Long Chutes Poems
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Oh that’s you and me
“You and me were always with each other,
before we knew the other was ever there”
Destiny carves its path through lives,
filling needs unknown until it happens
Bridging gaps of empty terrain
where love belongs eventually
as our hearts wait for that one we feel
on the journey
“You and me we belong together,
just like a breath needs the air”
So many comparisons play,
moving pieces to spaces, uncovered
Sliding down chutes, climbing ladders,
sensing that something waits, something good
Inspired to keep going, following the lines
drawn in tingles on skin
“I told you if you called I would come runnin’,
across the highs the lows and the in betweens”
You’ve taken my hand and showed me
things are not always as they seem
Until you find them in your shadow,
lifting you when you fall,
caressing your soul in unexplained notions,
safety and comfort with merely a touch
“You and me we’ve got two minds that think as one
and our hearts march to the same beat”
Your eyes, my eyes, we see similar patterns
curving about skylines of melodic tempos
As we walk together, one step after the other,
but two steps always for the other
in whatever direction they choose,
syncopated movements hand in hand
”They say everything it happens for a reason,
you can be flawed enough but perfect for a person”
These scars of past seasons, cold winds blow
across arid deserts of details and misgivings
Cloaked in love’s blanket, accepted beyond yesterdays
Put away in box with a lock, no key is available
and neither would want it anyway
”Someone who will be there for you when you fall apart,
guiding your direction when you’re riding through the dark”
This light that leads, from your smile, your understanding,
your acceptance that I reflect back as a mirror
Enhancing the beam of this forever feeling,
Strolling down avenues of pleasure for
happiness is always a two way street
”Oh that’s you and me…”
4/4/17
The italicized lines are lyrics from one of my favorite songs, “You and Me” by Pink and Dallas Green off the Rose Ave album.
https://youtu.be/TUYleIXgceQ
For the “Your Favorite Song” poetry contest
Sponsored by: Alexis Y.
THE LEGEND OF CELINE, THE WHITE LADY
In French Canada no legend is more tragic than that of Celine,
A beautiful Quebec maiden who, long ago, fell in love with Alain.
He came galloping by on his white horse, a handsome young marine -
They wanted marriage and happily prepared their wedding plan.
They would go to the church in a horse-drawn carriage
They would buy the tidal watermill near their house by the river
Next to Montmorency Falls : a small whitewashed cottage
With garden and daisy flowers; and he would become the miller.
But one day Francois was called to military action in a war terrible-
Every evening, pallid and wan, she searched by the river for her lover in vain.
Her beloved lost his life in battle, and Celine's bridal grief was inconsolable.
“Alain,” she called, convinced in her heart that they would meet again.
After a year Celine could stand her painful loss no more - the searching, the calls.
One ashen moonlit night, in her immaculate pearl-blossom wedding gown
She ran to the river, climbed onto the white horses of the misty Montmorency Falls.
And disappeared into mystery, as the swirling ivory-silver waves swept down.
Calling his name, she slipped into the foamflowers. Her snowy bride’s dress
Was transformed into the falls’ watery cascade, and her long wedding-veil floated away
And became a smaller waterfall nearby, as she swooned in the mist’s caress,
Listening to the soft loving words she heard Alain say.
On moonlit evenings the maiden in white is still seen through the misty cloud
Of shimmering water cascading like daisy petals off the falls in their course:
They say that his name can be heard in the surf and spume of the torrent loud
“Alain, my life-love, wait for me on your white horse. . . . .”
……………………………
NOTE:
This is a well-known legend about the tragic love story of the White Lady of Montmorency
Falls. The waterfalls ( Les Chutes de Montmorency) are located between Quebec City and Ile
d'Orleans, on the St. Lawrence River. These spectacular foamy falls are well worth a
visit. Their height is 50% greater than Niagara; and the nearby ancient city of Quebec is
unique in North America.
Overdosing (rather binge reading) thesaurus...
