Long Disciplinarian Poems
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You came to give me a slap, your arm bent back,
with the back of your hand poised to 'shut my trap.'
I stood to rebuff you with anger, and schoolboy indignation.
How dare you bring reproach when you were so mistaken,
accusing 'scruffy' new boy of a smelly body pong -
because of race? - because you thought his face did not belong?
From Scotland was your reason. I was right that you were wrong.
I hated you then and was removed to a lower set.
Your obituary surprised me. Your father - 'a blacksmith
- and you sniffed, now I remember, quite a bit
-your prominent nose gave the nickname of ‘Punch.'
'A firm disciplinarian', you would brook no pupil's lip.
But I saw you often quietly slip up the hill during lunch
to see your girlfriend in a lay-by, sat waiting for each trip.
"No talking! Line up the desks along this floorboard,” you would boom.
“Do it quietly!" was your shout. “Now tidy up this room!”
You taught maths well and were admired by many, when you retired
- through ill health. “I am the old broom and the place needs a new broom.
It's just that the old broom still knows where some of the dirt is hid."
But especially this: 'He was a big man with presence, smelling badly
of carbolic soap, in need of sartorial assistance,' or so it was said.
Grandpa so full of love and warmth
Grandpa so full of wisdom and knowledge
Grandpa so full of yes white hair on your crown
Grandpa so full of care always brought me fruits
Bob we loved to call you and we loved you
Many a times your tongue spewing wisdom
We delighted in you we flourished with you
Grandpa i knew you well you were a judge
A judge in the traditional sense spewing wisdom
Not a judge of corridors of power and huge crest
A judge bound by honor and oath to rule justly
Grandpa we knew you as a strict disciplinarian
You are gone it's a decade plus a handful of years
Yet forever you are deeply cherished in our hearts
At the banks of Gihon you turned and looked back
A wise appraisal for the future you had oh Judge
CODE
Lewis K. Nyaga
A DEDICATION TO BOB
Inferiority Complex As A Kid And Adult!
I recall father, (now behold
at near ninety years old - maintains stronghold
on life, cuz born of sturdy mettle -
rumor claims bullion – ne'er did buckle nar fold
meaning bull + lion rolled
together and processed
April 9th, nineteen twenty nine),
fortune teller foretold
envious longevity, perhaps
just shy of eternity
older than anyone polled
occasionally got a bit
short tempered as patriarch
( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime)
over any five members of Harris household
with me, and timid, meek,
and fawning did scold,
and mother, (who passed away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told,
sans November 13th, nineteen thirty five),
no matter both parents (more mom)
did abhor applying stronghold
tactics vis a vis corporal punishment,
though the late Harriet Harris, not so gold
din as totally carefree disciplinarian
confessed many moons ex post facto lost hold
of her appreciable tolerance,
than quickly crumbled like broken scaffold
after she spanked this monkey upon bony posterior
(an endearment, but NOT spanking
ever since mama did withhold
though kept pet name, which
ideally suited me as a little boy),
both her hands went limp and cold
apology immediately iterated,
cuz she felt mortified, and sold
reparation with self restraint
against further instances tubby brazenly bold
possibly contributed,
fostered, and inculcated mold
ding mine shy characteristic.
Me, this twangy nasal kid
(courtesy of split uvula we did
discover rather a speech pathologist
six grade minor congenital defect
i.e., submucous cleft palate), aforesaid
I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
this vulnerability compounded amid
my undersized and socially withdrawn demeanor
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid!
The Moon’s Yellow Eyes
After: The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers
Situations righted by the assassination in Sheepshead Bay (alibied with difficulty under earth’s single moon), I curl up on the windowsill hissing at the pallid orb. Oh how, I long for my planet, Carcosa. I lick the remaining human poison from my claws. Yes, man-made poison, but I, I am the one who delivers— population control.
