Long Eeyore Poems
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analogous to expending precious Air Supply
embellishing, modifying, revising, et cetera
a poem crafted about fourteen months ago.
I take stock and revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body (Electric
Light Orchestra) of troubadour,
whereby creative juices did perforce pour
forth as if sung by one man koor;
now he haply seated at his Macbook Pro
today April 29th, 2022
accompanied with Christopher Robin,
Winnie the Pooh, and Eeyore.
Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty two),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth, i.e. auld,
he whose decrepit body and
gnarled hands ice cold
senility and senescence doled
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
coronavirus (COVID-19) motherlode
courtesy geomorphology dynamism fold
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold
grim reaper with scythe doth silently infold
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous beat nickles less,
dime a dozen, day late
and dollar short sexagenarian
dropped out of Culture Club
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose Grateful Dead head lolled,
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
meself finally nill and void nolde
of unwanted excessive fleshy flab
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder polled.
Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
immortality impossible mission to connive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly earthlinked buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive
in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.
Did you hear about the moose, who thought he was a goose? He swam and he honked and even waddled when he walked. But it would make you cry, if you had seen it with your own eyes, the morning when that moose tried to fly.
Once there was a hog, who thought he was a dog. He barked then he sniffed and even chased after sticks. But oh, how that hog did moan and groan, when all he got for dinner was just an old soup bone.
Grandma had a rat, that thought it was a cat. It meowed then it scratched and even purred when she patted it. But when it wouldn’t chase a mouse, she threw it out of her house.
Did you hear the story of an ox that wanted to be a fox? Each day the ox pulled a cart, as around the farm the fox would dart. Then one morning fair, the ox on a dare, ran away to play all day with his friend the fox. As evening came and hungry from his play, the ox asked the fox “Have you any hay?” “Nay!” exclaimed the fox. So right there and then, the ox headed for his pen and ran away never again.
My Uncle had a monkey who thought he was a donkey. That monkey hee-hawed and walked around on all fours. That monkey even changed his name to Eeyore. But when we put the sacks, heavy upon his back, to haul them into town. The monkey fell flat against the ground and claimed he was no donkey; he was simply monkeying around.
Then there is the sorry tale of a whale trying to be a snail. The whale moved about so slow she got carried away in the under tow. When her friends wanted her to flip about and shout, all she did was pout and lay about. But the saddest part to tell, is when that whale thought she had a shell.
Have you heard the story of the hare who wanted to be a bear? They rollicked about all spring, summer and fall. But when winter came and the bear went to hibernate, that hare decided he didn’t want to be a bear after all.
Now here’s the moral of this whole mixed up tale. When you try to be someone else, you think is very cool, you will always end up, looking like a fool.
For you are you and that should do!
At a children’s book exhibit
With amazing things on view,
I was struck to find a case
Which had the one and only Pooh.
In the same display was Eeyore,
Roo and Kanga, even Tigger;
All were gifts to son from father
Every year as he got bigger.
Now the son, Christopher Robin,
Was the hero of the books
So his character was given
All his foibles, traits and looks.
Though it looked quite sweet and tender,
I once heard a different tale –
That the son despised his father
Once those books were put on sale.
So it’s wise to then consider
What our kids will really think
If we choose to share their stories –
They may someday need a shrink.
But it could have been avoided
Had the hero been called “Joe;”
Then Chris Robin could have basked in glory,
Incognito, though.
We all know at least one from down by the bay
A downer-frowner who likes to pout all day
We call ours Eeyore, after the depressed donkey
Winnie Pooh, Christopher Robin and Tigger’s friend, is he.
He pouts because it is rainy weather
He is annoyed by the brilliance of the sun
He is holding a grudge forever
Against more than twenty-one
In 1969 she borrowed my pencil and never gave it back.
The annoying banter of this guy has my neck hairs off the track.
I want to say “Do not pout about stuff that happened in ’84.”
That is the day his wife and her lover sneaked out his grouchy door.
