Long Baby boomer Poems
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Classical infusion, Beethoven’s “ode to joy”
playing on blaring audiophile speakers annoy
purposely looped to destroy vagrants with electronic music
blends of subversive elements and anxious acoustic
the solution to loitering the bodega doo dropping
spicy Shiitake broth smelling pissy store front,
jaded daily stunt, at midnight wino corks popping
abruptly segway into a film from one music scene
to a melting hallway, a lipstick alley with animate occupants
disconnected unmoored, appearing eerie and dormant
fluorescent lights unleashing a hum buzz in duress
hissing sizzling hornets’ nest of unsettling unrest
illogical levels of unease, an iniquitous den
such madcap absurdity is beyond my ken
not a shack, mall, nor a Holiday Inn,
a queasy Quasi-Moto mood which lies within
backrooms filled in with discarded filets
of fishy maceral that have no place,
frolicking pixella's in a glossy abyss of liminal space
plump puce brushed lips affixed
swollen browns and purple mixed
deep maroon and dusky rose,
make-up art is what they pose
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Crescent shaped moon portions mounted in pseudo walls
mounted upon the glare in unpleasing patterned halls
side by side quagmired half discs dawning a contorted face
in a half dazed-half-moon crest loon’s invisible phase
not unconscious but in some in-between state
bored while in transition and abandoned as they await
whimsical moldings who see me try not to take a peek
an exit to this madness is what I and they seek
maybe re-evaluate my sleep number, for gravity defying rest
What insight imports this encounter and what test?
what it means for a doomed generation Xer or baby boomer,
tacked in stucco, Silly Putty it seems, in a warped sense of humor
I wish I may I wish away what is unreal with blinky eyes
I pray not to awaken one more inky surreal surprise
Unseen talon sharp claws...
dig deep into mine
psyche soft underbelly
piercing bedrock of
core (puss) being
akin to butter knife
slicing thru peanut
butter and jelly
unable to preserve
an iota of calm,
which eruption of cataclysmic
agitation analogous to a bomb
going off inside my head,
where a mishmash
of frenzied discombobulated
brainstorming angst doth glom,
whereat the "little boy"
inside this man
called for his mom,
who when this aging
"baby boomer" chap
just a kid and experienced
devastating, jarring,
and paralyzing tom
malt chew hiss in dom
mitt able inexplicable fear,
though NO obvious
danger threatened, NOR
warning signaled "BEWARE,"
nonetheless adrenaline
coursed from head
to toe as if clear
and present harm
lurked quite near,
inducing a host of
physiological fallout symptoms
darkly freighting this
sole son with nightmarish scare,
whereat no escape,
nor exit no matter
how fast a sprinting tear
found me running
mile a minute only
to end up nowhere,
except smackdab right
in the same place
in relation to despair,
which translates to mean...
yours truly could not
run and hide,
as quickly made clear
to me then, and now,
though at present
scores years older, the balm
courtesy of prescription
medication popped inside
mouth from palm
olive smoothed hands,
as if this teetotaler
betook himself prom
men aiding albeit
with tumblerful of liquor
getting feigning noggin all a jam
aware that nothing amiss,
would be evident,
sans lower gastrointestinal exam,
nonetheless diet
restricted to graham
crackers and broth
distilled from ham
hock, once again thwarting
vegetarian ambitions damn!
Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
Too many of late,
Especially for "us",
The last of the
Baby Boomer generation,
And the reality of our placement
In the flow of existence,
Is that the realm of oblivion
Reaches it's sinewy fingers
For all of us ... with
Greater frequency
Each day, it seems.
Those "larger than life"
Mentors and icons,
Whose creativity has
Provided the soundtrack
And accompaniment to our lives,
Are no less susceptible to
Mortality's cold kiss than
We are, though that
Pedestal we place them
On sometimes seems
Higher than transience.
As with each such a loss,
The sun will rise a little
More hesitantly tomorrow,
Its rays will settle a bit less
Warmly on our faces, and there
Will be a "void unfillable"
In the world of music ...
A sour silence, the
Remedy for which only
The ears of angels will
Strain to attend.
Most imp potent and salient playbook page...
'bout fluffiness of hair after washing
Now get ready for...
yup intelligent persiflage
determining if potty "talk" gauge
correctly calibrated courtesy this sage.
Beats out global warming
by a long stretch
most important commander
must set example you betch
chore life no matter
if miserable wretch
survives impeachable offenses
enough to make me kvetch,
especially four more years
yours truly will once again become
bulimic anorexic wretch.
Versus important crisis
of planet Earth,
where Gaia's bountiful
nature woolworth
analogous wharf resplendent
docks side of ships berth state
housing electricity generating
mined resources inevitable dearth
warming chill folks
courtesy homey hearth
reminiscent during inchoate
fetal nine months
in utero signaling imminent birth.
