Long Comfortably Poems
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Bloody leftist a wrist tuck crat!
Fingers of left hand cried freedom,
detached themselves and declared
mutiny gesticulating thumb thing
awful, than furiously haughtily
prancing, skittering, zipping,...
as self important independent digits
indiscriminately deleting one after
another email, mine eyes gleaned
subject pertaining to boldface all
CAPITALIZED notification urging,
indicating, beckoning... immediate
reply regarding... yours truly... huh
me (Matthew Scott Harris) arbitrarily
designated lucky random winner of
... some large dollar figure sporting
countless zeros left of decimal point,
I wept inconsolably intuitively aware
foregone irretrievable message haint
spam, but authentic bonafide one in
bajillion monetary sweepstakes drawing
impossible mission to recall subliminal
communique, and resorted to hypnosis
to jog mine memory and access lost data
which hoop fully convincingly explains
temporary absence, yea... understandable
skepticism induces furrowed brow, but
honest to dog Ott's well known selling
exotic plants also provide Asian mystical,
herbal, and celestial therapy, yet if unable
to successfully tweezer out valuable key
information locked within subconscious,
courtesy specially trained experts tending
rooted prized nuggets likening jewel heist
forager determined to plunder loot, the
mind will feel comfortably numb, which
allows, enables, and provides cathartic,
holistic, opportunistic... modus operandi
to accept permanently zapped chance of
lifetime to experience wealth (poof! gone
within a flash) instant karma at the least
managed to evoke fickle, nimble, and
worthwhile poet to build splendiferous
castles in the air.
Placed strategically close
to suburban hedgerows,
elderly backyard mavens
nourish generations of groundhogs.
Daily the grass is seeded
with 'Puffcorn Delites,'
bought wholesale from Costco,
An elderly lady died last year.
I see her at night,
as I take out the trash;
a small possum-like shadow.
The ladies seem to me
to grow more like the marmots,
and I wonder if I will ‘turn’ any time soon.
I think I could live quite comfortably
as a whistle-pig.
I dreamed that the widowed ladies
had put a spell upon our local critters.
By some manner of black-arts
had married themselves to woodchucks
and other medium sized mammals.
The late bewitched Mr. Mason
has dug a cubby hole
from which he peers
myopically each evening.
Archie Smith stays
amid the shrubbery
where he can read
the odd moonlit almanac.
Fred scratches his head
with a rear claw
contemplating eternal vows.
They show up at mealtimes.
Furred paws in tartan slippers
shuffle at back doors.
Herbal tobacco scents night airs.
A grey whiskered fuzziness
permeates the Autumnal evening.
Do I wake or sleep?
The widows lay their heads near
to this enchanted nether land;
snore in harmony
with their nearby furry loves.
All here snuggle close
to the roots of this
mist conjuring season.
The child that I was once,
Was a much pampered one
One who thought life would be always
Like it used to be, surrounded on all sides
By love, care, comfort and accompaniment!
The child that I was, hated her school,
Merely because she was too much of an introvert
Unable to open her mouth to friends in her class
Unable to lift up her eyes to glance at the teacher
Unable to even walk comfortably on busy roads!
The child that I was, had an early fright of life
Wanting to be always hand held,
Shuddering at the mere thought of someday,
Having to be and to behave, as an adult would!
Why, the child wanted to remain as one, forever!
The child that I was, wanted to work as a book creator
Though such was blurry in her mind, hovering as a cloud would
Yet, she let herself fancy the lives of princesses saved by princes
All being so charming, all promising a stability as would one feel
In a God constructed bubble, in which one would only love and live!
For Contest My Youth
Sponsored by: craig Cornish
Written on 8th December 2018
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
Infinite pitch black void zooms,
I vacillate to pitch headlong (head over heels)
where freedom looms
large (think) cosmic size grand canyon grooms
espouses, and cloisters unbridled wedded bliss
structured sound of silence booms.
Dawdling against inevitable fate
temporarily holds in check (mate)
eternal salvation woebegone
grievance to ameliorate
repurposed conscious being (me)
sanguine reunion ridding travesty
once for all ascending soul asylum gilded gate
consanguinity amidst deceased brethren
impossible mission to discern,
thus I equivocate.
