Long Eighth grade Poems
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Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
Employed by Boeing before I retired
An engineer, then into management
I had good writing skills, as were required
When I wrote, you could tell what was meant
Poetry wasn’t of interest to me
For the first seventy five years of life
In fact, when my three daughters lived with me
They had no interest; neither did my wife
Interest first kindled by Troy, my grandson
With his poems, written for an eighth grade class
E-mailed to me, read them all and when done
Wrote my first poem, it came together fast
While at my desk, looking out the window
I observed a robin seeking a worm
While watching his movements, let my words flow
Wrote “Bobbin the Robin “and interest firmed
Asked Troy if he’d like his poems in a book
Maybe enter his best in a contest
Joined poetry websites; learned what it took
And we entered poems, but mostly in jest
Demands are high on a teenager’s time
Troy’s poetry was on the back burner
I kept composing with words that rhyme
I posted, although I’m just a learner
Didn’t know when I posted on the sites
The members were free to give them a read
And just the thought of that gave me a fright
But found out member comments fill a need
When I Read the comments on my poems
Fascinated by what they say
Encouraging with so much support
A sincere one would make my day
One commenter had interest in my work
When as a poet, I become seasoned
Given my age, I couldn’t help but smirk
I never live that long is the reason
Meaningful comments received on my work
Keep me involved and my efforts on tract
Without them, my work I’d probably shirk
My fellow poets made such an impact
My first poems were all written in Quatrain
It’s a form that was came natural to me
At the time, didn’t even know the name
But rhythm and rhyme, my poems had to be
Explored forms with which I’ve never dealt
It’s never too late to learn something new
Over a hundred poems under my belt
Trying something else was the thing to do
To my fellow poets, I say, "Thank You!"
You’ve made this an enjoyable pastime
I now know it’s something I love to do
Molding my thoughts into rhythm and rhyme
It was kind of nice having money all the
Time.
Looking back when I was seventeen,
I looked forward to going to work.
It is unlike what I feel about work now.
I did a lot of reading as a child.
I read all kinds of books.
I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
Community then.
I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.
I did a lot of running home and telling.
I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
My parents about the bullies.
It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
I fought him, and found out he wanted to
Wrestle.
I wasn’t that good of a
Wrestler then.
I got better
In high school.
It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
I hung in school and made a name for myself
At Oak Lawn Community High School.
My sister gave me a collection of albums
My junior year.
I was introduced to all kinds of music by
Those.
My first good introduction to music came
My sophomore year.
A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
The Machine”.
He told me what he did at his party
In eighth grade.
They sat around and played Gin.
They drank soda.
They went bowling.
I got off to a late start with music,
And I finally caught up with my tape-
Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
I could have had a big party,
But I decided to wait.
I didn’t really have one except
The one’s I had in grammar school.
My friend thought he was going to
Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
It fizzled out like my relationship did.
That girl liked someone else though.
I should have given up calling her,
It was no fun talking to her.
She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
I’m not sure she even knew who I was
In lunch.
I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
Her boyfriend went out for basketball
Like I should have done. I was pretty good. Maybe just
Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.
I was 13 and in love,in eighth grade and so very lost.
My family saw a prodigy a girl,whom they didn't want
In hopes they wanted a boy
The scars I made ran deep inside.
Through my thinning blood veins
So touching the skin of the surface didn't provide
a secure enough feeling to protect me from the night.
Night time nightmares that haunted my subconsciousness
The pain ran deep,thought love could fix it.
i depended on him to be there forever,since no one else would
But he left one day,and i was so alone.
I realized then i could only trust myself,hug,hold,tell myself it'd be alright.
The chills that hugged me through the waking of the dawn.
The sunrise I'd wish would hurry and come over the horizon
Should it set me free from the darkness
To warm me of my emotionless state of mind.
The blood that ran through my veins and name i wish i didn't have.
The disgrace,genious no one wanted,the fury and tears i kept hidden.
But the red color that leaked from the scars said it all.
The girl i wanted to be,who i needed to be but couldn't.
For all the rebellion and pain. I'm sorry but I knew you wouldn't ever care.
Your eyes always said it to me
Even when your lips lied
Your eyes told me the truth
You were to busy,to gone away to tell me of our family
The saddest smile always laid on my lips
You saw it and denied it
How could your eldest daughter do this to you?
The questions you asked...
The answers you received back
The perfection that ran deep in blood
I did not want.
To be like you..