Hub bomb bin hubble emotional wreckage
tell tale signs of internal war
ah, there moost be lifelong conspiracy
afoot for a Galician voar
try as I might to Lyft myself
out of penury...this Uber
scribe reckons way back when,
my life took a irrecoverable dee tour,
tis neither pity nor philanthropic succor
this poor man asks,
but just the chance to roar
(albeit within structures of silence)
shaky psychological scaffolding
built from shabby and poor
Scottish matted Harris tweed
material re: mailhouse order
(same as me bartered bride)
assembly required blueprints defied
comprehension, and thus...only my
into whoosh shin as singular guide,
which puzzling quandary sorely
tested frustration, I could not hide
overstressed mental cogs, and
wheels issued steam from inside
the bowels (ah... oh...
moving) within this, nor
thorn prickly human being, more
or less condemned to live
in this mancave, where folklore...
I don't believe that bupkis,
about some hoar
rubble, but...nonetheless,
yours truly unable to account
for this...friggin landmine miss fore
chin, where nuttin boot
this misanthrope jammed
in a hole like EEyore
moost all bajillion years living in the dark...
as if... yeah thrust in the core
of a black hole, thus
the best available
explanation given destiny did ride
me roughshod into the maw of despair,
now no matter these gnarled
arthritic hands unable to...
ugh...heave ho...grunt
purportedly nada so easy slide
anatomical pieces together
according to schematic
drawing, aye tried,
hence best this crabby hermit vied
to be condemned remaining separated
(since birth), sans
webbed world infinitely wide.
Virility Imperiled Manhood Emasculated (mine)
No sense of accomplishment prevails to date
analogous to kudzu... inadequacy runs rampant
recurring theme extant within poetic endeavors,
and often discussed with assigned therapist (one
among many girls named Stephanie Dodds) do
GOOGLE search and see for yourself – similar
curiosity got the better of me, whose christened
name (Matthew Scott Harris), not unique to yours
truly, a poem, which theme pertaining to aforesaid
first, middle, and last namesake already written by
none other other than this scrivener) impacted self
esteem less so than inchoate nascently, pervasively
rampantly,... thrashing unleashed upon impression
hubble early (perhaps even in utero) formative days
of milne eeyore whinnying pooh wrenching, ruing
jackknifing...unsmiling, lamenting childhood's end
upon cusp debilitating psychological tragedy, where
whatsapp pining within me present mindset lodged
nexus, sans linkedin destructive buzzfeeding apathy
mired potential vitality (crying evinced powerful
lungs) quickly succumbing against brutish, nasty,
yet not short reign of innate oppression, fixation
abnegation with dereliction, asper self preservation
engendering feeble gesticulation harkening incipient
personhood crowdsourcing courtesy condemnation
damning existential insignificance motif possibly
adopted comparing not fancy free and footloose
demeanor toward none other than Boyce Brandon
Harris, thee papa, jack of all trades, (many taught
thru his own quick learning penchant), numberless
abilities + storied vocation - mechanical engineer
equalled one smart polymath strengths constantly
reiterated by mother (dearest long since deceased)
agog how papa excelled at most every endeavor,
i.e. vocational career at General Electric (aerospace
engineer) in conjunction with bajillion avocations,
hence finding his sole son (second of three progeny)
when only yeah high (a scrawny, skinny, spunky...
little boy) internalizing heaping accolades bestowed
strong, not so dark, modestly handsome biological
paternal parent with (rocking) round the clock timely
adulation, which praise papa similarly received soon
after blessed birth April ninth ninety twenty nine.
Sheltering in place
Not anyone’s idea of a great time; certainly not mine.
Spoke to a good friend yesterday.
She said she is morbidly depressed.
She had been positive and upbeat prior to this pandemic.
I kept my own dour thoughts secret, feeling like a hidden Eeyore.
She unloaded how horrible 2020 has been to her.
Her favorite cousin and awful brother have both died.
Her brother whom she despised is now a saint.
She was angry at their families for not letting her know how sick they were.
I wisely kept quiet. I am the last person to let anyone know how sick I am.
She and her son-in-law had a shouting match. It was so bad she moved.
I was silent, not able to relate to this at all.
She had been in a car wreck during the ice season.
She got out and yelled and screamed at the idiot who caused it.
She called her a moron and used the F word. I was horrified.
This is not the friend I know.
At the end of fifty-six minutes of hell, she asked how I am.
It was my second chance to say my third word.
I did not tell her that my mother had died.
I did not tell her that I had to learn five computer programs
And I felt angry and sad.
I did not tell her that I missed my family and friends.
Or that I was probably as sad as she has ever been.
I was finished not talking on the phone.
