Long Earth shaking Poems
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Pronounced side effect upon my dreams...
courtesy Fluoxetine hydrochloride
Fluoxetine Hcl (C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective Serotonin
Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,
and obsessive-compulsive disorder
the above symptoms
profoundly experienced by yours truly
said prescription medication
seriously impacts sleep (mine).
Debilitating panic attacks
wrought (particularly years gone by)
physiological displeasures chiefly constituting
vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,
whereby Prozac (brand name regarding
aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable, unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, jackknifing... functionality
hijacking life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.
Essentially yours truly experiences
dilemma analogous to sleep deprivation,
cuz ofttimes upon arising,
I feel utterly tuckered out, exhausted, bushed...
thus zapped body, mind and spirit
ill suited to physical,
mental or spiritual endeavor
subsequently lovely bones (mine)
(pine to join grateful dead)
rather than feebly kickstart
lame effort to write, read or meditate.
Thus respecting Sir Isaac
Newton's first law of motion
a (human) body at rest
inertia keeps said entity at rest.
Interestingly enough as
daylight doth wax and wane
casting dark shadows upon urbane
countenance buzzfeeding hidden reservoir
exerting estimable energy
decreasing arduous strain
therefore purposefulness,
I seek renewable resource to imbue
garden variety generic
doubting thomas and ordain
him (i.e. me) with spontaneous
magnificent grandiloquent enlightenment
ala Orson Welles Citizen Kane
laughable comparison linkedin
with story extraordinaire quite insane
September 4th, 2020 insight one can gain
perchance even coaxing passable poem
from deep within Matthew Scott Harris' brain.
Where sun-kissed savannahs endlessly sweep,
And acacia crowns the skies, a verdant keep,
A titan walks, with earth-shaking tread,
A monument of grace, with wisdom bred.
Oh, Elephant, colossal and wise,
Your eyes, like embers, gleam beneath the skies.
Your ivory tusks, like sun-bleached spears,
Pierce the heavens, dispelling all our fears.
Through emerald depths, you silently stride,
A living fortress, with nature as your guide.
Your trunk, a trumpet, blasts a rhythmic call,
Echoing through valleys, grand and tall.
With a gentle touch, you pluck a leafy prize,
Nourishing your form, beneath the sunlit skies.
Matriarch wise, with love unbound,
You lead your herd, on sacred, ancient ground.
Oh, Elephant, guardian of the plains,
Your ears, like maps, etched with wisdom's gains.
You listen to the whispers of the earth,
Guiding your steps, is a testament to your worth.
But shadows lurk, a darkness cast afar,
Where greed and folly wage a callous war.
Forests recede, and poachers stalk the night,
Threatening your future, with a consuming blight.
Let us stand tall, and raise a voice so strong,
To shield these giants, where they rightfully belong.
For in their presence, we find our guiding light,
A mirror to our soul, a future ever bright.
So let us cherish them, these titans of the land,
Protecting their haven, with a caring hand.
For in their grandeur, a truth we come to see,
Respect for all creatures, eternally.
Oh, Elephant, may you forever roam,
In lands untamed, your true and sacred home.
A timeless emblem, of strength and majesty,
Forever etched, in Earth's tapestry.
Breathe & Pretend
Another day has been born
Wake up in bed
Eyes still tightly closed
Holding tightly
To the fragments
Of an already lost dream
Tossing and turning
Throwing off the blankets
Getting out of bed
Wiping sleep away
Ignoring
The fierce headache
Previous night a blur
The sunlight burns
Like a reprimand
Closing curtains
Stumble over glass shards
Trying to remember
Last night
Silent house
A packaged gift
Time to shower
Shave away yesterday
Shed the lies away
A harsh cup of reality
Awakens the nerves
A ring on the table
Like a guilty child
Sweep it to the floor
Un-shed tears stinging
Escape the house
Earth shaking
Sun glaring
Judged by the dirt
It's the end
Even though
Another day has been born
Pure and pristine
layers upon layers accumulate on the scene,
cold winds blowing, sifting, drifting, serene;
the sun rising high with little warm
blinding brilliance after the storm
the land asleep safe and unharmed;
shovels scraping, snow quaking
plows earth-shaking
snow ready for the taking;
but in the yard, nature's warden
the soft blanketed snow garden
a pure untouched slate well pardoned;
where sandy fawns sleep
the imprints of large and tiny feet,
feathered friends and creatures come out of retreat,
squirrel tracks here and there
comparable to a snowshoe hare
suddenly the world exists without a care
and peace returns for the moments marked
focus for the times harsh and stark
and futures upon which we shall embark,
leaving imprints upon the snow
soon enough, it's time will go,
shoveled to the side and swept away
waiting on the end of January days.
