Long Doled out Poems
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Bedlam and mayhem in the mistress's boudoir
(Nsync with variations on a theme:
various and sundry
pseudo lurid fictitious escapades)
mostly I did merrily wet
whet madness aye ever did dream.)
The missus personal trappings
strewn helter skelter
every perilous step fraught
with danger analogous
riding as passenger
with death cab for cutie
'course thy quasi bohemian rhapsodic Queen
of denial feigns ignorance
attributes hazardous condition
linkedin with accident prone
little lord Fauntleroy's
double doppelganger, me
trumpeting pet husband,
her unrequited germane Liebchen
willing to risk life and limb
doting hand and foot
as proper husbandly duties.
He (ahem... me) exhibits drama
whimsically visiting slapstick pantomime
especially pretending to remove sneakers
pulling with all my feeble strength
off little feet of wife
half-heartedly struggling,
lamely denouncing marriage
nevertheless conveying jollity
regarding marital entrapment
er... rather unbridled wedded bliss
constituting fits and starts enduring
about two dozen years.
I reciprocated amorousness,
whether toward MaryAnne,
(his long ago coldly dismissed
sagacious enchanting first paramour,
(half a dozen years my senior),
whose astrological forecast
accurately predicted promising
acquaintanceship/relationship
potential soul mates
(two score years ago -
gone to naught),
which latter aforementioned humble lass
decried he fomented
incessant emotional grief,
he cruelly (albeit unwittingly)
doled out nothing
but lackluster lovelessness
attributed to identical zodiac signs (Capricorn)
(matter of fact shared same birth date
January 13th - six years age difference)
stubborn misconstrued perception,
whereby fancy free and footloose
selfish nasty short brute nevertheless
deemed himself undeserving of love - humph!
Addeneum: Approximately four decades
re: one quarter century after
aforementioned baptismal initiation
love stricken paroxysm
forty fifth president of United States
took (i.e. plagiarized) many pages courtesy,
cruel playbook authored
by Matthew Scott Harris,
I was reminiscin' the other day about times that were more sublime,
And got to thinkin' about those old stores called Kresge's Five and Dime.
I recall browsin' through Kresge's Stores as a lad with Mom and Dad.
There ain't no more Kresge's Stores as far as I know and that is very sad.
There was a Kresge's in every sleepy town along Main Street.
Sittin' on a stool at the lunch counter was always a special treat.
Munchin' on a hotdog and tater chips and then a slab of cherry pie,
Or maybe a sundae concocted by the soda jerk would lighten up my eye!
Notions galore were displayed on tables, bins, racks and shelves.
Friendly clerks stood by to help but folks generally helped themselves.
The cashier put yer money in a tube that sailed off into space,
And in a trice returned yer change from some mysterious place!
I recall the squeaky wooden floors and visitin' the store at Christmas time,
When Santa Claus doled out bags of candy to kids at each Five and Dime.
Alas, those neighborhood stores have been replaced by huge national chains,
And only pleasant memories of Kresge's Five and Dime Stores remains.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Recall the straight and well-planned path of youth
mapped out so clear to lead us through life’s maze?
Though times I wandered off in prankish craze,
the road was there to find again in truth
when pangs of guilt nagged like an aching tooth.
I'd walk it once again, my heart ablaze,
spurred on by welcomed glory, love, and praise
doled out by elders from their judging booth.
How soon the road meandered here and there,
its outline—fuzzy, overgrown with weeds;
and when I think I've walked it at my best
those detour signs appear to bring despair.
Mature, I now must choose to suit my needs;
my only judge- a conscience well at rest.
April 25, 2015
Premiere Contest: Once More I Failed The Truth
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Form: Petrarchan Sonnet: a-b-b-a-a-b-b-a c-d-e-c d-e
She lived beside the old temple that has stood
For years on the rocky bank of the silent river
Flowing all through the lining greenery cover ,
The woods and the arable land rich and good ;
Years ago she was the landlady ruler, across
The several hamlets, who doled out for free
What they asked for -grains, clothes in a spree
And never cared for the end - gain nor the loss
It was an abrupt outbreak, an epidemic dreary,
That effaced the strugglers picking by lot ;
The good landlord was the first to be caught ;
For no cause, nor reason he became weary;
Leaving behind his suffering soul sans a child
And all his countless riches for her to cherish ,
He finished his spell with no joy, so to perish
Alas ! the fate what else could be so ,so wild..!