Quite understandable reasonable,
non negotiable, inviolable...
blah... blah... blah
scalp itching blather
particularly to prioritize
orange-blond hirsute fullness
upon rinsing sudsy shampoo lather
as expressed by this
post baby boomer
pencil neck geek father,
who attempts to walk poetic feet
across cyber sea
miraculously to slather.
Trademark seedy nonsensical
farcical gobbledygook,
perhaps posthumously printing
bestselling blank paginated chapbook
ghost written by Trump
titled Art of the Steal
detailing head and shoulders how to look
suave and sophisticated all business
swiftly tailored harried style shook
White House disguised himself as rook
key "Fake" incognito president
recruiting apprenticed bartered bride
slow vacuuming trophy wife crook
cow hoard milching, kickstarting,
inciting, generating... donnybrook
coiffing pompadour resembling
forefathers windblown periwig.
Nope not even one hair
mussed out of place,
as if teetering fountainhead
supporting Atlas shrugged
top heavy topples
and crashes scattering
bajillion easy pieces everyplace
analogous to humpty dumpty
each and every last vestige
vanishing without a trace
exiting out cloaca
subsequently intently watching
toilet bowl royally flush
clockwise if within northern hemisphere
heavy enough to sink submarine
haint no reason yours truly might gush
even if abominable ballast
saves queasy passengers
plummeting thru aerospace.
Hiroshima n Nagasaki – Seventy Five Years Since 1945
Robert Oppenheimer manned
"The Manhattan Project",
a top secret World War II mission
which constituted "Little Boy" codename
for a uranium gun-type
atomic bomb dropped at 0815
exploding 580 metres above civilians
with 15 kiloton blast yield
reduced 400 year old city to dust
Colonel Paul Tibbets,
the pilot/ bombardier
of the Enola Gay,
(the Boeing B-29 Superfortress
unleashing nuclear warfare
seventy years years ago today)
gives cause for this baby boomer to revisit
mentally, the annihilation,
extermination, incineration
the first of two storied Japanese enclaves
realizes how trifling my current bout
with mania paranoia, pneumonia
(from northern exposure)
contrasted with sinister
thermonuclear reaction
malevolent evil tower ushering
thermonuclear age epitomizing
coup de nada so graceful
means maximum military mutilation
though unwell, this inflammation poised
to be cured unlike subsequent generations of victims
who survived atrocious, egregious, hellacious,
judicious slaughter can only poorly be described
by this mortal with curable bacterial/viral infection
aghast at such wanton killing, more-so
via weapons of mass destruction
more devastatingly grisly
than those "experimental" bombs
loosed upon the innocent population,
whereby 75,000 people killed or fatally injured
with 65% of casualties nine years of age and younger
whence offspring of survivors
evincing excess genetic anomalies
with fiery windy surface (think towering infernos)
temperatures topping 4,000°C
upon terrain hallowed by ghastly
horrible deathly dominance
amidst shadow of sinister mushroom cloud
wickedly, ominously, and eerily looming.
Don't you find it ironic?
Isn't it ironic?
As time progresses,
this baby boomer generation
has been exposed to radio, newspapers, magazines.
Each media touched our minds and ears early on
with it came inspiration and emotion
as the world was changing and evolving.
Then with education, time and knowledge
came the television, space exploration, modern technology
expanding personal computers,cds, dvds, laptops, tablets, cell phones.
Now, we are blinded, oblivious and drowning in its ease
and the lack of face to face communication
within us lies the desire to find quiet and escape this false communion.
Today, I turned off the tv, the radio, the laptop, the cell
to see you face to face, to speak and touch you
to find the reality that surely exists between us.
For a moment
Stop!
Stop texting, twittering and tweeting,
shut down you phone, close your tablet,
find your true voice
and speak to me, face to face once again.
Mine emotionally fraught days of yore
spilt presentiment tinged blood
into sucker punched battle fatigued
war weary veteran.
He (yours truly) doth
presently ramble, scrabble, and trundle
across gutted landscape
strewn with psychological potsherds.
Oppressive alienation hashtags me as outcast,
where new born babes technical abilities surpassed
scant infantile savviness (mine)
spurring notion, whereby yours truly
lived ages ago, when pace of life sedate
compared with present era in contrast.
Impossible mission to side step
cratered pock marked cerebral terrain
punctuating terra incognita courtesy disequilibrium
severely disrupting ability to function,
especially distractions issued out radio waves
regarding same Christmas songs
playing every hour.
I can't shake loose
being metaphorically entangled
cumulative detritus analogous geologic,
chronologic, and audiologic tracks laid down
since conception wrought
indelible grooves within noggin.
