Long Bookish Poems
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Bully me, yours truly
never ordained, gifted, or blessed
with mien mean characteristic
evoking, jump/kickstarting,
representing, nor zapping
friend or foe courtesy fiery intimidation
if anything aura, charisma, dogma, and karma
emanating, issuing, and oozing out
body electric of one heretofore bookish fellow
immediately facilitates characterization
hashtagged lucubration and manifestation of quietude.
Though true agitation transparent to passersby
soul asylum of sexagenarian beleaguered
with invisible mailer daemons
that hound the psyche
of this doggone muttering bonafide wordsmith.
In argot of polymath author of these words,
(the modestly noteworthy
opportunistic, poetic Matthew Scott Harris)
essentially he describes himself
as a generic simple Simon,
who never met a pieman
his mellow outward demeanor
belies, harbors, and represses
a quaking, raging bull, and seething
tempestuous storm beneath the calm,
which faux placidity
shields a woke monster
(donned in Harris tweed and Scottish tartan)
mashing everything in his wake
courtesy huge feet
resembling puff daddy bear paws.
Though found out later in life
than most muggles
aforementioned humble
human like bipedal hominid
discovered extraordinary ability
to morph from dimwitted dork dweeb
into grim faced, frightful,
albeit gentle unassuming
pygmy up by the petard giant extraordinaire,
which latent superpower
never served him in good stead
to ward off cruel classmates and peers
tormenting teasing taxing
terrorizing treatment til tears
trickled down my cheeks.
Every now and again,
when some nasty brutish beastly lout
dares to utter colorful invectives,
a gradual transformation
slowly but surely occurs
within every baited cell
(automatically summoned, triggered,
and unveiled courtesy a bitterly
deadly force to be reckoned with
deep within these lovely bones)
witnessing sudden bravado and daring do
additionally helped along after I discretely
chomp on powder milk biscuits
(the secret recipe only known
to forbidding Norwegian bachelor farmers)
giving an unexpected
judicious Hawaiian punch
to the loathsome miscreant
(never knowing what hit him)
knocking said thug out in cold blood.
LXII+ years old and he still carries a security blanket
Move over Linus
Van Pelt of Peanuts fame,
cuz yours truly
also psychologically lame
since prepubescence
mine noticeably long hair
delivered inner comfort,
yet found some classmates
calling me "hippy" by name
though other tormentors among them
hurled expletive laced offensive insults
even ethnic slurs much less tame.
Absolute zero
anti-bullying laws prevailed ahoy
when reasonably rhyming poet
just a little beastie boy
"mean kids" hurtful tactics
they did deploy,
though one bookish lad named Donald Hoy,
he rode the same bus as me,
and most likely practiced magic ploy
to ward off nemesis.
Impossible mission
to detangle mane reason why
I experienced omnipotent
hair reed bond neither thy
father, mother nor therapist
could understand or qualify
outsize (obsessive/compulsive)
significance well nigh
much more (hyperbolically writing)
blatantly mystifying and unsettling
versus comprehending meaning
regarding the bridge on the River Kwai,
whereat these long strands
emanating from scalp, I
imagined them extending
out into space into no fly
zone, and if adored locks threatened
with someone brandishing scissors
one puny lad would cry.
Parents did not berate,
when early within mein kampf,
no matter my mother did execrate
obsessive compulsive thoughts did instigate
long necked pencil geek son
did unwittingly irritate
analogous to Samson
(though Delilah not my mate),
I imbue power courtesy each golden lock
atop me addled sub tracked pate,
where fifty plus shades of gray matter
houses ticky tacky psyche substrate,
which doth bubble, gurgle and percolate.
Only upon taking me last breath of air
viz, when grim reaper delivers death,
I will unroll welcome me
Scottish Harris tweed mat without fanfare
(for this common man),
and just maybe allow, enable, and provide
thee opportunity for scissors
to lop off longish straggly hair
subsequently repurposed into a
security blanket ideally suited
to create creature comfort within lair
for garden variety and generic caveman,
who truth be told lives very near
yours truly in Schwenksville.