Wilde, my mate, our transformed intermediary, brushes my coat. I purr. How oddly complacent Wilde has become. Once, he too walked on four legs. After our arrival on Earth and his change (We thought the change would regrow the ear I tore from him in his last life—) my mate became no more than a castrato. I do regret the torture which deprived him of two fingers on his right hand. (It made his job more difficult.) But, discipline was necessary.
the pestle crushes
poison white snakeroot:
yellow eyes shine
Well, why am I telling you this? To that I would say, why not? Who on earth would believe a cat could talk?
The feline form has advantages in espionage. A petted and pampered puss can lure the reticent, overhear the loud-mouthed, two-footed, earthly baboons—with cunning, obtain information no human in their right mind would divulge to an enemy. As valet, advisor, disciplinarian to Wilde (and he to the earthlings), my position abides, a mere slap and tickle from the throats of power. My teeth, neck piercing weapons of choice; my claws scimitars of death drip with the blood of masters.
One more night out. Wilde cat-like licks the scar on his damaged hand and stares at the invitation stamped with the Presidential seal. One more night, sweet puss and the reign of The Yellow King will begin.
Published by Illumen 2016
My dad wasn't a tall dad
He was a loud dad to me
When he spoke
Up to Heaven struck
He was a loud dad to me
My dad the Earthly one
I had
Was a short short man
He was only five foot five
Oh, but what he lacked in statue
His voice climbed up to the rafters
My dad had a voice like thunder
People would duck their heads and wonder
He was a proud man
He was yet a humble man
Never ever would he mumble and
You'd understood every word
He would say and
When he spoke children stopped
He was a giant with his mouth
If you want order
Then you call on my father
He speaks with a voice like thunder
Children stop and ponder
Birds would go in their nest of the trees
Afraid of the wave of Mister Lee
What storms strong hypnotic eyes
With stern hypnotic eyes
Wasn't very tall nor wise
Had only a sixth grade education
In his teens he join the Navy
Thunderous voice of a just littleman
We so now thank you for your service
If you were his child, you're
Going to be in the house before the street light shine
Oh, you hear the voice
the Roar of thunder
Sound like a bass drum or guitar
He would make you wonder
When you turn around and see him
His voice was firm and strong, loud
my dad wasn't a tall man
He was a strong disciplinarian
A loud voicetress man
He wasn't with a tall dad
He was a loud dad to me
"all of us are on a journey and the answers are unspoken"
Quote by _Constance La France
As the world celebrates Mother’s Day with triumph
affectionately, I cannot but reminisce my Mom
Artencia (her lovely name) whose vitality upholds me up until now
affirmatively marking my steps along the way…
Always grateful am I to God for my interesting journey
asserting praises for giving me my Mom
along her unconditional love, nurturing and nourishing me well
around her womb at the onset of my existence…
Aware of Mom’s unceasing presence
ah, my heart found haven in her gentle hands
approved by her care, pacified by sweet lullabies
assuaged against fear, especially during visits to the doctors...
Apprehended with misbehavior as a child
assured am I to have Mom as disciplinarian and mentor
amidst her compassion, mercy and grace
ascertaining to impart virtues that I now have as orphanage guardian...
Accompanied by Mom along significant routes
armed was I with choices and decisions by her guidance
and while I confess my stubbornness, contradicting her, still I admit
actually, she aided me in my journey to become the woman* I am today.