Was unfair
To relive your life was horrid
I was not conceived to relive your life
I was born to live mine
But in your mist of unknowing
I found my on family
No blood relation
Backgrounds totally different
But we all felt the same pain
Our eyes told our stories
While our lips told the lies
I didn't have to fake my happiness
I just had to find myself
Though all my unhappiness and loss
I found Family and I found Me
"You showed me the courage and strength
to achieve all things- I hope you are proud."
by Poet
A simple man was he, one child of ten,
who lived and worked the farm with family.
But stardust fell on him- time and again
he hid away to read his books to see
what life could offer him and he'd give back,
if he would leave the farm to chase his star
with talents that would keep his dreams on track.
And so he left to raise his future’s bar.
Concerned for family and what he’d done-
one son of three now gone, and only two
remained to work the land beneath the sun;
but still, he followed stardust trails anew.
No school beyond eighth grade, he still pursued
production of the tube-based radio,
in nineteen-thirty, when its parts were crude
yet intricate- and he became a pro.
The stardust led him to a higher plane
whereby in time he owned a factory;
employed so many workers who would gain
good living in a time of poverty.
Oh, Dad, you hushed the stars- you did not fail.
With inner strength, you followed their bright glow,
to choose this path, that led you to prevail
and help so many people live and grow.
This gift of courage you have offered me
to follow and make use of dreams to share;
to let our stardust paths lead on to free
the will to seek the best on our life’s stair.
February 22, 2015
~2nd Place~
Contest: A Meaningful Poem
Sponsor: Constance La France
Judged: 03/27/2021
~2nd Place~
Premiere Contest: 2019 Marathon Mile #23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Judged: 03/13/2019
~1st Place~
Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 02/28/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Tell Us About Your Dad
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Judged:01/05/2016
My soul has been cut by a spiritual blade.
Out of control and I only finished the eighth grade.
I've walked the dark path and so many mistakes made.
I heard the devil's wicked laugh but I wasn't afraid.
I trusted no one, due to physical and sexual abuse.
I've held a 38 caliber hand gun but couldn't put it to use!
Women in my life, I just wouldn't allow in my personal area.
Even when I obtained a wife, it was border line hysteria!
I often wonder about the abuse I suffered as a child.
Did that contribute to sex, drugs, and running wild?
The fast life can cut like a knife, but I continued the climb.
But it all would lead to fingers being pointed at me for a crime.
I was afraid to go to trial although the crime I didn't commit.
Past crimes as a juvenile would make me look like the culprit!
I just couldn't put my fate in the hands of twelve strangers;
And so I'm an inmate, but I refuse to succumb to the anger.
I couldn't go to the funeral when my momma passed away.
Such pain like I've never known beneath my breastbone and my soul went astray!
I buried my grief and walked around just a shell of a man.
Relief was found, as I fought my way out of hell and that dark waste land!
I took my pen and begin to express the pain.
Just to releave the stress that was slowly driving me insane.
I always knew the poetry was buried inside me.
But who would have thought this poet only has a G.E.D.
Yes I'm a poet, and oh how I feel so emotionally free!
And you need to know it, that my whole ordeal is in my poetry.
If you could see inside who I am, you'll discover my pedigree!
My love is bonafide and no need for a diagram in my poetry!!!
*Wrote for Amy Green's contest (Tell Me About You)
I hear once more the lyrics of this song I'm listening to-
a gentle blast from my very youthful past,
and I am back in middle school,
an attractive skinny girl
despite the horn rimmed glasses
which have gotten me the nickname of “Four eyes”
and the large beehive hairdo
I have to rat with my comb painstakingly each morning.
I am in the music room of my eighth grade
practicing with Swing Choir,
the group that I’ve auditioned for
and am thrilled to be a part of.
A cute boy stands tall among all the others
in the back row of the male section.
We are all singing -
“This Guy’s in Love.
This guy’s in love with You.”
My heart is pounding with the melody
as I watch my current crush so longingly,
imagining he sings the words to me alone.
Could my life yet to be lived
ever compare to my happiest vivid daydreams?
“When you smile, I can tell we know each other very well.”
I think he sees me watching him. I look away.
This scene will be replayed again and again
in other classrooms
where I’ll be watching other boys
that I'll be crushing on
and hoping they are watching me as well.
But now, just for now -
I sing the words with my group -
“Don’t let my heart keep breaking. . .”
My soul fills with teenage angst.
Oh to be young again
with such sweet aching
not yet knowing I’ll soon be getting walked home from school
by that cute tall boy
named Chico.