My man from youth grew
Your life was full of superiority;
You dazzled and demarcated,
Who does not belong must be sacrifice,
And laughter were the mystery of your horror tales,
To all animals not wild should cut their tails,
Freudian legacy that governed the tribe of the bookish
And trickles down to wild youths,
The Mafioso cum in our midst
As he found landlocked in:
This is a, that is b and those c, d, and e,
Alphabetically symbolize the allies
Who seemed not to care;
We washed different hoe-hands
Together into the same potluck,
But I decided to follow the king;
It is an experience, whatsoever or whatever,
Expressed what I looked for,
And clapped a song: immortal invincible God only wise,
In the conclusion of the matter
All that needed done was half done,
And tomorrow packed belongs and begone,
Gone on mission and came back with some spoilt,
The pathetic sweet–hearts you hate to remember
The one there and here and lived with in ransom,
And terribly pity, the one discarded, multi-distressing,
With all diseases in her mouth and in belly,
The executioners used darkness to mask
And covered up in shielded shadows,
With weapons drawn and the meat
Surefooted walked into the trap,
The in humans unleashed the superiority tussles:
A dagger slit esophagus,
Knife carved out eyelids
Axes butchered wrists,
Cutlasses designed gothic gashed all over;
Sliding and growling the pain shoot in his vein,
And tore through him the devastated dream,
Soon it was time to go as he lay
And the juice poured out of the vessel in torrents,
To perish, eyes and mouth agape, surprised;
To the moon looking down terrifying,
O! God we lack and want,
O! God provide us our daily bread,
O! God we are crying for injustice,
Mother cried of crushing, crashing heartbreak for
The lamentation of her killed beloved: 'Jealousy inflamed brawled'
Poor mama, she has not been there
Even when she went there,
In agony, sorrow and deep mourning, merely comforted;
But, Eman story had been contorted.
Fraught With IBS Irritable Bowel Syndrome...
Rear lee if ever suffices as an apt poetic title
amidst bookish canon - while
this writer (similar to other aspirants
in their respective creative pursuits)
aware arbitrary perusers may deem vile
core body of voluntary selective readers
mentally affix probationary trial
before unequivocally gravitating
toward my genre or signature style,
which unique modality
of expression eventually
accruing some degree of popularity
affecting unseen frown or smile
nonetheless, accepting, enjoying,
and tolerating how I playfully rile
aware that anonymous reader's
patience can wear thin relegating mine
worded persona on par with a reptile
unknowingly breaking fragile bond,
hence she/he might not reconcile
without awareness a valuable kinship,
dismiss me as puerile,
thus forsaking tenuous link, one
that may never bare tangible fruition,
yet all along self scrutiny occurs to refine
thy cerebral thought provoking profile
also intimating months gone by bias
arises toward my
figurative handily prehensile
expansive vocabulary, could
(and/or does) rank as a pile
of unpleasant gluteus maximus
sphincter muscle missile
imposing effort to tone down exuberant,
flamboyant, and gallant mercantile
flashing blindingly exasperatingly,
and inflamingly nauseating vocabulary,
not deliberately juvenile
but this luxe lavish embellishment
a labor of (lost) love with English
Language (inherent since...
in utero), thus...infantile
asper taking shape without conscious
deliberation, though imbecile
appellation possibly affixed
as lasting impression,
perhaps even engendering hostile,
whereat no effort to exhort
unconditional acceptance of me guile
will transpire, cuz this chap
recognizes how tenuously fragile,
the online choice to remain a steadfast
virtual friendship quintessentially fissile
oft times casting the notion how facile
mine arrangement springs from one
core textured intellectual domicile
that houses persona of one docile
amphibious descendent, whose forebear,
yes twas a crocodile!
When mum would talk to other folks about her family,
She’d always speak particularly proudly about me …
Of how I’d gone to grammar school, my bookish ‘steel-trap’ mind.
To hear her, you would think I was a boon to all mankind!
It should have made me happy to have such a super Mum …
So why did I feel sheepish, and fat, and gross, and DUMB?
Why could I never say to any person how I felt,
Or tell them how I wished the ground beneath me would just melt?
Could it have been because I sensed that, under Mother’s pride,
The plain unvarnished truth was, she was never satisfied?
Did she feel that I’d let her down by being fat and clumsy?
Or was it that I loved my Dad more than I loved my Mumsie?
For, truth to tell, that was a fact. For all she wished it other,
I loved my father in a way I never could love Mother.
I do know she was jealous of the love between us two …
She let it slip in ‘chance’ remarks such as “Who’d look at you?”
“Your skirt’s too short!” “You’re much too fat!” and far unkinder slurs.
She saw me as a rival for his love, that should be hers.
She never learned the secret. No, she never found the key –
That he loved me just as I was, not “How I ought to be … “
The tragic thing was, we loved her in just that same way too.
We tried to show it, but poor Mum could not believe it true.
So, after all, it wasn’t me who wasn’t good enough –
No-one could satisfy her, not a soul could measure up.
For Mum had never loved herself: she’d never felt worthwhile.
That was the truth behind the boasts: the tears behind the smile.
She couldn’t let herself be loved. She never could perceive
True love can never be possessed, but it must be received.