At long last doomed existence
finally fancy free and footloose
Earthly afflictions divine creator
severe trials and tribulations let loose
promise body, mind and spirit triage
damn physical, mental, and
spiritual afflictions permanent vamoose
yoked Sisyphean and mephistophelean woe
summoning herculean strength
(mine) to vanquish
courtesy (halloo) gibbet welcome noose
necks stop outer limits analogous cooked goose.
Neither family nor scant friends twill mourn
severance outlook linkedin inextricably forlorn
accursed psychological agony since I got born
incessantly pilloried courtesy bullies hood scorn
yours truly convenient scapegoat raked over hot coals
preferable versus insidious,
nefarious, and opprobrious
suffering post traumatic stress disorder wartorn
invisible battle scars branded me, yet well worn
shell shocked comfortably numbed skull
jimmied heavily inebriated distilled, cracked corn
trumpet silenced (think) muted horn.
Anger at self wells up
regarding passive stance (mine)
convenient akin to jellyfish,
and/or crustaceans without spine
essentially a dorky nerdy wimpy kid
i.e. faulty genetic design
unsure if attributable to Capricorn zodiac sign
essentially allowed, enabled and provided
easy excellent access akin to scavengers to dine
bitter draughts synonymous quaffing quinine
figuratively forced down gullet - nein
letup liberally heaped upon
bobble headed, I opine
courtesy 20/20 hindsight, a tangential pact
with Sue S. Side, promising starvation diet
package deal plus absent I,
(now a tan gent) unwittingly did cosign.
NOW WHIZ THE MOMENT TO PREPARE TO SCRUTINIZE
MY WRITTEN ATTEMPT AND HOPE MY OFFERTORY
DISTINCT FROM OTHER GALS N GUYS.
thankful to enjoy genesis of thoughts
from whence doth spring germ
of an idea, that either takes root
(exhibiting potential to live with
arms strong) when just a tender
vulnerable shoot (ephemeral as notes
issuing from a magic flute)
within fifty plus shades of gray matter
per this fifty plus year ole coot?
This need dull in haste tack
search for source that gave rise
per process to enable *****sapiens
to think doth nag horse sense
of this poet as he initially digs shallow,
yet sometimes forced to spelunk
into crawl space narrow and shallow,
or shine laser focus into a chasm
teetering on brink (hunting down
gamesome elusive dodging catlike whims)
out pace readied whorled wide net
to capture alive agile rat fink unseen
quiet as a mouse notion gives hardy fellow
(quite a chase) scurrying thru micro
cosmic burrow of Manhattan skyscrapers
at a blink, said quarry vanishes
without a trace just as quick mental cogs
and wheels generated riveting link
connecting bot sized tinker toys pinging
within cerebral cortex appearing random
as nonsequiturs conscious kinks via
distracting ability to latch onto awesome
fleeting mindspace inducing minor frustration
at lack of ability to nab (albeit painlessly)
zinc shimmering insight cognizant ability
likened to ode to Grecian urn vase frieze
depicting ever closely captured thought
process, cuz lifespan shorter than a wink
king third eye blind comfortably numb beatle browser.
I used to be a curate in, and Beaky
named a North York’s town
while taking a sip of his beer
and eying the company round.
We knew there was a story coming.
We could tell by the look on his face
and the way he squirmed and wiggled
his backside comfortably into place.
There were quite a few cremations there
and I was baffled and just didn’t know
why every hearse cab seemed to be
a travelling soft fruit show.
There’d be a basket or bowl or bucket
full of finest orchard fare;
but they were always empty
when that hearse left there.
When I‘d served my time,
was felt to be a man of trust
they let me into the secret
and I laughed near fit to bust.
This was thrifty Yorkshire
and nowt went to waste
so they used the constant heat
to brew some wines of taste.
I remember my feelings of pride
that very first time
I tried the first sip of
my own crematorium wine.
The labourer’s worthy of his hire and
they‘d all have been chuffed if they knew
their final act of departure
enabled a fine home brew.
Beaky finished his pint
accepted appreciative grins,
muttering it’s nearly time
whose going to get them in??