Imagine if ye will
earlier one blustery February sixteenth
two thousand twenty one,
yours truly experienced atypical thrill
perusing pages of heavily laden word book
marking where I leave off reading
courtesy no frills inked quill
(sold to yours truly courtesy original
big bird on his deathbed)
plus jotting down page number
so mundane effort to marry me interest
with me lingua franca (English language)
neither void nor nill
aforementioned laborious literary task
persevered despite forgoing
eating and sleeping might kill
(reading every last word)
hoop ping diligence improves vocabulary
making me maxillary stronger
no matter chronological years
considered smidgen whipping
over third scored Sam Hill
Earth orbitz around nearest star
traveling at (pun one mach two)
warp speed amidst escadrille
whereby accompanying aircraft
eventually zooms into Brazil
housing disproportionate Amazon
rainforest biome encompassing
6.7 million square kilometers and shared
by eight countries.
Even before (the square root of 3844)
years ago exiting the womb
Logophile mine self anointed
nom figuratively feathery de plume
no matter mine cranium
ready to explode ka-boom
I continue to parlay mental energy
like some garden variety harum scarum
and jam additional minutiae
(at thee expense not preserving sanity)
despite very limited (maximum) headroom
to decrease hydranencephaly
the whole hare brain scheme
rigged up with shunted
(think chutes and ladders) flume.
One definite lament
until death doth do me proud
constitutes deficient intelligence
genetically (father) endowed
imbibing cerebral thirst for knowledge
constitutes the lack of photographic memory
nsync with fifty plus shades of gray matter
ofttimes smoldering like dark storm cloud
to retain information I read aloud.
Quite an exciting
(seat of pants) life I did asseverate
less to impress any anonymous reader,
whose interest I did pique and captivate
versus (verses crafted) more so to delineate
quirky passion (couched as poetic endeavor)
inexplicable how to formulate
though no justification be given
hoop fully only kudos to generate.
What a special time of year....
I,Santa and my minion of elves
making a gazillion toys for all
the giddy girls and boys.
Just what are some of the things they
will find under the tree? Let's see !!
Colorful cars that go vroom vroom
and twin engine planes that zoom.
Remote control trucks that
tumble around the room.Oh these
things simply can't come too soon!
There's the cute little doll house
with a canary canopy and the stocking
stuffed to the brim with sugar coated candy.
Oh my, what about the indestructable
tank with the turret that pivots or the
tried and true toolset equipped with
screwdrivers, pliers, hammer
and yes, even a rack of rivets.
I almost forgot about the long-legged dolls
with their fancy silk sweaters and dresses.
Oh how girls love those that talk or cry,
or ..... yes, even make little messes.
Then there are teddy bears,dolphins,
monkeys, ...stuffed animals of all kinds.
Oh, is it possible for the youngsters
to get these tantalizing toys out of their minds?
Chutes and Ladders,Candyland, Twister,
Guess Who, a smorgasboard of board games.
Oh yes, after this Christmas Day,
nothing could ever be the same.
Then there are cd's, dvd's,mp3s
you name it, even cell phones to call.
And no, that's certainly not all.
Catchers mitts, frisbees,yo-yo's or
better yet, a new leather basketball.
Robots, Light Bright,Spirograph,
we are busy making toys for tots.
And I don't think I need to tell you
No matter how you slice it... there's alot.
But I'm running out of time here you see
and there's no limit to what
can be found underneath the tree.
Every year Christmas provides a new story.
I know I hold a special place in
the hearts of people both young and old.
But I will be the first to admit
Christmas is not about me or what's
under the tree, but might I be so bold
as to say we must not forget that the real
Christmas story is all about love.
It starts and ends with the gift of Jesus
sent to us from His Father above.
For without that very "special delivery"
Christmas Day we wouldn't even celebrate.
No, as a matter of fact, December 25th
would simply be just an ordinary date.
Gods of glowing neon and gaudy screens
smile upon charming, charming patterns of heads.
All colors of hair, lit red, then green, then blue,
guided along invisible paths, crown heads
perspiring, chanting and glancing down
on marching, mechanical arms, then worrying
as they scurry along infinite, crisscrossing paths -
at once so ordered and so unfathomably chaotic.
Drums are rolled by hurrying feet
dictating the race of mankind.
A metropolis looms, adorned by a billion shimmering jewels -
electric jewels - and an apparition sways over the
bustle, silently watching, silently floating.
Giant chutes proudly puff out plumes of nightly black
and devils forged in impure fire do rise
to the heavens above, graced by the blessings of
the industrial revolution, in turn blessing humanity with progress,
imperceptible except as phlegmatic gasps
and the whiff of crisp green paper, distinguished by
wizened faces and packed in neat bundles.