I feel so sad to think of how she wasted her whole life
Pursuing love, in such a way all she could cause was strife.
By fighting hard to keep us, she was driving us away.
If only she could let us go, perhaps we would have stayed …
But now I am determined not to make the same mistake.
From now on, I shall give love, and accept love, but NOT TAKE!
Whether the weather
necessitates to anchor
myself as a tether
when the frankenstorm
socks the east coast
shredding terrestrial
zone like soft leather
i may end up attired
in esprit de corpse
being tossed hither and yon
to and fro like a feather.
If...the forecast imbues
meteorologists flooded with folly
making a mockery
of humanity run amuck
in panic mode - by golly
this mortal male will don himself as
"the chief garbage" taster
with a garland of holly
shuffling along the
boulevard of broken
tin cans and rubbish
feigning to be melancholy.
This getup a throw
back to a costume
adorned this papa when
he attended grade school
eons ago, where corporal punishment
prevailed in case
student disavowed any rule
such as smoking in the boys' room
cigarette such
manufactured by Kent or kool
or lambasting any unlikable teacher,
(whose bookish face) at
receiving end of
pranks rather cruel.
So...presume that Halloween
will take place without any axe
of nature to grind monster
brewing at sea
and picture this poet decked
out dumpster diving
for the most fetid trash
and materiel with cracks
to be affixed upon
a heavy duty sack
with goop from
sullied foodstuffs -
a cause for glee
rotten meat infested
with maggots, shards of glass,
crushed metal cans,
et cetera to the max
will be haphazardly splayed
(Jackson Pollack like)
on this sturdy cloth
that will drape me
spurring a conga like of hungry beasts
ready go pounce – menacing
ferocious wolf packs
adding to the welter per helter skelter
of decayed detritus distributed
from head to knee
and a set of punishing
pronged antlers spiking out
in all directions upon
ma noggin-hence to tax
utmost fear in passersby, and quite
an abominable sight to see.
Death, existence, come and go,
Like a tidal undertow…
Waves that toss us, winds that blow,
Raging storms and biting snow,
Hunger, anger, joy, and woe,
Hellish heat with burning glow…
Saints and sages ‘in the know’
Quibble bookish quid pro quo.
Artful seekers high and low
Chase illusions to and fro,
Board their boats and row, row, row,
Partially-illumined, though…
Ever-present, apropos,
Where true wisdom waters flow,
Those mind-opened practice, show
That enlightenment will grow
From the lotus seeds they sow
(Equally for friend or foe)
Of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
Mortals here on planet Earth,
Do we see a being’s worth?
Know the gateway to be free?
Realize where lies the key?
Ancient Buddhist scrolls unfurled,
Let us sense our inner world,
Walk around within, explore,
Enter through the Dharma door…
Lost will find what’s gone amiss,
In despair, in want, or bliss…
Humankind at precipice,
Life itself abides in this
Single all-embracing phrase!
Sounds profound, astound, amaze…
Who recites it sings its praise,
Dark of nights and bright of days…
Utterness Dharma
Wholly revealed!
Sentient karma
Lastingly healed!
And we plod on… fast or slow,
With the work in progress, so
As to render what was heard,
Each and every golden word
Of the Oral Teachings by
Nichiren… that is, we try—
Plus some Buddha Writings, more
Handed down from ages yore,
Many from the olden store
Still as timely as before—
Thus to offer, help bestow
This Nam-myoho-renge-kyo…
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
[For Martin Bradley and Gerhard Lenz]
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo means to devote our lives to and found them on (Nam[u]) the Utterness of the Dharma [entirety of existence, enlightenment and unenlightenment] (Myoho) permeated by the underlying white lotus flower-like mechanism of the interdependence of cause, concomitancy and effect (Renge) in its whereabouts of the ten [psychological] realms of dharmas (Kyo).
[ See... .dharmagateway.org/harley_poems. ~ Poetry with a Buddhist Theme ~ by Harley White ]
The candle light never stopped burning for aeons ago,
A hushed rustle of applause testified to a widespread approbation,
That was on the day he was certificated in the University,
Indeed, he was a bookish arbiter of conduct; a balanced moral fibre.
Tony - born in a home of abject poverty, a pretty immiseration,
The wretched mother sold all she got,
To raise all the buried hopes from their sepulchers,
A thread to the valley and shadows of death to wipe her tears.
As the hands of time ticks,
Getting a white-collar job remained a mission impossible,
Expectation darkened into anxiety and hopelessness,
Their fathomless depths of suffering deepened.
