Long Deftly Poems
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Who knew shredded paper...
alias confetti could be so much fun?
The misses took play therapy (hive
urgently got to tell thee)
to whole nother level,
she smartly, expertly,
deftly... didst contrive
at my expense - (to late),
when paramedics did arrive
abusive deadly torture,
I did not survive,
when she (Frau Abby) five
feet tall minus one inch
lobbed bajillion pounds
(analogous to many
a swarming beehive),
no matter I took strategic dive
buried yours truly alive
moments before perishing,
heard her banshee
cackling, hooting, kickstarting...
dancing spot on jive,
nonetheless mere seconds
before my demise did arrive
manage to scrawl illegible
plea broadcast across
icloud expansive ethereal
euphemistic hard drive
though unsure if
timely help will arrive
to resuscitate and revive
praying immediate por favor
very limited options more
or less absolute zero before
death be not proud doth score,
sad fate, I cannot ignore
salvation amidst desperation
doth tide dully shore
bolster faith no more
toward humanity - generally a bore,
maybe comeuppance,... thus I deplore,
premature demise grim reaper doth adore
yet perchance bottled message
throughout cyber sea reaches poor
or fabled lands i.e.
Zanzibar, Timbuktu, Bangalore...,
no especial rhyme nor
reason zee afore
saith place names mentioned
except they came to fore
front of noggin of this schnorrer
realizing United States marine corps
may also beg tubby enlisted,
viz search and rescue operations
even intervention papal monsignor
please communicate asap with pope,
now I bid thee good bye bonjour
beetle browed troubadour.
I loved Chuckie Egg because it reminded me of life,
With its principles which seem many when in strife,
But which are few, like seven or eight, alive and well,
Robust, vital and sensuous, and which you can sell.
Chuckie only had eight unique levels, were repeated,
They were repeated five times, with one culminated,
So there were forty-one levels, all very deftly arrayed,
For you to interact with, all of your dexterity displayed.
Life never demands too much, with the right people,
And level one let you eat all the hen feed and be feeble;
It let you skip needlessly like a child playing hop-scotch,
Allowing you to make mistakes and almost to botch.
You were supposed to feel like Hen House Harry, useful,
But sometimes I thought the caged bird related, frightful,
There were ducks who stole your corn and could kill,
Such that being caged was no fun, not needed, no thrill.
I was not having fun in a Christian family religious,
And felt like a caged bird squawking, a child rebellious;
When my parents thought I was having fun at services,
I just needed released from prison, such discrepancies.
I quickly rose to level nine, a repeat of the first level,
But the bird was loose and sometimes I him did bevel,
But i was never nasty to him but enticed him sometimes,
Using the elevators, purple ladders and jumps at times.
The golden egg reminded me of evolution, that it took,
And that every life was from a golden egg, not crook,
And I worked out that “What came first, chicken or egg?”
Was a creationist question and not an evolutionist peg.
The black background just reminded me of outer space,
Motional itself, so validating the motion of our grace;
It’s not what your background is that matters or sticks,
But what you do with it and impose on it, that’s the tricks.
i mistake the divine
as i tend
to worship your tune
let the music define
and then rend
what is left of me
tilt your neck against mine
do pretend
i'm all yours to wound
it's your touch on my spine
that may bend
all reality
rest the world
vacillate through the wires
and i'll spend
an aeon or two
harmonizing the ire
to augment
the trills properly
in staccato desire
your movements
cleanly cutting through
when you're truly inspired
you suspend
my breath entirely
and god heard
with such a gentle stroke
play your hands
on my throat
i'm a slave to the bow
fingers dance
cold and slow
with a grip on the scroll
trace the strands
carve the notes
an octave down or so
lay entranced
in my throes
the pegs turn
deftly scale through the length
of everything i am
when i'm your instrument; rosin-drenched strings
severed and bled
an insanity's musings
the echoes resonate within a dream
within my head
your sonata is playing
and when the music fades
will i still wake
or just be left
humming
Form:
One of our favorite Christmas traditions in our home…our habitat..
is to write everyone’s name on a separate sheet of paper and throw them in a hat.