There were mixed feelings and selfish amity
When the folk got more than what they sought
Coaxing the lady with ease and plea distraught
Soon she was homeless, yet in sound sanity,
Serving unbiasedly, the destitute, needy poor
Beyond all her ability and resource limit
But never was there a lapse nor any null remit
As the noble soul dwelt on healing their sore
Decades elapsed since, but for no change;
A slight cry of suffering reaches her soon :
And she rushes to them be it night or noon ;
None forgets that she is on the eighty range
Oh God! how strange are these facets of life!
While some chase far, the void and the futile,
Ever seeking somehow just their needs vile,
Noble beings but breathe for those in strife.
On the dismal day --- recall the rustics around,
She was carried away by the floods too wild,
As she tried and saved a drowning child ,
But lost her stance to the unsparing ground;
Hue and cry ,and searches wide found her not ;
A lamp is lit on the chosen day on her door sill
And many offer their prayers thereabout still :
More for favours than in memory of the spot.
“Doing the little things can make a big difference.”-Yogi Berra
**************************************************************
A Tipping Balance
Dipped down the depth of a ditch by vile men
And shattered by the heartless hands of fate
I swayed with hope at the tip of one end,
At other, dark despair drowning me straight.
It was a tough tug of war with despair
Oft driving me to doors of depression
And hope at times lifting me up from scare
Of sinking in stormy seas of tension.
In time the flame of faith in the divine
Doled out a tipping balance towards hope
That did in my life steer some streaks of shine
And altered the contours of my life`s scope.
Now with hope and the flame of faith aligned
The tipping balance rests with the divine
airing zeal! If (dog forbid) the richly paid, namebrand
looming kneecapped kneeling illustrious giant egghead
con cussed career athletes fumble, crumble and bumble
spelling a loss for those spectators (who doled out
a wad of cash) quickly make collective disappointment
known by cursing, first in loin, odiously reprehensible,
unacceptable wimpy yikyaking atrocious carpetbombing
expletives. As a casual observer (albeit also participant
within the human league of billions within the culture
club sans crowded house), no shortage of opportunities
avail themselves to scrutinize the man knee ting man
contention upon this oblate spheroid (densely populated
globular planet), these myopic brown eyes of mine need
not pay per view to witness austerity, depravity, gravity,
et cetera manifold gamut of Primate (particularly Homo
Sapien) behavior. Raucous, querulous, perilous, obnoxious,
notorious...actions prompt me to intervene as referee.
I would fear for my life if one to many excessive acts
of kindness would require specialists to scrape my pan
caked body electric off the sidewalk. A similar outcome
would most likely transpire if this totally tubular troubadour
disgust religion. As a tried and true value adherent of atheism,
a vociferous, rapacious, nefarious, jackass, fractious Bible
thumping religious dogmatic character would expend every
last ounce of fire and brimstone to proselytize me. Thus
when infrequently conversing about one or the other
aforementioned verboten topics de jure, I consciously
exhibit genuine indifference keeping mum. Obvious
quietness sidesteps ugly wickedness.
Your anonymous, curious, erroneous garrulous, hip poe
potty mass stir wordsmith Matthew Scott Harris
Form:
My long ago mother
used to string together cheap jewelry,
baubles and glitter threaded onto silvery strings
for a begrudging merchant
who kept a cramped second floor office
near what I later knew as Smithfield Market.
I would go with her
for I had nowhere to go but with her.
The very thought of 'nowhere' now
fills my mind with the muddy puddles
I used to jump into as we walked for miles
to a place where she sold
her time absorbing, paid for hourly
and tedious labor.
A place where an elderly, sour
and sniffing man doled out
a few coins into her open hand.
A scant amount and never enough of it
for us to ride a London bus
back to where we came from.
Wordsmith's worst nightmare
fortunately thwarted courtesy
mine tall tale telling flair.
Mine irretrievable brilliant masterpiece...
all for naught after mental cogs and wheels
I did apply creative juice metaphorical grease
regarding tour de force pièce de résistance writing
forever lost to the annals of human history.
