Long Dredge Poems
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The Peterson Directed Handwriting System...
Tis beyond the depth and scope
of this electronic post,
and author, what triggers deliverance
housing bounty full memory absorbance,
yet no matter how many
heat sinks plumb cognizance,
most ordinary happenstance
often dredge up old nettlesome
rusty mettlesome names
of teachers forbearance
nearly half century ago
recalled in a flash,
and helped birth this poetic instance
break open literary
piece de resistance,
yet I will make
no subsequent reference
albeit once, about Peterson Handwriting
non cursively typed poem
filled with nonsensical abundance
dashed off viz seat
of my squarepants
typed, via strong arm lance
meant tubby considered pure entertainment,
so...,this rhyme merely hints
at cerebral imbalance
as minor rave and rants,
culled from convenient
20/20 hindsight stance,
while this quiet as bobbing sponge
minutely straddled across
space time continuum expanse,
and (analogously, invisibly,
plus quixotically perched circumstance
amidst wide webbed worldly metaphysical,
intellectual, and existential kants),
yet unable to disguise me
porous (poor ass) student advance
barely getting promoted,
cuz sigh re: Seine ed lee
imaged myself prince charming
to frolic and prance,
and dreamt about being in France,
when teacher called on me,
I immediately (whistled like
a little teapot) appearance,
whereby steam issued
out chrome dome
(scanned hull – i.e. numb
skull) affixed on
short and stout genetic grants,
which noggin always
(automatically) looked askance,
while me got alphabetically seated
from grades three to six
(mrs wells, mister stout,
missus shaner, and
miss rinderle respectively)
with absolute zero exuberance
(at Henry Kline
Boyer Elementary School,
I just recalled aforementioned
randomly accessed memory by chance
casually rifling thru
memory bank, freelance
sing, while pissing
away time performing,
"I gotta urinate dance,"
thus rendering painstaking years
perfecting penmanship style
(reference poem title)
executed with Liberace flamboyance,
whereat yours truly obsessively and
compulsively excelled at
duplicating signature compliance
plus crossing T's and
dotting I's with rapacious
perfectly ruled slants.
12/20/21
Ten hut!
Can't let up
Even though, it can get messed up
Really F'd up
Do not get fed up
Keep your head up
Stay sharp, don't get set up
Careful where a disagreement ends up
Heads up!
Many fast to wet up
From the legs up
To the neck up
Bleeding out a color similar to Ketchup
The proof was there or quickly got swept up
Prices continually went up
Falling behind, because you never kept up
Get your bread up
Often in life you'll have to step up
Sped up
Engines revved up
Couldn't let it go, so they dredge up
Old news they spoke and penned up
But I did my homework and read up
So you're about to get shred up
You'll never surface, even after a check up
Kept mine, others went against their own word
Too late to sojourn
At the point of no return
Due to a slow burn
Often went through the wringer
You'd think I've been on Jerry Springer
She wants the whole world and a gem on her finger
Meanwhile around the corner death always lingers
Hit them with another zinger
Hook, line and sinker
As I continue to tinker
Ya'll can be some stinkers
I always put on a blinker
Soon to give up being a daily drinker
Becoming a complex thinker
Avoiding any gold diggers
Feeling vigor
It's time I'm onto something bigger
Don't need to reconsider
Even though many are quick to pull the trigger
People continuing to bicker
Remaining bitter
Known as a fibber
Caught up on twitter
It's been pleasant or gotten sicker
Going well or down the s***ter
Staying clean or full of litter
A whole nation hooked
Easily getting cooked
And forsook
They never caught on or looked
Strength, dedication and heart is what it took
Couldn't find it all from a book
Had to put each foot
Through miles of soot
By the end they were shook
Or tried to portray me as a crook
Not a big fan of dungarees
Getting tired of all this gluttony
Too much redundancy
And puppetry
Still living sucker-free
Yet another attempted to humble me
So I got the upper hand suddenly
Their soul the devil took custody
I continued on triumphantly
Cautious of who's around as company
She's just a tease