On Thanksgiving the hat is shaken then passed around to everyone on the floor…
who pick the name of the person they’ll be buying a present for.
It’s a wonderful tradition born out of the desire to teach the meaning of giving
and the need for thrift…
as everyone only buys one present and everyone receives only one gift.
I’ve been known in my family to do a little magic and some pranks…this is true…
and this story is about the one Christmas I deftly combined the two.
Since it’s supposed to be a secret…the name you are assigned…
in the hat we passed around one Thanksgiving all the names inside it…were mine!
You see I was in charge of writing the names and passing the hat around too…
which made this prank and unexpected magic trick easy for me to do.
The hat was passed…the names were picked…my plan was working beautifully…
each family member opened their paper, read the name…and secretly smiled at me.
I would have eventually told the truth that night…at least that’s the story I like to tell…
but I never got the chance because it seems the members of my family can’t keep a secret very well.
I wasn’t there to hear their conversations…which, in retrospect, I am glad…
when Deborah found out she had me…
and all our children.. found out that they had Dad.
I had another hat ready…which, of course, we passed around then…
and I smiled wondering if my children…would ever trust me again…
Yesterday as is our tradition we passed the hat…
it went smoothly…as it always does
And I smiled…as I always do…
thinking about….
the Christmas that almost was.
in silence, we connect through gazes
knitted by starlit eyes ablaze
like dusk's luster wafting by the sill ...
and we need not ramble in paraphrases
of night’s canticle, while folded hands
caress the rhythm of twilight's melody.
how deftly breaths and fireglow understand
our same tunes, our same wafting waves,
gentle as entwined roots jutting out
from your palms, my bosom… together,
we feel the stillness of love from the same face,
and if our flesh doesn’t chafe in the peeling
of autumn’s chill , it’s because…
we have been soul mates
before time was ever born.
Your Best Poem EverContest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Written 9/24/2014 Resubmitted 6/19/2020
The Queen had seen a rainbow and she deftly leapt upon it
There she spotted Connie who was jotting down a sonnet
Connie smiled (which was her way) and recognised the Queen
She said, “Why don’t you wait with me and soon we will be seen.”
Up in Heaven Peter was stood waiting by the gate
He saw the Queen and said, “I rather thought you might be late.”
Soon they were in front of God who eyed them wearily
He said, “I’d thought today would be a nice day off for me.”
Peter said, “We’ve no-one booked but wouldn’t you just know it,
We’ve got ourselves a monarch and an international poet.”
He asked the ladies, “For our records, tell us who you are.”
The one that spoke said, “Okay, seeing as we’ve come this far,
“This lady is admired by people all around the world
She’s very kind and gracious with no insults ever hurled
She’s made a lot of friends in every land where she’s been seen
And if we could be friends I would be humbled…” said the Queen
You cannot know a person's strengths
When he is very young.
Which group with talents will he
One day find himself among?
The math or science whizzes
Or the athletes on the field?
The writers or artistic types
With pen or brush to wield?
You try a bit of this and that
To see what rocks his boat,
Remembering that your own choice
May not procure his vote.
And certain smile-inducers
May not last for very long.
You think you've found the perfect match
Yet find out you were wrong.
But at the moment, though it might
Be just a passing phase,
Henry is enamored of
The paths within a maze.
His pencil grip is wobbly;
Still, he navigates the lanes,
Avoiding traps most deftly
As some confidence he gains.
I watch him as he travels
From the start until the end
And I wonder at the mazes
That in life he'll have to wend.
I can't write nuttin' worth a damn on a full stomach!