He threw a ton's weight of resolve upon his muscles,
Doubt tortured him not; armed robbery became the last resort,
On the early hours of 24th December, 2016,
He called “Mother, I’m in Aba city now to be home tomorrow to rebrand your life”
Tony’s voice was soft and full of assurance on the telephone,
While the mother writhed in the grip of a definite optimism,
Hours later, they attacked an entrepreneur,
He was caught and the rest of the gang fled; a fluctuations of prosperity and adversity.
The commercial cyclists came with their jungle justice,
Motor tyres engulfed him like a deadly ring,
His eyes stared unseeingly as more and more stones hit his head,
The hope of survival became far, unrealistic and dim.
His soul was compressed into a single agony of prayer,
As mammoth pangs of regret made its splashes in his expiring mind,
He pleaded for mercy, and the mother came to the crime scene,
Disheartened and broken.
And she cried and said “My life depends on him,
He is my future,
And everything I got, please don’t kill him”
But the angry mob ignored her sorrowful pleas and set him ablaze.
Honestly, it was an unforgettable afternoon,
When death flowed in its accustomed stream.
He never visited the poor mother again with riches as he promised,
But only left Aba city through a hellish path to the grave.
Abominable barrage bombards
fortified barracks show
warring subsequently, incandescently,
and brilliantly doth glow
biden time, this
garden variety Joe Schmoe
hunkers down deep amidst disarray
within arched bunker poe
wet tickly donning
pence sieve stance against row
battery weathering incessant assault
invariably waiting for Godot,
albeit devout atheist doubting Thomas
suffers major blow
wavering, vacillating, undulating...
ominous foreboding,
viz more'n one circling crow
decries status ranking sincerely
truly posthumous hero
reconnaissance delivers...
yup absolute zero
looming dark shadow
futile against inconsolable sorrow
anonymous bookish deadened
erstwhile febrile fellow
good as gone, cuz yours truly...
fresh outta ammo
resigned killed in action
another unmarked grave
housing lovely bones
courtesy contemplative bro
charred body foretells, know,
and promises not one daisy will grow
despite fervent obeisance
soul fully do I futilely bellow
worse fate than death
i.e. gulag archipelago
feebly decrying, lamenting,
lamely pleading against
bleak unfair in apropos
sentence never granted furlough
never to witness celestial amarillo
beatific, cathartic, fantastic...,
nor chase gold pot end of rainbow
all pleasant dreams, I must forego
seek neither fame nor glory hobo
content whiling away (Billy me)
idolized time solitary Homo
sapien re: me tortured afterlife
enslaved forever guilty "fake" pharaoh
moans... suddenly joyous tears flow
aforementioned psychedelic mashup
figment of imagination - psycho
illogical gallimaufry, hallucinatory,
and illusory expo
attempt lame analogy how I wallow,
when setting sail
to launch crafted poe
whim, whereby invisible
battle scars attest
successful amphibious ambition
inundated battling lightspeed tempo
competing ideas exhaust
thus, I seek comfort of
soft cloud like pillow!
The more I learn, the more
I realize how little I know…
which insightful, gutsy,
entrancing, catchy apothegm
attributed to Socrates by way of Plato
subsequently self ranking myself
amidst Phylum Chordata with the Dodo bird
Class Aves (namely
said extinct flightless winged creature
with a mass of 29 – 51 pounds Oh!)
once endemic to the island of Mauritius,
east of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean,
none would be espied,
no matter how thorough
going across aquatic spreadsheet,
one might row
eventually coordinating
dropping vertical column in toto
arriving back to original
mentally ponderous premise
gamboling feint enroute to see
Old Man Wizard Of Oz
meets Crow Medicine Show
pitching thy quasi recursive query - bro
ching concurrence with another maxim to boot
“ignorance iz bliss”, which lack o'learn'n
doss appeal to this old coot,
yet such pithy accordance came
to this smart ass to late,
a mister wordsmith
with a palm pilot maximum glute
clamors (at risk of life and limb) to hoot
and holler when new kernel
of knowledge gleaned finds me mute
as if raw bit of savored information akin
to unearthing a rare gem,
or rare species of newt
temporarily allaying fervent quest to root
thru hefty tomes of great literature,
and tracts that suit
many other subjects,
less to be arrogant and toot
my own horn, but more so...
to satisfy an increasingly
insatiable hunger grow
wing nsync with unquenchable
thirsty ambition less for dough
(cuz bing po'
with treasure trove of voluminous
expansive bookish notions doth shaw
surpass becoming suddenly wealthy tin pot hustlers
with un hewn fifty nine shades of gray straw
this haint no cowardly lion seeking Androcles
to extract thorn from hum my faux paws.