.
Your Long Angular Feet
You don’t know me, but
I been riding here in this trundling lounge car
for two hours now, watching
you and your long angular feet,
while rumbling over these burdened tracks,
to silent Garden City, up there in Kansas
on the high wheat plains, sky bound!
I been wondering what your name is.
Alas, it is really none of my business,
but your silent intuitive look,
your expressive knowing gaze,
has intrigued me with repentant ambivalences, and
guilty acknowledgements within my mind,
far beyond any understandable explanation,
far beyond the passing distant New Mexico mountains,
as they inertly move with silent dogged violence,
out there, in the whirring passing blur,
beyond these curving airy Amtrak eyes,
of blue tint and orange penetrating glare,
wrought with distorting apparitions of yellow
and green wheezing monsters of morning light,
with the Super Chief masticating eastern miles,
like a termite boring ferociously, slashing
into the railroad ties of unyielding time;
And so we sit, staring out this bubble window in the sun,
and I been wondering about you.
I been believing you’re educated, I can tell,
by the look of your pursed lips,
indicative of past heartbreaks and meltdowns;
and I been believing you’re a democrat,
by your descending, unhearing stare,
indicative of past arguments with fools
who sleep near obelisks, set in old stone.
And as you gaze far away
through the lounge car windows,
deep into New Mexico, its heart and rocky soul,
I wonder what you’re remembering there,
smiling, at peace with your intended purpose.
It was really nothing to me or anyone else,
nothing earth-shaking or profoundly circumstantial,
but you got off in Albuquerque,
you and your long angular feet,
and you walked away, like a dead person
in an old film reel.
I
Wool covered wolf’s heart
comfort driven faucet wash
not cold nor hot
fantasy circling yellow stuck
talent hidden spirit famished
switching gear to cruelty drive
unzipped wolf leaps out
surprising sheep with slaughter
and panic
adding war to plagues and famine
deeper in darkness soul iced
charity coin tossed out
and given to warm heart
making it hotter luminous bright
sun splendor at midnight shining
figs and olives together ripening
time to produce in season and out
earth shaking faith coins out
turning day to night
sign preceding Second Coming
to Jesus to give an account.
Time will not go back to normal
faith hidden is faith lost!
Led by Cross to glory
or by instinct to slaughter.
Christmas will be different this year.
First Place: Brian Strand- Un-Rhy-me Me 11/30/20
That first lone leaf twirling slowly to the ground
The first casualty in the war of this season.
One swallow does not a summer make
That one leaf shows what is to come.
Soon it will joined by so many of its comrades
Victims of the insidious sniper of the fall.
The scalpel of the East wind cuts through
The softness summer supplied.
Flowers fading, the absence of bird song
Both signalling the entombment on the way.
Hills cleanly etched against a pale blue sky
Coldly carved in the brittle brightness
Sunlight with all the warmth of a stepmother's smile
Draining the goodness of the moment
The chill of decay portends death
In that illusory cheating glint
Skeletal trees, bare fields, lowering skies
Icy frost and thick blankets of snow.
Some will not live to witness
The ritual of resurrection
But come it will
The earth shaking off its shroud
Then there will peep out
The shy green shoots
Prelude to the glories and glamour of summer
With its heady scents, rich colours and bright song.
This yearly drama plays out its four acts
To let all know everything has its season.
Depending upon where you start
It can be comedy, tragedy or farce
Suicidal Ideation March 30th, 2022 linkedin...
to mein kampf insync with mine body dysmorphia
After reading articles
published within April 4/11 2022
of The Nation
I challenged the efficacy
taking prescription medication
categorized as SSRIs
and/or SNRIs.
Unpleasant side effects
such as earth shaking dreams
and/or especially hefty weight gain
linkedin with former
comprising my daily cocktail
of approved prescription medication
courtesy nurse practitioner.
Deliberation about courting death rooted
throughout mine psyche
fueling sinister chortle
at least since bout with anorexia nervosa,
but... maybe ginned blood,
sans umbilical cord transfused in utero aortal,
though long since recovered, the intractable,
haunting specter, sans grim reaper
intertwining within every fiber of this mortal
rooted, grounded deep, and branched out
into each nook and cranny portal.
