x 20%= 240 Sundays(Approximate # of Sundays we actually spoke to each other x 3 minutes=720(# of minutes we spoke to each other) x 150(average words spoken per minute)=108,000 words spoken= A good size book. Who knew?
My friend passed on a couple of weeks ago. Geopolitics, sports, and weather were among subjects that we clearly talked about for some twenty-five years. When you add it all up, I'd say that our years of 'broken up small talk' marooned into big talk. Call it small talk, casual light talk, or chit-chat if you will, but when I took a closer look at my particular case, I discovered more than trivial chatter.
I call him a friend not because we did things together like going to a game or playing golf, visiting each others' home for dinner, or walking in the park. I recall only one short conversation that we had over the telephone. I know, for many, that does not qualify as friendship, but I beg to differ.
When I received word that he was dying and only a miracle would spare him from a soon coming demise, not only was I emotionally moved, but I was deeply motivated to hasten to his bedside in his last hours. O yes, small talk, chit chat, or trivial chatter. Call it what you will. I say, he was my friend.
07162018cjPS(Inspired by the life of Pat Cary)
Circa February 28th, 1968 - The Former Leiper Estate
Soon after our family settled
into the sprawling estate
named "Glen Elm" approximate
half century old from date
mentioned in title, said treasure
rosy Gypsy foretold fate
Harriet Harris, (daughter
of Antebellum Rebecca great
Kuritsky - Brooklyn transplanted
Southern Belle), create
head "FAKE" story, whereby
former did absquatulate
with jack of all trades (Boyce
Brandon Harris) too late
above named ramshackle
mansion, they remained mate
to each other til death did
thee mum part, congratulate
sans, her high school chums
felt envious - girls did rate
papa (now octogenarian widower)
most handsome (master) bait,
whose smarts earning advanced
degree applying his pate
as mechanical engineer for
General Electric did satiate
penchant solving complex
mathematical equations tete
a tete for super intelligent
entrepreneurial fella alleviate
head real passion rehabilitating
derelict property, allocate
ting leisure time resuscitating
neglected homes ameliorate
head procreative itch practically
rebuilding this did animate
dad's profuse true calling
spending hours fame did anticipate
(though papa quite modest,
and other people gushed appreciate
ting self taught revitalizing
unseen hidden gem and to articulate
unique artistic flair himself
as taskmaster masterpieces intimate
ting creations nobody, but
himself could imagine brilliance pate
drew forth unbelievable
enhancements doppelganger did berate
rarely could family, friends,
strangers...do more than capitulate
with ceaseless praise always
adding final touches to captivate
most flattering aura, charisma,
karma (credit) perfectly calibrate
head aesthetic qualities even
shabbiest building communicate
ting magic touch of, who plied
blood, sweat and tears culminate
ting in unbelievable transformation
particularly, how to designate
ideal amount of appeal to abode
came to screeching halt dissipate
head after mum passed, and papa's
raw talent earned thru educate
ting himself, no amount of inborn
inherent blueprints did illustrate
native bent, BUT no new life could
resurrect demise of his queen soulmate!
Paying forward kindnesses done...
courtesy family, friend or stranger
Appreciative when nonagenarian
papa telepathically hears me yelp
and/or non twisted sisters,
who time and again offered
unsolicited beneficial help.
Indeed unable to reciprocate
that's not quite all he wrote
when kith/kin allotted this ole goat
specie, paper money, and bank note
I experienced collateral
fallout unable to float
mine vessel, nor without
ability to emote,
thus underwent "non Fake,"
agony, I don't sugar coat
albeit analogy to sinking boat
(think Lusitania), thus
this scrivener doth gloat,
whenever he proffers
random act of kindness,
yet never can match,
nor approximate sum total denote
ting cumulative countless
dire straits immediate family
came to rescue one lame
(damn silly word wizard),
whose destiny when graphed
resembles infinitely jesting asymptote
approaching, but never
reaching financial solvency.
Hence yours truly doth attend
impossible mission to contend
despite contrary rumors,
he doth really wish to extend
to assist family member friend
Romans, countrymen, yes to lend,
(or lease) helping hand to mend
ever widening gap,
when charity bestowed
payback doth equal
obligated (boot unable) to spend
small fortune in order to secure
necessary Brownie points
approximating largesse describing
series of fortunate events that didst trend
all throughout mein kampf thee end!
Ha... ha... tricked you dear reader
yea me annoying
as mosquito buzz feeder
of Fake news, who
unfortunately happens tubby,
our crudely inept, mishuga,
and vulgar leader,
he doth trumpet disinformation
fast as rabbit breeder.
Whenever ripe opportunity doth arise
to avail - even toward
someone I might despise,
whether gendered person(s)
gals and/or guise
self satisfaction awakes to realize
to give unconditionally and tries
affecting humanity positively
free effort plus also wise.
an early mourning stroll, and hours spent passing through as many neighbourhoods,
and sometimes you sob so
violently that you cannot contain
noises breaking past your lips, sounds
usually repressed. sometimes you can only
sob while pacing the streets, and sometimes you
must spend hours shaking, shaking, pacing the streets.
step after step. you roll your shoulders, gasp;
i think of making you a playlist. i think about the order of the
songs so i can communicate to you my witness. oh,
how precious you are. my Love, we sit on secrets. there is more
to say, that which surpasses language. perhaps, music could help
approximate; and Dearest, i digress.
not a playlist. a poem instead,
gracelessly splattering ink
in an attempt at abstraction,
to bring another viewpoint of Love into focus.
just for you.
the house gardens contain miracles.
wrong pillow. neck knot. ache.
Looking into a crystal clear river, itching to bathe my feet
Water’s look shallow, I’m buried in thought gone obsolete
The trickling liquid beckons me over, promising of a cure
My reality is a long time stolen, faltering into life obscure
Torn between instinct and choice, ambivalence devouring
I make a compromise to dip one toe, not too overpowering
Testing water proves difficult, distracted by gaps and voids
Cursing and blabbering alone, answering myself annoyed
Anticipation is conflagration, expectation being unknown
Dementia doesn’t have a reservation, comes with life alone
One thing leads to another, I’ve wandered out of their cage
This river’s measured now, my toe the approximate gauge
Looking again find I’m knee deep, as memory starts to fade
Pushing out further still, forgotten is the compromise made
Keep wading outward, I have no comprehension of bounds
River is unable to claim me, my mind was long ago drowned
Your Favorite Rhyme Poem in August 2021 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
10/08/2021
In no real sense is he alive:
a wind-up toy, personified.
A message bundled with a drive,
he neither eats or can divide.
Two hundred million like himself,
each one distinct, yet all the same.
Possessed of vast genetic wealth,
new life’s potential in this frame.
Like pointing north, returning home,
he has no eyes to guide his flight.
A haploid on a beacon honed,
attractive forces are his sight.
A mitochondr’al battery
will keep him till it runs its course.
For five days, if it matters, he
is driven by an unknown force.
That is to say, unknown to him:
the enzyme, ABHD2,
creates the urge to swim and swim;
there’s nothing else that he can do.
And swim he does! Five body lengths
traversed before a second’s passed.
If salmon-sized, this feat of strength
is fourteen miles per hour; that’s fast!
And not just fast, but also far;
a mile or two would be the rule,
approximate, but close, on par,
for swimmers swimming in a pool.
And now we know he does not flail
or thrash about while in the water;
a corkscrew does his path entail,
much like an eel or playful otter.
The journey’s end, target in sight,
the bodies littered all around.
A chemical and wondrous light,
a flash from zinc when they are bound.
It seems two things come with this flash:
the door is closed, he’s merged herein.
He does not care; his merry dash
fulfills the goal: new life begins.
----------
for the 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 21 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Mark Toney
written 05/14/2022
stupendous silhouette of castle
piercing through hazy fog
reminds me of your shadow
as you come to meet me at twilight
mixed hues of spectral sky
reflected in dreamy water
in furrowed thick impasto
of amber and sandstone
are glowing ember
of your undying love.
Notes: Claude Monet painted a series of impressionist oil paintings of the Palace of Westminster, home of the British Parliament, in the autumn of 1899 and the early months of 1900 and 1901 during stays in London. All of the series' paintings share the same viewpoint from Monet's window or a terrace at St Thomas' Hospital overlooking the Thames and the approximate canvas size of 81 cm × 92 cm (32 in × 36 3/8 in).They were, however, painted during different times of the day and weather conditions. This one was during sunset. ( Photo and reference credits to Wikipedia).
20 May 2021
For "All Yours ( May 20) Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place