Hunger pangs fuel mine poetic juices,
yours truly moost best be famished
resembling lovely bag of bones
beyond irreparable damage
wrought courtesy anorexia nervosa
nevertheless literary masterpieces
one written quick succession after another
profusely gushes forth
unstoppable tsunami surges rhythmically
metaphorically allowing,
enabling, and providing
voluminous water logged noggin
able, ready and willing
to burst infinite outpouring
at Möbius strip cerebral seams.
Hyperbole employed
regarding above attestation
regarding conducive bodily
state to whip out
acceptable, passable and
reasonable rhyming creation
to experience and
witness poetic emancipation,
whereby until the end
of time modest glorification
endowed upon me who
imbues vast majority inspiration
of contemporaries, plus unborn peoples...
imagine renowned said
author wannabe just for kicks
(sinks false teeth
into verboten rotten apple -
oohing and aahing yum zuck)
subsequently vicious rumor affecting
millions future generations
debauched learned primates
inescapably slide into behavioral mosh pit
analogous to eventual
senescent cellular detritus
sloughed off vis a vis keratinization
anyway figuratively swinging around
deftly cycling back thru
imaginary infinite jesting loop
unlikely neither chance fame nor fortune
promises me financial materialization,
nope, not even until hell freezes over,
nor when grim reaper feasts upon
*****sapiens obliteration
witnessing every flora and fauna
molecular repurposing quantification
simulates signifying universal recycling
umpteenth big bang occurrence
erasing all cosmic consciousness
nary trace left behind
encompassing collective satisfaction
since genesis wrought life forms
wherein primitive organisms
begot reproduction fast forward bajillion years
madding crowd punctuated
planet Earth avast urbanization
essentially branding oblate spheroid
viz totally tubular vinyl city westernization.
Marriage to alarmingly ballooning...
dramatically expanding spouse
Eats her weigh out of home and house
unsolicited feedback courtesy
yours truly, she does grouse
quite doubtful, she could pose
for playboy and/or penthouse
returning explicit volley
of trailing appellations lobbed
expletive laced epithets
directed at her husband the louse
in lame retaliation deftly
sparring as he doth rouse
himself out of his vittle catatonic state
thus muenster ring cheeses crust
squeaks (me) meek Mickey Mouse.
When I did pledge troth
after courtship she would not abate
aboot two dozen years ago
(spoiler alert) wheezing
heterosexually straight
half heartedly accepting her
asthma wife sne...
snee...sneezing mate
even then, she exhibited
appetite for consumption
defying four foot eleven
petite size and lightweight.
Now, she eats
non stop round the clock
stationing, lumbering, burgeoning
girth casting dock
shadows analogous to
edge of night
donning humongous frock
to allow growing room
for extra buttock
vacuuming any/all
comestibles in sight
downing, emptying, gulping
refrigerator contents chock a block
nearly suctioning him,
who doth tongue in cheek mock
think apple pie, yet for
grace of dog ad hoc
anchoring spindleshanks laughingstock
skinny chicken legs (mine)
with knees that knock
worse than concentration camp victim,
(this gentile Jewish atheist gently pock
king fun without intent to rock
the casbah, nor ethnically clash
mainly innocent poetic schlock),
nonetheless chicken legs
repurposed to anchor lock
stock and barrel Matthew Scott
madly flapping wings imitating flock
of seagulls to no avail
his flabby baby boomer
body, mum mama
followed dietary strictures touted by
the late Doctor Benjamin McLane Spock,
no matter, I got hoovered
into maw of tee misses,
who instantaneously
spit out awful poppycock.
woman on her scooter scoops chili
from her insulated bag
onto plastic plates
deftly juggling movement while the motor idles
wounded humanity, street people with shock eyes
that smash against the heat,
form a line
their off beat grins that recall the fertility
of hope
men accepting plates of food, paper thin pride
soreness in bony bodies that have no words for
self pity
stitched to her bike, she dispenses hot food for the
mercurial
in city streets, a sparse ground with patches
of charity
fertile soil for those tossed like bags in a storm
burdened by a brutal calm
devoid of the green weeds of ego
Poem composed: August 18/21