Bulbous, aged fingers do trace from within
the sanctum sanctorum of a temple aged a thousand years,
charming, charming patterns of jewels
in intricate, frozen dance, carving out hexagons of perfect symmetry
from wearily cut marble windowsills.
The work of a thousand splendid hands
preserved by the unseen, dusty hands of time
did render the mosque palatial, its beauty heavenly.
The admiring eyes sing hymns praising the architecture, alas
they are blind, for the marble, white as angelic wings, is grey now.
The scientist appears, eyes hidden by thick glassy cubicles
yet shining through, lit by the endless pursuit of knowledge
and equally burdened by numbers, figures, notes
and the maddening myopia of man.
On the screen appears, against fresh white
charming, charming patterns of red, green and blue
sinking downward, worryingly as it would seem,
his uninflected pleas let in through one ear, instantly
shunted out through the next by the populace, to whom
the music of modernity rings sweeter.
First Place, Charming Patterns Poetry Contest
Date: 16th October 2021
Though thine two grown
former babes in crib age,
now lead checkered lives,
no longer monopolize my time
as though their persons went backstage
either one embracing, judging,
and negotiating positive
chutes and ladders with courage
evoking glee this papa
helped both beautiful lasses
avoid being risk averse
navigating life with minimal damage
though to get ahead of the class,
(asper the eldest Eden Liat)
credit karma fairly and squarely attributed
to herself with encourage
meant from this papa, who oft time
felt he lacked any clue
akin to a hobbled battleship left
to drift at sea, whence,
upon landfall sub
sequent lee forced to forage
in a foreign dominion (akin to being
among Settlers of Catan),
plus devoid of instruments to gauge,
an optimal strategic operation,
thus figuratively groping in the dark
(unaware of a brewing twister)
guided by blind faith
doth admit saying sorry,
but apologetic homage
would disqualify thyself,
a "FAKE" mastermind
undeserving of just desserts,
unfairly via diktat plucking sweet treats
awash within Candy Land,
a deceptive image
entrancing, luring and, spellbinding
ultimately incurring trouble,
particularly when Shana Aubrey
(younger by about
twenty six months)
garnered lion's share of parental attention
necessitated mandatory intervention
due to language
skills, plus pronounced
developmental delay,
where supreme social service
sages gentle massage
wrought divine prestidigitation
as one after another
case worker did overencourage
to counteract congenital
cognitive setback (coalesced in utero),
now finds das dada envious
(cuz, aye got mired, hogtied,
and bogged down with
obsessive compulsive trivial pursuit,
hence warrant so lucky as thee Punim)
steers ship shape body electric
round her uncharted cerebral
cape of good hope passage.
In our neighborhood during the second world war
At the side of each house were a porch and a door.
And, believe it or not, it was always unlocked
When a tradesman or stranger or visitor knocked.
Around dawn men arrived who at doorsteps would lay
All the baked goods and milk patrons needed that day.
And the women would once a week purchased their meat
From the truck of a butcher who stopped on our street.
Before fridges, remembered by we who are old
Was the ice box in kitchens that kept the food cold.
Using tongs, blocks of ice were delivered by men
Who before they had melted would come back again.
Also, door-to-door salesmen would try to persuade
All the wives that their products were best ever made.
And our neighbor would daily come by for a spell
To a recipe share or with gossip to tell.
In the middle of autumn, the coal truck returned
To replenish the piles that the furnace had burned.
Down long chutes made of metal would tumble and roar
Tons of coal that filled bins on our bare cellar floor.
Roving hobos quite often would rap on the door.
Without jobs or a home, they for food would implore.
The depression still lingered, so mothers would feel
Sympathetic and always provided a meal.
And to parents'displeasure, the screen doors would bang
As kids hurried from houses to be with the gang.
We would gather on lots that were vacant to play
Or would wander the countryside nearly all day.
When it rained, on a porch that was covered we'd meet
To with checkers or Clue or Parcheesi compete.
We swapped marbles, pitched pennies, played poker for fun,
And our comic books read till return of the sun.
At the back door we'd weekly the paper boy pay,
And the mail was delivered then two times a day.
