Long Fancying Poems
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My wife's found out I'm a transvestite,
she's not very happy at all.
She thinks that it's new. but between me and you
for years I've been having a ball.
She says that it's all got to finish,
Or somebody's going to get hurt.
She wears the trousers in our house,
but she won't let me wear a skirt
It's not that I'm fancying fellas.
The thought never enters my head.
I just like the feel of that silk and chenile,
preferably something in red.
But I'm sure she's trying to change me
she's dragging my name through the dirt.
She wears the trousers in our house
and she won't let me wear a skirt.
She claims that I'm some sort of pervert
she says that it's some kind of kink
and if I don't stop she'll divorce me
and boy will she kick up a stink.
For now she's turned nasty towards me
her comments are cutting and curt
Yes - she wears the trousers in our house
and she won't let me wear a skirt.
Aye Writhed With Agony...
Unbeknownst to any
innocent onlooker, aye
underwent extreme internal
torture with silent cry
ying whimpers, whence,
(either left or
right) post-
pubescent myopic eye
didst readily espy,
an aesthetically pleasing female,
and most likely stunning
to any other generic guy
and suddenly rendered mute, NO...,
NOT even daring
enough to say "hi,"
which close proximity of sizzling
hot babe wrought me fancying
myself being whisked away
(in a one horse
open sleigh, despite
the remote possibility livingsocial
in Montgomery County,
Pennsylvania suburban) igloo
to be frozen
with fear, petrified lo'
while terror seized thee Oh No
bliss oblige emotional status quo
of much younger Matthew
Scott Harris head to toe
induced a deplorable woe
imaging other (prospective
obscured individuals) probably
considered yours truly
tubby unstrung mama's yoyo,
and at this present time feline
less in timid
dated noticing a sultry,
leggy, and foxy anatomical
and physiological arrest
ting, though such hypothetical chest
a coy gal, nonchalantly, innocently
with non verbal expressed
charm and demurely
posing as if intending
to serve as guest
of honor, nonetheless,
this brief illusory invest
ment, sans quasi
voyeuristic poetic, shrug jest
sheen, and imagistic distraction,
thy sole rhythmical
motif, since n'er nest
sold with any
purdy young thang begrudging
natural animalistic proclivity,
which absence young adult quest
ting, oh yea
definitely in apropos now,
yet...that self deprived
self discovery stage of life,
that "smarts" me psyche,
when clumsy teen
age dating experience,
a electric kool
aid acid (litmus) test
until twilight age
senescence doth wrest.
It's funny the simple pleasures recounted in life
all manner of wonders reminisced I'll miss most..
though list grows shorter with each passing day
thoughts align in proper time as desires sway
storm bent trees, sunsets, a child's laughter,
and chicken salad on toast.
To be true others may find want of finer things.
fancying first class flight or latest in 'lectric cars,
refined tastes in Nanterre brioche or imported caviars
yet never replace good company a heart brings.
As winter closes, and spring finds its way home,
eternally grateful for all new pleasures won
give thanks warm day's return in rising and setting sun
yet alone, to bygone days my thoughts may roam.
Yeah, there'll always be chicken salad and sunsets..
perhaps a slice of keylime pie or two.
When I look back to a wonderful past,
what I'll miss most
is you.
Oft-times, I'd sit- so dreamlike in a daze-
though decades had elapsed, surpassing days
they lived next door in sharing fun-filled years;
still fancying them here- and, oft with tears.
One night, I closed my eyes to simply rest.
Before long, deep asleep- I felt distressed
by hazy lights fast catching me off guard
beside the moonlit pool in our backyard.
Two shadowed beings each had waved a hand-
and called my name- so I would understand.
Then, through the circle of large maple trees,
ethereal- they floated with the breeze.
My trance-like state of mind said, no! Unreal!
The spirits of my mom and dad, surreal-
now gliding 'cross the lawn to visit me.
Imaginary, this must surely be!
It was that night, I closed my eyes to rest-
my prayers had sent that vision- truly blessed!
There, through the circle of large maple trees-
dreamt of my parents- waving in the breeze!
July 25, 2021
Premiere Contest: An Interesting Couplet
Sponsor: Funom Makama
Revision of a poem posted: 05/24/2021
We were out where we shouldn't be.
Walking hedges, robbing nests and swinging sticks to whack the ears of wheat, fancying that we might bag a rabbit with darts and slings and catapults.
No harm, save the treading down of stalks through farmer's barley corn.
We were Princes of that land. Fearless, with packs upon our backs and makeshift weapons in our hand.
But the wind then rose in a sudden darkening squall
and we sheltered in a copse while gusts battered low the barley and the wheat and the woods in early evening pall began to scream.
Treetops thrashed and whined a ghoulish howl
and heavy drops lashed knocked-leaf-fall all around.
We took fright at nature's passing wrath.
Much like the fear that rose from heart to mouth
when skipping through Kings Hedges Wood,
black rook stared and stood its path too close
for one so young alone.
Such fear arose in us that all the Princes ran.
They ran for mother-comfort, mother-comfort in the home, mother's gingham kitchen apron by her new lit warming fire, mother's towel rub and hair tidy with her brush and tortoise comb.
It could have been me
I am white, privileged, Christian, educated and wealthy
I am married with children, young, fit and healthy
But what if I was born into a different family
Pushed down by the weight of different social gravity
It could have been me born as a black child
Ripped and jibed for the colour of my skin
Sticking for safety with the brothers of my kin
With my head on the ground under the knee
That could have been you or it could have been me
It could have been me born with something not ‘normal’
Where the genetics go wrong and I am born with a ‘barrier’
Or my parents do drugs, or drink I become the carrier
With my hands driving wheels or holding a stick
Whilst being called names like ‘stupid’ and ‘thick’
It could have been me not fancying girls
Being teased in the street for holding hands with a boy
With names thrown my way for others to enjoy
Looking for help when I’m attacked in the street
Because of where I might go and who I might meet
It could have been me immigrating for work
Escaping the life of my country’s condition
Finding it hard to make a family decision
Living off wages that don’t match the hour
As the English men laugh I worry and cower
It could have been me born as a different religion
Being taught different ways to believe and behave
Being shown different ways to do right and be saved
If I don’t know I’m wrong how can I change?
You persecute and discriminate thinking I’m strange
It could have been me with no money for dinner
Pursuing the means to make the ends meet
Whilst trying to buy the right shoes for my feet
Not having the right phone or the right hair
Seeing the others thinking how is this fair?
Should I discriminate? Should I be mean?
Thinking about all the bad stuff I’ve seen
It could have been me who drew a raw deal
Perhaps we should think more about how others might feel.
Free-fancying through the woods
upon lofty ribbons of airy trees,
I tiptoe along a hidden pathway
where glimmering reeds sing its myth--
that in late nightfall and its starry array
my dream-like state becomes caressed
by feathery, ethereal images in gauze wings.
Clutching the soil until it reverberates
with the tinder- box hymn ( or dance) of life,
my being immerses in nature’s waters :
where pixies flow in ageless twirls of creation.
And to experience all as an inner odyssey,
when the breath of pure spirit blows in wonderment
gossamer flights lift my daze unto infinity--
inhaling that child-god universe beyond oneself,
engrossed in a moment of enchanted play
when glorious evening's stage bursts into a dream!
Mystic Rose Contest: A LOVELY LITTLE DAYDREAM
1..21..2017
Cowboys don't know ‘bout pentameter beat
when their crooning to the cattle at night
As long as the rhythm is soft and slow
makes no difference if it's sad or light
Don't make no mind if it goes dum-di-dum
or if instead the rhythm is di-dum-di
Cows sure don't care what some snooty dude thinks
is the proper way to write poetry
The herd doesn't know the meaning of words
no use in fancying up what you say
To mean what you say and say what you mean
that has always been the true cowboy's way
There's no need for some expensive degree
just to lull all them cows to sleep at night
‘Cause humming a tune with no words at all
can keep them calm until the morning's light
So don't be afraid to write them a song
with whatever rhythm or rhyme you choose
It's okay if others don't understand
as long as the tune means something to you
"Live life to fullest, as it seems-
but, leave unlocked your door of dreams."
_by Poet
Three decades had elapsed- surpassing days
they lived next door- partaking fun-filled years.
Oft-times, I'd sit, so dreamlike in a daze-
still fancying them here- and, oft with tears.
One night, I closed my eyes to simply rest
beside the moonlit pool in our backyard.
Before long, deep asleep- I felt distressed
by hazy lights fast catching me off guard.
Then, through the circle of large maple trees,
two shadowy beings each waved a hand-
ethereal- there, floating with the breeze,
they called my name- so I would understand.
My trancelike state of mind said, no! Unreal!
Imaginary, this must surely be!
The spirits of my mom and dad, surreal-
now gliding 'cross the lawn to visit me.
It was that night, I closed my eyes to rest-
while through the circle of large maple trees,
my prayers had sent that vision- truly blessed;
dreamed of my parents- waving in the breeze.
May 24, 2021
~1st Place~
Contest: Writing Prompt - Dreamlike
Sponsor: Constance La France
Judged: 06/02/2021
Words Required (in italics)
dreamlike, hazy, shadowy, ethereal,
trancelike, unreal, imaginary, surreal
I thought lets go fishing
fancying a fish pie
or maybe fish and chips
that would do the trick
I set off, rod and bucket
full of worms in my hands
found a good spot to fish
by the rocks on the beach
Patiently I waited for a bite
then my rod dipped and bucked
soon I had four nice whoppers
flapping around in my bucket
Needing to answer call of nature
I slipped in between the trees
alas when I returned I found
one happy pelican looking full
An empty bucket he'd scoffed the lot
I sighed as I chucked a stone
it missed him by a country mile
no fish for supper I had no more worms
written 06/17/2013
contest Gone Fishing
sponsor Caleb Smith