And he's such a sleaze
Try to touch my cheese
Then the trigger of a gun I squeeze
Doesn't matter if you run or freeze
Gold Dredging
Early morning first light
Camped on the rugged, mountainous terrain
Out of our warm sleeping bags and tent we crawl
To the smells of pine and clean fresh air of the mountain
Wood starts a sizzling, spitting, crackling campfire
For early morning hot coffee and a warm breakfast
I Dress in tee shirt and swim suit,
Hubby is in his wet suit
We walked down to the creek
Pull the dredge into the creek and get it started
When he hits bedrock where gold might be hiding
I stand beside the sleuth watching the
Gravel run over the riffles
I make sure the riffles stay clean
So the heavy gold
Will deposit behind them and on the mat
I see the flash of color and utter excitement
I yell, “We've hit gold,” impatient
With my tweezers and small jar
For safekeeping and
I keep on cleaning
When the day is done, tired, wet, and weary as a drowned rat
We clean the miners mat into a bucket
By the campfire we sit and pan our gold from the black sand
After the hard day’s work we undertook, it is wonderful
To see all the sparkling gold dust in my pan
The same warm excited feeling
I felt when my husband placed
My gold wedding band on my finger
12/27/2014
Going through some old things that just had to go,
I came upon something that nearly got tossed.
Memories came to me from long ago. . . .
I thrilled that my treasure was no longer lost.
Toys come and toys go. In the 60’s, one fad
was to own an odd doll not seen much today.
This doll had long hair and was scantily clad
but wasn’t a Barbie with which I would play!
Its body was squat and it had a pug nose.
I probably loved it because it looked droll.
Its hair could be orange, green, yellow or rose,
but if you don’t know yet, that doll was a troll!
How I wish I could dredge up some memory
to know what was happening inside my head
as a pre-teen with friends and what it might be
that we did with those dolls and what fun things we said!
The trolls that I owned must have been at least four -
both sexes so they'd make a small family -
their hair different hues, each a doll to adore.
But one day they no longer mattered to me. . .
I can’t say where all of my playthings got stashed.
When I left for college, they vanished from view.
But knowing my mom, they must have got trashed.
She doesn’t hang on much to things like I do.
Now four decades later, I looked at my prize,
bare naked and smudged but its hair still jet black.
It stared up at me with its cute amber eyes.
I couldn’t believe how I got that thing back!
It somehow had ended up in my new state.
Good luck for that troll, I throw few things away!
That doll would be learning soon of its new fate
and meet other troll dolls with whom it would stay.
Just like Peter Pan, I refuse to grow old,
and new trolls I’d bought with long bright spiky hair
when troll dolls again in the 90's were sold!
But I had to recall where I’d stored them….. oh, where??
(I found the dolls and added the old one to the new collection,
but my daughter's family moved in with me a few months ago.
My daughter is a clean freak like MY mom is (apparently it skips
a generation or something), and my daughter took my troll dolls
and put them out of sight somewhere so currently they are floating
around who knows where!
For Paula Swanson's "Yard Sale" Contest
I watch as we all march blindly into the swells feet first,
scraping the ocean floor with drudgery
drowning in this academia, with starfish and sandcastles
and sentiments that wash away with each coming of the tide
We haven't always been as marching ants,
back to back and hand in hand
we've built this land from nothing
The past recedes and tomorrow rises,
time progresses: open minded
while we all dredge with stapled eyelids
still planning out our everything
Forever long, the brine blue tide is
always beckoning us onward.
Its too hard to tell when father time is
playing tricks on me.
The future is grim, the reaper's dead-bent
on harvesting the seeds we've sown
fathers who've passed on debt long owed
to sons who laugh hard while they hit the road
like water flows all the way to the sandbank
I cant help but wish on starfish sinking out to sea
that tomorrow is still a glass half-full of new surprises
vast and outstanding before me.
I took for granted the grand horizon,
full of beauty and hope, and a sun that still rises
over sandcastles crumbling into their counteraction
the certainty of sand that never sticks together long.
I took for granted the way that nothing is
the way it used to be
or was
or could've been
and how its all been done before
Can anyone look up,
when their feet are down
and they waltz on far less sacred ground
than those who came before them.
The nature of the ocean forms to fit its mold
with its blue hue reflecting bold
the sky and all its glory.
We march onward through the rivers rotting
with the raindrops spotting our overcoats
we march onward for the sake of stopping
sometime when we are old.
The ocean swells with the river's rot
the tide compelled the stars to stop
and the fish all cry as people keep on drowning.
The reaper is told to cut his losses
to save the few who still have conscience
and to try again tomorrow.
Tomorrow's glass, half-empty in want
is chock full of the river's rot
and the conscious few left fearful.
Form:
It’s over! Is your last sentence and final sentence.
You accused me of pushing you through the edges
Every time you’re giving up, I make a new entrance
Every steps closer is ruined by a thousand wedges
To remove my skeletons you need a stronger dredge
You tired of trying and overlooking my hawthorn hedge
In my vulnerability my guards are up or so you allege
My impenetrable walls constantly keep you up at night
You are done and you refuse to do one more pledge
You said it: the grasp of my past still hold me tight
Your eyes and your kisses melt away my prudence
Each touch makes me want to skip too many bridges
All these walls built for a better and stronger resistance
Your wit lightened my days and remove my trudges
Your smile lessen pains that I have yet to acknowledge
In your arms there's no doubt and no unwanted gledge
Your heat consumed me but don’t remove my privilege
Yet every time you step too close to my heart, I flight
Even when I know the pain instilled cut like razor-edge
Yes again: the grasp of my past is still a stronger fright
I have experienced the youthful and joyful exuberance
The blissful impudence pushing to take on Everest’s ridges
I’ve repeatedly been through the high of new romance
It always ended up in dysfunctional and painful smidges.
Each time my heart is abandoned like a broken sledge
So I can’t stop wondering if that soul willingly impledged
Isn’t a phantom of my past pushing me over one more ledge
For I have met you in another pretty face and amazing sight
But I was left with pain and unhealable scars, I acknowledge
You are right: the wounds of my past sill hold me in affright.
I can’t promise a better tomorrow without yesterday’s edge
I can’t crumple the walls that have worked to my advantage
But if you take me through the steps I’ll make it thru the night
I’ll follow your lead step by step, I know you and I can manage
Maybe the love in your eyes is enough to bring me to daylight.
Awakening From Pleasant Dreams...
No matter scant details recalled upon
arising from slumber, this even though
submerged into deep unconscious - (as
ifmine being plunged bajillion miles
subterranean catacombs) thoroughly
saturated with inaccessible facets of my
person then Poof – like a magic dragon!
Every last detail vanishes without a trace,
whence each eyelid slowly opens (never
jarred out sleep) - only my own Circadian
clock determines when (no idea how) body
electric (temporary property of mortal
christened Matthew Scott Harris) returns
yours truly to state of consciousness, or
thee closest approximation thereof, where
by sense and sense and sensibility minus
pride and prejudice immediately severed,
no longer linked tin (analogous to Internet
Error Code 404 - page not found) finds me
straining with might of Hercules - all in vain,
yet lingering drowsiness (torpor still main
training strong toehold) dissipates ever so
slowly, thus rendering ability impossible to
cogitate - quite helpful when reading or write
ting, and when cerebral clarity becomes
manifest...nary a whisper recollected, when
mean drama exploded within pitted cranial
fifty plus shades of gray matter parameters
suddenly vibrant rattletrap quiescence, a
proxy armistice snatching at lightspeed any
recollection rendering sleepyhead (non talking)
befuddled, confused, dazed... numbskull pre
vented (even with proper clearance) access to
top secrete, potential mutinous, juicy fruit
confidential data, which necessitates one
bushy eyed and bright tailed primate to scratch
his noggin with futility although well rested
fitful without ways nor means to dredge up
sunken treasures briefly uncovered during
stretch of time hide nave hoar did blink, none
zee less..., an enjoyable shuteye state of being -
allowing, enabling, and providing short lived
respite bearing down as if trying to shrug off atlas!
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
divining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
The Godliness of Adoption is...
Or is it not?
…A beautiful spring sprung floret of rose. A rose brought home from humanity's colorful garden of trust? Yet, it was not all that long ago when each cut stem, entrusted to its own gardener's worthy and caring hands?
Hands, now too soon stripped and emptied. Hands that were easily led astray by the coersions of now self-appointed zealots. They, with hands marked with ever stained bloody thorn pricked fingers, which now present each torn stem of rose on heaven-like sent pedestals; until met is a king's ransom; these thirty pieces of silver, being the ask of many an angelic bible-toting broker.
Adoption is...
Or is it not?
...An act next to Godliness when these disguised angels are loosed to search in the mist of this motherland? They, the finders of our pink and blue hued overflow spillage of souls.
This is the nature of guised humanity. Delicately does it assist society in the dredge of waiting collection ponds, pools of tears that gleamingly mirror you and I; and from where our memory should fill with sounds. The siren-like cries of which, now link with our distantly lost... ...or coldly disengage us of our not of want…
Adoption is...
Or is it not?
...The beautiful water lilys of pond? Those that so serenely float above an ever skimming conscience that is this God-fearing couple; a polarized complacency so sweetly lost amidst its own mesmerizing shimmer. They, fooled without inkling of shame. An innocence of eyes that fail to see transparency by such weakly given puruse. A view that cannot pierce the murkily veiled mire that hides just below its own watery reflection...
...And where underneath trails this tangled web that will soon unravel in route to tie with each long waited conscience…
Adoption is it or is it not our "Humanities with Consequence"?
New Jersey Identified Adoption shown as an open door will always yield to truth left on the threshold.
Perched on figurative shoulder...
taking devil's advocate stance...,
with sharp eyed cognizance
of course Joe King abidance!
Wild eyed traitor Joe Schmoe,
albeit Democrat subjects himself to grow
wing skepticism at impeachment show
whip lashed, viz strapping jock who stow
weapons of mashed destruction
expects at least one rotten tomato,
or "mother's petrified pop slop,
electronic brickbats, et cetera
hard as(s) bupkis targeting yours truly
smack dab rendering aspiring po'
wit smashing me face
courtesy final deathblow,
while pilloried vainly
waiting for... Godot,
cuz I must say impeachment travesty
appears triumphantly trumped,
where Nancy Pelosi will eat crow
proving Hillary Clinton's catchphrase
basket of deplorables apropos
aforementioned speaker of the house
tin pot dictatorial desperado
scuttling hither and yon to and fro
oddly enough even staking out
manhunt for Wizard of Oz
enlisting (right on the Dot) doggone toto
tense seat of pants increasing
stiff competition on all faux pas,
whereby freezeframe tableaux
icy (I see) as temperatures
dip down into five below
analogous to stop motion
projector manned by bonobo
sports petsmart stuff and struts
(think shock absorbed) ditto
Ringling Bros and Barnum
& Bailey Circus, where ma's yoyo
tricks, tracks, and trumps...
three ringed circus, nonetheless
(toe) nail biting suspense
amazingly graceful slick cameo
starring emperor donning
invisible new clothes
couture well worn portfolio
prosecutorial cadres itching
to dredge schmutz (quad) drilling,
and extracting ore region null
evidence upending forefathers status quo
appearing impressive bandying
sine qua non quid pro quo bingo
emphatic pedantic Latin Oh
though above named
language dead - Anglo
Saxon heavily and
will (yum) doth barr row,
especially to appear self important
those of the Senate
does saul full bellow.