If it weren't for the doctor who'd come when we call,
We would never had needed a front door at all.
they would dice many a chive
by management me from da dive
apartments in hatfield in close proximity
to the bloody sorry fate
oof a von nee gutt
thar slaughter house five.
mine eyes saw gore
and remained fixated
orbital fixture
of poor creatures in a daze
sans reaction averting gaze
away from disgusting entrails
visible picture amidst the maze
of chutes and ladders
stepping on select
foursquare did raise
or lower (similar to an elevator)
but movable blocks
also went cross ways
oh, anyway, this reply
written by me - scott math u
passable poet tree - at most true
this email far ye to rue
these twisted sister strands
of pearl jammed zz topped
chromosomal strands being did hew
who only to five feet and ten inches grew
crafts, finesses,
indulges love of language
to prose from fingers flew
and writes poems
cawing all r e'en juiced
one angry emu
leaving her/his presents
custom made doo doo
per comprising a motley crue
of a family - pearl jammed color ague.
please rsvp asap via text
to me scott matthews my chosen ac/dc label
i.e. pleasure like rubbing against sable
create r hard woo n intimate scorpion fable
unless ja noah under me ma jib rush
like inxs o ruck kiss in tower o babe bull
by texting if willing, ready, eager and able
froom - - scotts matthew
who lives way off the mainline -
juiced about a few dirty dozen dancing deeds
done dirt cheap miles west of philadelphia,
and some ten miles east of king o prussia
pennsylvania who imagines your sultry skin
silkily soft as a lynx, pussy cat
rubbing against ma leg under da table.
Sent from my iPhone 456789
Riding against the wind, merciless memories nipping at her heels
wearing a Pollyanna mask & a ready laugh to hide the hurt she feels
The stinging words she heard that day hammer her heart like driving rain
she sips thunder & lightning from a bottle but she can’t escape the pain
Rodeo has held her in its spell for all of her nineteen years
Its taught her to make friends with danger & never shrink from fear
Gave her a healthy respect for a life well lived & showed her its rewards
She’s better off for the lessons learned in the back chutes & stockyards
She thought she was well prepared for any hand that Rodeo dealt
Until that fateful phone call, a worse pain she’s never felt
She’d given her heart to a wild Bullrider, a good man through & through
Family, friend or stranger, he gave the best to all he knew
Around midnight the night before, he’d left for an exhibition ride
one last promise to fulfill before starting a new life with his bride
she’d spoke to him early that morning, a quick “I love you” & “Good Luck”
By quarter past ten he was in the chute, shouting “throw the gate & let ‘em buck”
Three jumps & a crazy eight twist, the rigging split with a sickening snap
In seconds his life ended, silence roared through the arena like a thunderclap
The phone was ringing back in Tucson as she pulled up to the house
The caller spoke in monotone igniting a fire never to be doused
She still love’s the Rodeo, still answer its bittersweet call
and she keeps his rigging bag in the closet down the hall
She grew up quick in an eight second flash & paid her Rodeo dues
Now she’s riding hard against the wind & singing the Rodeo Blues
(c) August 2003
Computers computing have pinpointed here
This planet, it seems, has something to fear
I look to the skies and they’re beautiful…… now
The stars are quite static, yet I mop my brow
A spacecraft is coming; I can’t see it yet
It’s out of control, so it’s a good bet
That no chutes, no thrusters and no reverse gear
Are going to stop it from crashing so near
Gravity, might you please assuage my fear
Of this plunging artefact that cannot steer
Could it perhaps splash down in pools of mud
Or maybe come down with a fairly light ‘Thud!’
It’s them blinking Ruskies; that’s who it was
Sent that thing up and then it was lost
They sent that big firework into the air
Because, much like Everest… Venus is there
It’s coming our way, of that we are certain
Let’s hope it will head for the old iron curtain
The west has been reticent to put the boot in
Please Kosmos 4-8-2, crash down on Putin
The experts are feeding us all with the notion
That K 4-8-2 might come down in the ocean
But everyone’s gonna be in for a shock
If it crashes unhindered on some city block
So everyone, everywhere… here is the craic
Some of us may have a cross on our back
So if you look up and you see it, best run
For though it’s quite small, it weighs half a ton
Of course, every cloud has a silver trimmed edge
And whilst I shall hide behind some nearby hedge
I savour the slim chance that Putin is tremblin’
In case space should dump its old trash on the Kremlin
But if it is I who gets royally splattered
Perhaps I should be posthumously flattered
So, if its huge shadow finds me unawares
It’s been good to know you… I’ll see you ‘upstairs’…