Written Feb. 7, 2016 for the Solitary Moments Poetry Contest of Mystic Rose
The song is "This Guy's in Love" written by Burt Bacharach
and performed byHerb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. (please hear it in the link above)
I met a man the other day
I think he thought he knew me
He heard me speaking with a friend
He said "Hey, are you from Kentucky?"
Well, I'm from West Virginia
He obviously doesn't know me
He grinned and then persisted
"Do you know Jethro," he inquired
"Or maybe you know Jesco?"
I wondered who he thought I was
but could not recall these people
so I just shrugged my shoulders
He obviously doesn't know me
He giggled then and called out a name
Someone he called Hillbilly
God, then names this fellow knows
I have to wonder about their parents
I smiled quietly and shook my head
He obviously doesn't know me
He seemed disappointed and on he went
"You dropped out of school in eighth grade?"
I wish. Grad School almost killed me
Even though I was a Mensa member
This guy sure knows some winners
He obviously doesn't know me
He asked if I was a moonshine farmer
I said' "no, electrical engineering"
He then accused me of never wearing shoes
So I wiggled my La Sportivas
Boy this guy sure is off the mark
He obviously doesn't know me
He surely wasn't satisfied
and started speaking strangely
It sounded vaguely Norwegian
"Venn, er du litt treg?" I asked him
He just stared at me blankly
He obviously doesn't know me
Finally, he went on his way
I told my friend, "I think he thought he knew me"
He angrily replied, "I think that he was teasing"
I laughed from deep inside, smiled then winked
"Who was that idiot, anyway?
He obviously doesn't know me"
1960 and the world was changing
A time for living and rearranging
Baseball in the school yard with a sponge ball and a fist
Donnie Brooks sang Mission Bell and Chubby did The Twist
Bobbie sox and ponytails, school dances were so much fun
Johnny Preston’s Running Bear. I loved the theme from Peter Gunn
A young senator from Boston was in the presidential race
Marty sang El Paso and there was a theme from A Summer Place
Mr. Custer and Alley Oop were fun songs to listen to
While Elvis said It’s Now or Never and also Stuck on You
Ford came out with the Edsel. Remember the unsinkable Molly Brown.
Everybody’s Somebody’s Fool even Cathy’s Clown
We had air raid warnings and marbles in our pockets
Movies in the park and Cape Canaveral shooting rockets
Gable and Monroe in the Misfits, Perry Mason on TV
And the Drifters were singing Save the Last Dance for Me.
There was a draft to serve our country and we were always ready
A time for holding hands and a time for going steady
Kirk Douglas was Spartacus and Burt was Elmer Gantry
Pies were made from scratch and there were apples in the pantry
Larry Hall sang Sandy and Bobby Rydell wailed Wild One
O Dio Mio From Annette. She and Frankie had so much fun
Lonely Blue Boy by Conway Twitty and Bobby’s Beyond the Sea
Duane twanged Because they’re Young and the Everly’s Let it be Me
Those days are precious memories that I hope will never fade
The world was so much kinder then and I was in eighth grade.
I Wonder if He Wore a Fedora
He passed a few months ago.
I looked through a few pics
of him when he was young.
He grew up in the depression,
so there weren’t many.
Black and whites, no dates.
None of him smiling,
just a vacant stare,
familiar at that time,
Hand me downs clothes
of a cotton farmer,
Hardscrabble life for this
child of the 30’s.
He didn’t talk much
about that life.
Well, a few times:
how he got two pairs
of shoes a year,
oranges for Christmas.
Patched pants so short,
the kids made fun of him.
Never made it past the eighth grade.
By the time he was eighteen,
his hands looked fifty.
Twelve to fifteen hrs.
a day picking cotton will
make a young man old.
I picked up another picture.
Some other man from the 30’s,
sitting on a bench in front
of the Memphis Zoo.
Wearing a Fedora.
Sophisticated looking.
I wonder if my dad wore a Fedora.
I asked a lot of questions
when I was young.
But that wasn’t one of them.
I can’t ask him now,
but I know what he’d say.
“Those were for the rich, son,
The Boss-man.”
“Not common folk like us,
who knew their place.
You can’t be more
than you are.”
But he was wrong.
Although he was raised
poor common folk,
he worked all his life.
Loved one woman.
Raised his children right
and loved his God.
He died a rich man.
He would have looked
damn good in a Fedora.
11/5/16