Risk averse demeanor
kept me hermetically sealed
against positive growth experiences
and (bully me)
not sequestered nor singled
out as token scapegoat,
whereby (wherein) psyche
relentlessly, quintessentially,
and painfully assaulted.
I too unwittingly, guiltily,
approvingly and willingly
allowed, enabled, and provided
unrepentant thugs to unleash brickbats
sticks and stones
(also Daily hurled at Georgie,
a Boxer/Dalmatian mix breed)
when our family Audubon, Pennsylvania.
Nevertheless, despite experiencing
horrendous childhood grievances,
I revere boyhood good times
a shy, (albeit rather socially withdrawn) kid
oblivious to danger
safely and securely affixed
to mother's apron strings.
Yepper, yours truly a bonafide mama's boy
severing figurative umbilical cord I could not deploy
even now as an aging baby boomer,
viz yule eyes long hair pencil necked geek,
I experience social anxiety,
when feigning hobnobbing amidst hoi polloi.
ALAFFIA EVERYDAY COCONUT SHAMPOO
Yours truly (me)
just an ordinary primate from the human zoo,
who while ambling along
the boulevard of broken dreams on a Green Day
(just me and my shadow)
I experienced unexpected lionizing flattery
courtesy Pink Floyd,
he went ape and shouted "hey you"
out there in the cold
getting lonely, getting old
but honest to dog,
I took the road less traveled
unexpectedly encountering
fire breathing creatures
imagine dragons puffing
at these lovely bones
that constitute a generic guy,
a madding crowd qua at least one
with multiple talking heads
quite frightful harried styled beastly yahoo
primitive creature obsessed with "pretty stones"
popularized by Jonathan Swift
in the fourth section of Gulliver's Travels
trying their damndest to woo
yours truly, an aging baby boomer
and long haired styled pencil necked geek
he/him even extended
an invitation to their next venue
to frolic in the autumn mist
in a land called Honah Lee,
hence methought to spruce myself up
to undergo a major makeover
courtesy Salon Nova beauty technician,
and in one fell swoop
off went approximately a dozen inches
of mine lovely brunette locks of love
(tinged with natural gray),
and upon getting
to the house at Pooh Corner
I swiftly tailored mine appearance
showering and sudsing hair
with aforementioned product
(videre licet title of poem)
suddenly unconditionally loving
the new Matthew Scott Harris
immediately accepting an awesome
handsome kickass transformation
awash with true value,
especially after liberally appling
Eco Style Olive Oil Styling Gel
with damp hands quite a challenge,
but cap I did eventually unscrew
ready to rock and roll with the Monkeys
(with other artists... Guess Who)
at a rave in Timbuktu,
whereat paparazzi snapped pictures
asking me to stand still as a statue
encased within a stone wall
(think Andrew J. Jackson)
unexpectedly espying my likeness
in the next issue
of classy fashion magazine
nothing but accolades
with stunning breathtaking photographs
populated the Harris review.
The Tramp Persona
Who was this boy, a pauper born?
Existing in despair and continual forlorn
Scandalized, accused of communist sympathies
Encompassing both adulation, and social controversies
Charlie Chaplin how can I take you seriously?
Chucklesome slapstick injecting tragedy
Awkward, little mime tugging at the heartstrings
A cathodic empathy he brings
of all those around him, a famous clown
A wiggled walk, a cane, a grin, a frown
The Great Dictator, as plain as black and white
In the struggles against misfortune, the tramp persona typified
A virtuoso kid he found at a hall by chance
A four-year-old child, he saw him dance
A gift he gave to us, a sharing alliance
The Tramp who mastered the power of silence
I was hardly aware of a crisis because we lived in a continual crisis; and, being a boy, I dismissed our troubles with gracious forgetfulness. —Charlie Chaplin, on his childhood
Marylin Monroe “She was a tramp.”
Without her contracts at 20th Century Fox and Columbia (which had both been dropped) who were hungry for denial and headlines. Instead, Marilyn said this:
“I was broke and needed the money.
Why deny it? Tom Kelly’s racy nudes of me
You can get one [a calendar] anyplace.
Besides, I’m not ashamed of it, I’ve done nothing wrong
I was a week behind on the rent and it’s here where I belong
I’d never have done it if I’d known things would happen so fast in Hollywood for me.”
Her candor and honesty charmed everybody
You have this sense of having met a wounded little canary not a peacock. Only when you pick it up in your hand to comfort it … beneath the wounds, vulnerability, and innocence, you find raw strength, and a big heart—I Am Anaya
Lady And The Tramp
A warm and loving story
For dog lovers, in the sense of humor
A carefully nurtured cocker spaniel, Lady
Born in New York City a Baby boomer
Natural beauty overwhelming, a pedigree no vamp
And a rakish, debonair, freedom-loving wanderer
of a dog who wares no man's collar, Tramp