Said notion provoked,
when made painfully aware
youngest daughter (aged twenty three)
plagued with similar thoughts,
damn genetics did maliciously engineer
clutching telephone while
seated at edge of chair
did apologetically, despairingly,
grievously... did air
pestilential, penitential, plenipotential... scare
re: distraction and understandable fear,
she might unwittingly plunge
into hopeless abysmal despair
falling prey into irrevocable
deathly hallows lair,
though kudos for her
from me, this sole Harris heir
to communicate, (albeit
hesitantly) into mine ear
suddenly wishing thy
Shayna Punim to be near,
but residing (about three hour drive
southeast of Portland, Oregon)
with my kid sister, attentive to welfare,
a sibling whose persona
doth show tender loving care
and concern, this papa
felt reassured there
would be every action taken
with sixth sense to beware
lest progeny exhibits
pointedly obvious lurching career
dramatic slide in tandem
with Old Rotten Gotham
into behavioral sink
emergency measures sibling
immediately would commandeer,
hence somewhat relieved thee dear
beloved progeny receptive to hear,
this dada expressed his unconditional love,
and grateful psychological intervention
offspring boldly did declare
indicative professional help volunteer
really asserted necessary to stave off
how dice throw of fate unfair
to said lass, whose demise,
would abruptly kill this sonneteer!
I was baptized in the howls of wolves, under the lattice of thorns of ancient winds,
My veins are mapped by serpents, my pulse beats to the rhythm of forgotten beasts,
All who fear kneel, but I stand untamed in the midst of the storm,
Unsculpted by the hand of time, unyielding in the face of attempts to shape me.
Every scar on my skin is an earth-shaking howl that cannot be silenced,
Every breath I take is a hurricane born from the depths of my being,
In forests hidden by the shadows of ages, I rise like a primordial cry,
My crown is woven from winds that have danced with ever-changing leaves.
The whispered tales of forgotten creatures flow through my veins like ancient rivers,
I am sculpted by the storm, untouched by the hand that tries to mold me,
Every mark on my skin speaks of battles fought in the silence of long nights,
And each breath carries the force of a hurricane ready to unleash itself.
I am the one who stands proud between howls and winds, between scars and untamed storm,
An echo of the past that refuses to be forgotten, a soul vibrating with the power of beings,
In the wilderness where others bow, I remain, rising wild and untamed,
For I am the one who stands proud between howls and wind, between scars and storm.
The summer grass of Montana waves in the heat of the noon,
Where the valley of the Little Bighorn waits beneath the silent moon;
The cottonwoods whisper along the river, the winding waters flow,
Unknowing the storm that gathers close, the impending grief and woe.
A nation of lodges spreads wide on the plain, the Sioux and Cheyenne and the brave,
Gathered in freedom to hunt and to live by the river's cool wave;
With Sitting Bull's vision of soldiers that fell like grass in the gale,
And Crazy Horse riding to shield the camp from the encroaching trail.
Down from the ridge comes the Seventh Cavalry, banners of dust in the air,
Led by the general with yellow-ringed hair, riding away from despair;
Divided the forces, the columns unlinked, marching to strike at the heart,
Believing the foe would scatter and run before the first shot could start.
The valley awakens to thunder of hooves, the crack of the repeating gun,
As Reno makes contact and crosses the river beneath the fierce afternoon sun;
The smoke rolls thick through the timbered brush, the panic and chaos arise,
And troopers retreat to the circle of wagons, amid the dust-blinded skies.
Then Custer presses the northernmost rise, seeking the flank of the camp,
Hearing the drumming of thousands of feet and the earth-shaking tramp;
Out of the coulees the warriors pour, countless as stars in the night,
A tide of resistance, fierce and unyielding, entering into the fight.
Arrows like rain blot the bright summer sky, the rifle-fire echoes around,
And riderless horses run wild through the smoke across the blood-spattered ground;
Circle by circle, the trap closes fast wholly engulfed at the foot of the sun-blasted hill,
As the sound of the shooting begins to recede and the valley grows eerily still.
On Last Stand Hill the blue uniforms fade in the dust and the heat,
A tragic collision of empires and fates, a moment of bitter defeat;
The shadows stretch long as the twilight descends, wrapping the slain in its shroud,
While the victors look out o'er the silent expanse, unbroken, defiant, and proud.
Now the grass grows green on the battlefield slope, where monuments whisper of old,
Of the stories of courage and sorrow and loss that history forever will hold;
Where the waters of Bighorn still wind through the plain,
Lies a monument carved where the spirits remain.