To The Rev Kenneth George Beake
R.I.P. Ken - we had some good times together.
I can think of no better contentment that can be had,
Lounging in my robe and slippers comfortably clad,
Than relaxing by the hearth in my favorite chair,
Gazing at the dancing flames, ah, nothing can compare!
A winter storm rages outside piling up drifts of crystal snow.
I checked the thermometer and it read twenty degrees below!
But what care I as we settle in for an evening of respite,
Sipping Berringers White Zinfandel on this Holy winter's night!
We reminisce about the past and things for which we aspire,
Dreamily watching the glowing embers of the dying fire.
With music softly playing and the lights turned down low,
I light my pipe, savoring the aroma and its mellow glow!
I make room for dear old Simba as he curls up on my lap,
Purring contentedly and taking his usual evening nap.
My spouse prepares a bowl of piping hot popcorn for a treat.
I couldn't ask for anything more to make the evening complete!
In the autumn of my life, such simple times I truly treasure.
With my love by my side, I'm satisfied beyond all measure!
The grandfather clock measures time in its inexorable way.
Oh, that time would stand still that I could forever relish this day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Linda-Marie's "Holiday Hearth" Contest - November 2011
when the sky breathes poetry
through sepia-streaked silence,
and the earth reclines, listening
to the music of weeping wisterias~
blowing in the pulse of bleeding paradise,
I swallow sizzling stars
within cloaked scars,
comfortably blanketed
in self-woven wounds.
while you, the prisoner of my past,
keep revisiting empty journals,
lacking crystalline colors of comfort.
as crimson are the lines
across pages of pain,
and rhymes left unwritten~
stretching through margins of misery,
like flowers blooming amidst rain,
like fireflies flickering neon dreams,
oblivious to the darkness
that tastes like delicate storms,
gusting with glistening grief,
undressing dusks shivering
in blazing frost…
O tulip trinkets,
echoing ballads of brokenness~
I ache to surf through crooning chaos
in serene seclusion,
away from the fickle wind and
unseen waves, tortured by
twisted tunes of twilight.
I’ve long been the voice of love,
unsaid, intoxicated on life’s
whimsical woes~
a ghost of a wilted rose,
robed in restless redolence,
befriending demons within,
as shadows too
abandoned the healing
chambers of angst,
reluctant to sway
to chamomile chimes
of euphoric gardens
where roots of ruins
are watered with tanzanite tears…
perhaps the moon
was never mine to keep.
and in this distant affair,
I sing sparks of sorrow
to the soul of salt-kissed sapphires,
wishing the world could comprehend~
how peace is neither a lily nor a bird,
but a weathered tree
stuck in the forsaken
sands of felicity,
an eloquent ambience
where I thrive
in bittersweet solitude…
remember me ~
when clouds veil saffron
of the sanguine sun
and the zephyr forgets my name,
I remain the mistress, dressed in
distressed diamonds,
not a seeker of superficial lies
glazed in greed and gold,
I trace trembling chakras of torrents
with ink and sighs,
exhaling lunar-dust,
like a maestro of yearning,
perfectly flawed and unrefined,
still healing ~
tied to the faded lips
of an
enlightened constellation…
We have our routine to perfection
Our way of saying I love you and
Wouldn’t want to live without you
We’re a strong solid team you and I
We are going to make it through this
Home is when I’m with you
The incessant flow of aches and pains
All those appointments and treatments
We don’t blow things out of proportion
Or make a fuss about how things used to be
We’ve moved on taking it one day at a time
Home is when I’m with you
Now when my arms wrap around you
Softly resting your head on the pillow
We simultaneously raise your legs
Gentle as a ballet that’s well rehearsed
Swiveling you comfortably in bed to rest
Home is when I’m with you
I bundle you in warm cozy blankets
Cuddle up with whispers well into the night
Pressed one against the other
Caressing the nook of your neck
Spooning you till one of us falls asleep
Home is when I’m with you
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~CAN'T IMAGINE~ 2020
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on April 18, 2019 for contest VERSES OF METAPHORS 3 sponsored by LU LOO - RANKED 1ST