Proverbs 31:30 “Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.” King James Version (KJV)
Dramatic Monologue with Alliteration of A
May 17, 2023
1st place, "Writing Challenge A Quotes" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 5/20/2023
That dormant feeling of insecurity arose,
when travel journal got thrust adjacent
to my tattered (holey tattooed) clothes
while I knew with crossed eyes
aroused anger from peaceful doze
my younger sister felt about her
globe trotting exploits, an over expose
jour ever since voyaging out on her own
after graduating top of her class
where mine hatred glows
indirectly snidely sneering
at ma dough less brother hoboes
(a 1979 Methacton High School alumni),
unanimously chosen valedictorian
dressed in Calvin Klein
Harris tweed, couture
and silk panty hose
like me prolonging, promoting
on par with quasi staff sergeant, who knows
artful disciplinarian gingerly launching rules,
asper formerly commanding G.I. Joes
and pronouncing, predilection
exhaling natural highs no lows
traveling solo, with surviving Wilburys,
or just mows
zing nonchalantly
(though a foreigner) with swarthy skin color
easily camouflaging as civilian
all points on the compass,
where minute needle doth nose
upon returning home (being honorably feted
at once glorious estate of Glen Elm,
where she did propose
to the Lord Taylor (swiftly), which location
situated at 324 Level Road, Collegeville,
Pennsylvania 19426),
thence a great huzzah a rose
an immediate nauseousness welled
within from me head tummy smelly toes
I did not want to here, or see any details,
which would accentuate personal woes
popping, snapping, and smarting,
and slapping skin raw tib bits,
ache'n to yanked strings
of mama's heirloom yo-yos!
Poet Script:
trials and tribulations,
visited upon head of young
concocted ("FAKE") gusty and gutsy
kid sister enterprising ingenue,
christened easy on the tongue
Sharodd (not her real name),
to top off talents sung
like a professional opera singer, which rung
a shiver along small hairs of spine did tingle
heard all the way to Lake Woebegone
where bachelor farmers did mingle
every Christmas, a decreasing
number donned Kris Kringle
hit with blitzkrieg of yawping brats
hoof pranced to bell weather jingle!
Spank your children, spank them good.
Spank them as you know a good parent should.
"Wait until your father gets home," is a phrase I'll never forget.
I was spanked as a child and it taught me respect.
Never ever feel guilty for spanking your children.
You're not being cruel, you're enforcing discipline.
When you spank your children they will end up better for it...
.. although many also go on to live their lives awfully traumatic.
The truth is that whenever any parent spanks their children
they do so for only one specific reason
and it has absolutly nothing at all to do with enforcing discipline.
That is simply an excuse for justification.
Parents spank their children not as a disciplinarian pretense.
Parents spank their children because they lose their patience
but cannot admit to that moment of weakness,
because it's easier to spank them and silence their protests.
Squickleby Pickleby
Nicholas Nickleby
loses his Father and
feels quite forlorn.
Ralph his tight uncle a
disciplinarian
mean to the marrow
regards him with scorn.
Nicholas, penniless
uncompromisingly
works as a master where
boys take the flack.
Nickleby fears for the
safety of orphans there
rescues a cripple and
never looks back.
Granted this ending is
unsatisfactory
Dickens had plenty more
meat to this tale.
So to all readers I
send my apologies;
These double dactyls are
tricky travail.
01.01.2021
Based on the novel 'Nicholas Nickleby' by Charles Dickens
Double Dactyl (Win For Paid Membership) Poetry Contest
Sponsor : William Kekaula
Catch 22 was fiction
Appealing to a humour like mine
But there was nothing very funny
About Section 69.
The army ran on regulations.
Obey them and you'd be fine
But, beware of that ubiquitous
Queens Regs Section 69.
Devised for situations
Where no others would fit
It took daring luck and skill
To wriggle out from under it.
If they wanted to get you
And couldn't find a way
Section 69
Was brought into play.
Conduct Detrimental,
Which was never defined,
Conduct Unbecoming,
All under Section 69.
A face that didn't fit,
A body deemed too tall,
It didn't really matter
69 covered all.
Two left feet,
A big hairy nose,
Sticky out big ears,
Yes it covered all those.
Every single squaddie
At sometime would meet
That fanatic disciplinarian
With his blank charge sheet.
The only defence really
Was to outrageously lie
if the CO was in good mood
It might just get you by.
So many situations
That were hard to define
But in the end there was always
Good old Section 69.
Catch 22 was fiction
Appealing to a humour like mine
But there was nothing very funny
About Section 69.