I simply told her good bye and hung up.
She texted me six emoji’s in a row.
Told me she loved me and missed me.
Told me I had uplifted and enlightened her.
I was glad but did not know for hours, for I had to take a nap.
Kim’s words are extraordinary, jazzy and fun.
Imagination conjures up grim reaper and crazy lady.
Makes up words like flutterfluffing. What?
Relies on her grandsons to inspire her missives which are fabulous.
Outstanding does not half-way describe her magical ink.
Deviously eclectic, she writes a beautiful variety of poems.
Relaxation of Faerie Forest, she penned for me!
In the fewest words Kim says more than most of us could ever say.
Guessing her next move is thankfully impossible.
Unequivocally thrilling it is to travel to her page for a few hours.
Enthusiastically elevated Eeyore of Eglantine. Yes. Her kind of words.
Sassily slips in scintillating sunlight into her song-like romantic poetry.
Written 1-22-2021
Contest: Capture the Essence Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Margarita Lillico
I ham quill tee for gobbledygook...
and ruffling tail feathers!
An innocent miss steak kin...
once former main lion den cha hoard servant,
resident iz cow herd vegetarian boar
hoof faux whatever reason iz explore
ring bing foo fighting beastie boy, who doth
newt practice, what he preaches your
truly battens down chicken
coop hatches so... call me galore
re: us hypocritic,
this honest to dog omnivore – more
accurate said buzzfeeding primate -
*****sapiens, he whelk hams
adieu after quick bonjour
hears ear splitting eeyore
deaf finning chore
tills unable to ignore
admits transgression,
now wonder wherefore
whether art thou still
game to reed my adore
hub bull poetry
understandable if ye deplore
such atrocious, egregious, opprobrious...,
violating ethical core
puss regarding straying
against dietary herbivore
rudimentary eel lamb ants
(chocolate covered my dear Watson)
boot fault in the starfish...por
favor mice elf can
oxe plain twittering like plover
with reasonable rhyme for sure
don't get doggy dimples in bunch
cause to skewer me but... but before...
sending killing squad to slaughter -
this puppy, aye kindly honour
my wish and don
me noggin with pompadour
as fetching drag queen
torpedo sized bosom
squirting parti-color
milk as self defense mechanism
averting casus belli thus
amidst melee I abhor
find self on horns of dilemma
life story of this poor
cooked goose flambé
caught between rock and trapdoor
special cannibal delight
where madding crowd
chants "send him back"
accursed unconscionable roar
ring anger, but lurch for eats,
an impulsive reflex courtesy extempore
rain nee yes unforgivable poor
craven impulse to up peas hunger
uncontrollably craving regarding carnivore
pang additionally not further injure
ring innocent animal plus more
to this fishy tail than
meats the Wawa birdseye.
Upon reflecting with misty eyes
childhood days of yore
the mantle of anticipatory
excitement mantle I wore
upon advent of December
twenty fifth not quite threescore
years ago knew nothing
about being dirt poor
yours truly doggedly felt sense
of belonging among k9 korp
versus moody blues hangdog
look resembling Eeyore.
Now fast forward envisioning
gray bewhiskered scraggly
muttering old Unitarian
that would be yours truly courtesy
hyperbole as would be obvious
upon quick visual scan,
who dabbles writing
at least one poem within
twenty four hour
time frame i.e. quotidian
basis, eh not
so much an outdoorsman
these days and definitely not,
nor ever trumpeted
taps as militiaman
within the ranks of Kublai Khan
emperor of China, and
grandson of Genghis Khan
I remain holed up within
one bedroom apartment
unit b44 as iceman,
no, not by choice,
but series of unfortunate events
primarily faulty heater
at the mercy of fate,
a mere dice toss gameplan
always associated as separate
among establishmentarian
forever dreamily fancying
married to countrywoman,
combination platter academician.
Lo and behold days
mein kampf slipped and slid away
leaving faded memories
precious young lad oft times
felt alienated (think) castaway
yet simultaneously unable to flyaway
loosing self from mother's apron strings,
while slipping grip signals foray
into abyss conjured courtesy
thru information superhighway.
Reflection upon tempus fugit
incredulous kick **** lightspeed
precocious age sentimental reverie storybook
happy go lucky idyllic past indeed,
then bound by ignorance,
hence blissfulness no longer doth proceed.