So much for escaping to paradise island
(Garden of Eden) and experiencing zen
Impossible mission to earn untold yen
concerning prosaic poem/ poetic prose titled
The old battleaxe and her henchwomen
irrecoverable linkedin to sinking feeling
hours, days, weeks... all spent for naught
dharma bum - me got doled out unfair
injustice though scoreboard (tabulating
when yours truly acted immoral) oddly even
Steven after I repented against
marital infidelities nearly cost priceless
paternal love of daughters, whereby
their father experienced
suicidal ideations thought
to drown his sorrows
overdosing on fen-phen.
A transcendent awakening
occurred within noggin of one simian
a clothed outlier caged within human zoo
predicated upon his overactive imagination
inextricably favorable ratings did woo,
albeit ephemerally savored renown, and true
value viz his great Magnus Opus,
whereby riches couped courtesy
brief brush with fame and glory
found countless people lined in queue
(and moment of morning glory
subsequently slipped
thru gnarly butter fingers
symptomatic of nervousness
exhibited courtesy an aspiring Nehru
case in point my pal Joey, a kangaroo
dear reader pardon
tardy greeting regarding helloo
cuz decided against formalities,
a nonestablishmentarian he doth eschew
no ghostly chance I merely utter boo!
Unlikely I scared
the living daylights out of you,
nor would that be intent
regarding self taught amateur
practitioner of voodoo
I rarely if ever cast spells,
nevertheless yours truly
still under probation
and peer review
so breathe easy, cuz Matthew
Scott Harris would hate
to tarnish reputation of Guru,
that charming humble fellow
he taught me wizardry.
The howling winds of March
Furious gusts of air
mightily blow bestirring anchored poet
sitting comfortably numb
securely strapped in his hard to maneuver
easy bath chair
while all around him debris
strewn helter skelter everywhere
heavy objects unmoored
pirouetting topsy turvy
defying laws of physics
cue Adam Smith
courtesy his invisible hand
eulogizing, kickstarting, and regulating
unseen cogs and gear
in order to avoid being plucked up
analogous to whirling dervish
ye dear reader best don
top of the line name brand ironware
to fend off soundcloud
analogous to webbed
whirled wide rooky banshee
hounding kingly bishopric
inducing royal knightmare
whereat pawns called play
as damage control representatives
ultimately linkedin to medicare
for bodily harm suffered
and property destruction
doled out courtesy Nationwide Insurance,
nevertheless yours truly
experienced heightened anxiety
cuz I accidentally, casually, easily,
et cetera eavesdropped,
though a polite gentleman (boot no scholar)
loud talking policyholder
anyone could easily overhear
their strident vocalizations
and they owned chutzpah to *****
re: me for listening to conversation
threatening with abominable language to scare
living daylights, which nearly caused
writer of these words
to soil his underwear
such vociferous threats
wrought quick thinking defense posture,
whereby my ordinary shy demeanor
empowered after downing
powder milk biscuits
(cuz heaven's their tasty)
and declaring warfare
against being bullied
versus suffering as token scapegoat
most every year
from boyhood until emerging adulthood.
After crafting above lines
current generated via whoosh;
I sat mine hind quarters
(otherwise referred to the tush),
which signalled to Doctor Quackenbush,
(id est Groucho Marx)
not deficient with quick wit
whose hook, line and sinker
word of the day namaycush
helped one environmental seaman
high (fish) tail to Hindu Kush
where removal from madding crowd
spiritually inoculated one
with a profound hush.
Those who saw prairies bloom
Remember well the dams he built
Filling their abundant reservoirs
Growing harvests they cherished
Being the only bridge they had
Standing over turbulent streams.
When the nights reign moonless
And clouds churn mighty storms
Most people still remember him
As ray of light when they were lost
For he was their only lighthouse.
His words enlightened their hearts,
His actions charted pristine paths,
Defying fiercely allure of wrongs
Sacred was the sermon he doled out,
Illustrious was he~ held in regard.
Though he’s gone, he left his mark,
Some have heard his clarion call,
Inspired to follow in his footsteps,
Planting the seeds of his message,
Carrying his torch~ seeds to harvest.
Esteemed is their beneficent voice
Tolling of selflessness and sacrifice,
Dedicating to others purpose of life
Alleviating sufferings of human plight;
Keeping the flame of goodwill alive
Trekking through rains and clouds
Leading the way, guiding how to find
The rainbow on other side of sky.
March 17, 2022
Placed 1st: A Brian Strand 1092
Placed 2nd: Being A Light To Others Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon