Long Eagle eyed Poems
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There is an eagle flying
above a pure blue lake,
white head with a brown body,
and long feathers, proud and straight.
On its feet are long talons,
finest yellow you can find,
they’ll strike like a rattlesnake
if you give him a hard time.
Many critters look at him,
from the ground and from the trees,
they marvel at the eagle
and how it always flies free.
The eagle has its purpose,
and it has its normal prey,
most animals are all right
if they stay out of its way.
But rats and snakes despise it,
as they scurry in the dirt,
fear the eagle may come down
as they go about their work.
They burrow deep underground
to escapes its slashing feet,
and curse that there’s an eagle
who’s forever flying free.
Some predators don’t like him,
as they’re out hunting the weak,
since the eagle will hunt them,
diving down with a large screech.
They can’t prey on everyone
when the eagles fly up there,
have to fear for their own lives,
stick to shadows, move with care.
As long as there’s an eagle
there are places they can’t be,
they hate that something that strong
is allowed to just fly free.
Some small birds hate the eagle,
and annoy him when he flies,
you see them in small numbers,
making short, half-hearted dives.
Though they’re much like the eagle,
they’re still fearful of his strength,
the eagle just rolls his eyes,
has no need to target them.
Wonders why they don’t get it,
they are high up but don’t see
that you always need eagles
high above and flying free.
Sometimes even the eaglets
will look at these other birds,
and want to be just like them,
with the eagle finds absurd.
Why would one embrace weakness
in a world that preys on it?
The small birds all get eaten,
snakes and rats will do their bit.
They’re young and lack perspective,
eagle-eyed but they can’t see
that they were born true eaglets,
that they’re destined to fly free.
Without the eagle up there
things will quickly go berserk,
if your take out an apex
ecosystems do not work.
Too many rats and snakes crawl,
fox and coyote run amok,
killing all that they can get,
you will not find hare or duck.
Until that lake and its shores
become barren and empty,
you need that eagle up there,
and you need him to fly free.
Sassy sobriquets schooled sissy spindleshanks...
studious sexagenarian skinny scruffy scribe
My utmost humblest apology
for inducing the following
cerebral calisthenics upon your cranium,
but the cost of friendship
with yours truly
(me – a foo fighting,
eagle eyed, beatle browed, beastie boy
christened Matthew Scott Harris)
doth newt come
like some hootie and the blowfish
super tramping
cheap trick linkedin to
wings at the reo speed wagon
spinning zz top soundcloud.
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sing,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning smartass,
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
The window lets in an odd solitary ray of light,
Of timid color, a cusp between twilight and night.
It lands hesitatingly on the golden tip of my pen,
and then blasts into the iris of my eye, half open.
Startled, I squint but soon realise its but a reminder,
That the affairs of the day, I should soon surrender,
And be on my way, to the place I call home,
For it'll be a few hours of a tiring roam,
Through the gentle gloam before I can see its dome.
‘No, no, it’s too early,’ I grievingly mutter.
As I try to gather the notes scattered asunder,
From a pale and oft molested whiteboard,
To weave them into a crisp, meaningful report.
One that I must present in the new-born morn,
Not sleepy eyed, to eagle eyed executives of power,
Attired smart, in a confident and assured tone,
Their queries must I field, without a cower.
It had ripped me from my sleep, the phone,
With its unrelenting wail at dawn,
At it again, with a sweet jingle and a message lone,
With goosebumps, on me it does finally dawn,
That I will be a prisoner of my chair until dawn.
I shake and then scratch my head; i blink and then close my eyes,
It’s too much to cram in too short a time, they cry.
I slam my fists and then take a deep breath,
to let those fumes of anger dissipate,
and let my fingers dance on the plastic array of alphabets.
At half past ten, with my eyes heavy and swollen,
I decide to reclaim what’s left of the day,
And be on my way, to the place I call home,
For it'll be a few hours of a tiring roam
Through the rainy night before I can see its dome.
Its half past two, before I hit the bed,
With the after taste of a hastily devoured supper, in my mouth,
I steal a quick glance at the screen, out of habit,
With a frown, I shake and then scratch my head,
No revert yet, on the 'urgent' report.
Four hours hence, the phone wails again,
Jolted from my sleep, I blink and then rub my eyes,
‘Sorry, but could you stop by a bit early?’ he prays,
In despair, I rip me from my sleep, to begin yet another day.
They stand erect on the hill side listening to a jubilant ceremony saturated in the wind and the lake side spilling waves of hope over amplified sound while the residue of life scampers all over the town.
The dead has come back to life and they stood silently reminiscing the long journey, varicose veins swollen with blood protrude from their hard frame and expression of hope covers their faces.
I watch the wind dancing from tree to tree and the eagle-eyed bird with its strong beak flew to the ground picks up a pelican and disappears underneath the clouds. Heavens bursting up at its side and mother ducks and her duckling swim gallantly over to the other side of the river and the moon were their guide.
I saw them standing in the backyard dressed in hard barks straining in heavy artillery at its root and a man getting ready to shoot. He pulled out his fire arm and polished it and put it back in his waist. He walked around aimlessly cutting the grass with the sharp look in his eyes
I walked by lake side and stood there for a while and all of a sudden the water turned blue. It flows vigorously downstream and in the center of it strength abide.
Autumn hopes lined both sides of the street absorbing the heat and mesmerize my heart beat. The colorful leafs hang solemnly on branches decorating the entire town, reminding the people that autumn was around and winter was waiting in the wings with heavy snow pile upon its back and little children playing in yard and flinging up their decorative frocks. Suddenly the phone rings and the epiphany walked through the door and a beautiful sensation fill the air sending smiles and kisses everywhere and the celebratory love, shout and scream and all emotions were revealed. Autumn hope is here.
patented genuine leather gloves
captivating our boyhood heroes
those same gloves flailing about
towards fly's we were supposed to catch
a glowing white ball with red thread
that begged to be rocketed into orbit
we dreamed of such heroics
pleaded to the God's for the power
most times we flailed there too
it was a tiny aspirin
that evaded mammoth sticks
eagle-eyed trembling lads tried and tried
at least three consecutive times
before retreating with lowered heads
and yet we swore we'd return
with vengeance upon our hearts
there were parents, encouraging
some hopelessly, others with zest
each and every ball pitched
held a lifetime of recollection to come
hopes that immortality would strike
inhale, swing....exhale, next
one by one we took our turn
learning life, the struggles, the joys
suckling each moment with precious breath
tomorrow didn't matter, this was the day
contact, wood upon a now scuffed ball
foulball the ump screamed!
a delightful sound
for it meant success
no matter how miniscule
clapping, smiles broad as the horizon
shoulder slaps, that a boy!
proud parents boasted
picnics were planned
even the diamond itself sparkled
it lived for moments such as these
ah the stories held within those fences
Part 2
thirty five years have gone by
our "field of dreams" now a grave site
ironic that coach Lou resides at homeplate
his stone reads "We lent him boys,
He returned young men"
a great tribute to his dedication
and love for the game
the grave yard littered with former players
however the mound lies bare
no hill, nor stone
only my own precious memories
one day, I shall play again.............
Flamboyant swashes; flaming crimson,
could be my face, as the flyswatter-hand
could impress such lettering upon my cheek.
so I
severed the crescent-angel of my imagination,
dashed my dreamy cursive, expunged the end;
held my breath as I curtailed the honey-alphabet.
Nun in black,
giving me grief, exacting ruler teeth, measuring
the letter of the law; curtains to poetic strength.
Who was I to think
outside the parochial box. Couldn’t she,
who dangled rosary beads,
have at least
decisively
have added,
“My! My! Isn’t that pretty! You will make a great poet
one day, but today, dear one, you must play by the rules.”
Snap! Crack! My knuckles are raw.
They meet my mom’s gaze. We laugh.
In my time, the penguins
wouldn’t dare,
but dare
one did
to
bang the elementary school kid,
his head, against the classroom door
frame. famed…defamed…sorry for him.
He probably didn’t tell
his mom and dad.
We didn’t
back then.
This was only one educator…
the rest were fairly nice. Unfair
to dice my letter, mold it, conform it.
Perhaps that is why
I
interchange cursive and printing
as I take note
of the world at large
and
the small people that live on a ledge
eyeing letters and ledgers
with eagle-eyed veracity.
Verifiably insane,
the pinch
of my pen,
in the grip of Sister Pain-in-the-Neck.
Feverish,
with fanciful letters,
alpha-betcha-soup, heterodox-ical, complexities
with outlier formatting. I
will pull out from the alphabetical wolf pack,
hungry for a feast
of flippant snippets. Do my teachers
toss in their graves? I
think not. They just lie
in a box, just so.
They weave, they weave
They weep and they weave
Smarting under the persecuting whips -
Verbal, literal or carnal whips
They weep, they weep.
Locust-like they swarm the streets
To reach the factories before the sun settles well
In its diurnal rounds.
There are no circumstances unavoidable
Reach they must the gates at the hour final….
Sartorial gladiators they are
Salary they draw but in the
Etymological sense- they are well off
Enough to buy salt.
Eagle-eyed lustful look
Do the ups and downs of their physique hook -
Surveying the geography of their constitution
And the lecherous bosses or carnally starving colleagues
Devotedly concentrate on each continent
And ready to pay compliment
Only if they are crowned with the sovereignty to discuss
Issues that make the gynecologists blush!
Penelopes of the modern times,
Your hands transform loan-sharks
Into pot-bellied, globe-trotting tycoons.
These textile Sheikhs
When their family or female(s) sneeze
Millions and millions they unsqueeze
As if they are sylvestral leaves
Falling beauteously in the vernal breeze!
But alas! These helicoptered and villaed
Villains, as if through the alchemy of a vile wand
Into penniless paupers transformed
When the Midas-hands entreat them
To get exchange for their tears and sweat.
All big talks, fountains of philanthropy run dry -
And they weave and cry
They weave and cry!
Cry no more, Penelope, weave no more,
Never will your Odysseus come
Cease weaving, cease embroidering.
Yet the dream-laden Penelopes
Weep and weave,
They weep and they weave!
They weep and they weave!!
Mama's favorite girl, being little, does not realise modern dangers...
Left alone, she is wont to be misled , even taken away, by evil strangers..
When your little one is targetted by such devilish people..
It would be a miracle to escape ever their evil clutches...
As parents, we should be smart and be constantly alert...
Only by being extra vigilant can we hope to avert...
Lest any such misfortune befell us or on those who are close...
All parents be forewarned and let little ones constantly stay close..
Mama's little girl, growing up, does not realise modern challenges..
With her friends, she is wont to be misled, lead astray in stages...
As she grows with the passing years, she is apt to find friends dear...
Sometimes soon, she tries to find her space and steer clear...
As parents we wring our hands with worries and despair...
As we watched eagle eyed and try our best to help her every which way...
We trust in the Lord and in the good values we diligently portray...
In the hopes that Mama's little girl will soon be a fine lady some day...
Mama's little girl, fully grown, is now a full blown woman on her own...
The loving Mama realises she has done well for her little girl is fully grown..
As aged parents well through the advancing years...
We gladly receive the screaming welcome from visiting grand children...
The joys and fears of yesteryears are now but a distant memory....
As the circle of life turns, Mama's little girl begins then a new story...
birds of a quill, or a feather
flock together at odd times
from all four corners
of thinking creative
to jostle with keyboards,
pens and sharp pencils
fingers fidget, tap-tapping
frantic scribbling down
in notebook's lined pages
screens and keyboards
prepare for posting
all that flutters in skulls
staring blank-eyed into spaces
behind temples hot throbbing
turns tensile to tactile
steely minds become strings
unhinged yet synaptic
as typists happily fly
out of the window
out doing much undoing
with words, concrete stacks
of thoughts buried in letters
homing in on ideas is noted
by fraught-filled grey matters
e-motions will ruffle, jostle, shuffle
trying to find their feet
on narrow high perches
no one cooped up again
in confounded wired places
safety in numbers protects
from eagle-eyed predation
teeming teams have no trepidation
preening each other
pecking order in order
while who's who is related
faithful fair friends love being updated
lovebirds are word-cooing
with beak-kissing nibbles
some of us like darkness
it brings poets together
winter hibernation in torpor
taking wing in springing up ether
fancy that take off?
it's what we are made of....
all that really matters
when feathers start flying
is the daylight between them
caused not by division
but the tight act of trying
to avoid mid-air collision!
13/10/2018
Poets need poets....enough "space" for all of us!
The lavender clouds, lowered, like a fluffy blanket
on top the eaglets’ ledge.
Its loblolly pine lingers on the palate of the tongue
like a luscious lollipop.
The nestling-siblings, downy light, slightly on edge -
eagle-eyed leader seeks kill.
A bald rivalry rides the snowy sledge, unshielded
by the adults; harmony sleeps.
The earthlings’ Hallelujah - wings climb,
soar, a lavish flight - celebratory sigh.
Sunlight’s vantage slights - the flourishing cradle
unsettled by uprising; loss.
The lovelorn will land its own fledglings, feeling
only for the solo Caesar,
hailing through the rainbow slide - the Salome quilt,
nevertheless God’s will
on earth, necessary suffering for a season -
a sour lollipop; sloppy life.
We glory at the eagle’s flight, flourishing wingspan,
falling towards us.
Stalwart, its talons’ prey; we pray unfailing strength
and fly towards heaven.
6/28/2020
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW(2) any theme any form Poetry Contest
*Long lines are divided into two lines