Long Handful Poems
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My phone died this week.
I’ve ordered a new one—
I’d like to say I’ve enjoyed the silence,
just lo-fi music playing, slipping into a flow state.
But I’d be lying.
Only a handful of friends to tell.
Enough to register
the tragedy of going off-grid
like it’s 1503—
where I imagine
I’d be decent
at throwing logs on a fire,
but useless at hunting.
No survival instinct.
I get sentimental when it gets quiet.
It's surprising
that this is how I finally understand
what Black Mirror really meant.
Slick glass, dark and dead,
reflecting back:
smeared rectangle
of myself
slack-jawed, staring.
Neither of us blinking—
only one of us
alive,
allegedly.
I’d had that phone
since before the pandemic.
It held more than my cache:
its shape, my memory—
my hand
aches
for its frictionless drag,
but I had to get a replacement.
I picked the same model,
not out of loyalty,
just me hoping
it would backfill the imprint
of its ancestor.
I'm not too proud
to admit
I miss the constancy,
companionship,
the fugue-state afternoons
given over to scrolling.
I’ve been more alone than I expected.
And lonelier still,
realizing
how much of me
was never here to begin with.
It's a disorienting false north,
this gatherlessness; I'm still sitting with it.
By the way, it's untrue news
that tech is soulless—
it's been up
at least one mortal ever since
my husband powered it on for me,
a gift,
ersatz affection
in response to a lack of discretion
he'd only recently admitted.
And get this: apparently, I cry now.
Despite half a life of spent
convincing myself
I’d therapized it out—
that tears were just poorly timed
girlish things I'd evicted
due to their silencing effect.
I was wrong,
they were only hiding in the attic—
turns out all this noise was just insulation
from every soft place.
Evenings with him feel longer.
He’s older, closer
to death than me. He’d hate that I said it.
I won’t tell him. We’ve learned
to steer clear of each other’s art.
No rules about who we kill
on the page.
Best to leave it that way.
I wonder if we'll go back to old habits.
I think I already know answer.
This screenless space hasn’t been clarifying—
just absence,
with no metaphor to cushion it.
At the risk of repeating myself,
I do know this:
I miss her, Distraction—
I am whatever you say I am...
but, let's get back to reality...
Three short years ago, this room shined welcome mats across a screen of doldrums.
A place of unfamiliarity that screamed,
"You don't belong!"
Yet, a voice of reason spoke and said,
"Expand yir' roots. Venture beyond the comfort zone. Academia resides inside that room, but know you won't be alone."
Repeatedly,brainwaves declined what my wife and editor had told me.
I'd say,
"no way, I'm givin' up my soul for free, they read, they pay, like it's always been, the way it's going to always be!"
Unbeknownst to me one day, and with a slight of hand, my "Open Sores" were put on display and surprisingly more than a handful of great ladies and nice guys began to give feedback on what I had devised.
This interaction was something very new, helpful, and impressive. For a change, it was something real.
For years, those around me were quick to give praise with hidden reasons. Constructive criticism is amazing, and I welcomed being corrected or set straight.
Now there are those who choose to shut me down without explanation, and call me names.
DO NOT mistake me for sophomoric! These words bleeding from my guts have no style and need no approval. There is no thinking involved here, no plan. If you don't like it, fine...don't censor or bracket me in. So what if I am illiterate? If you don't like "street poetry" or the pathetic stuff I write, don't read it. If I offend you, tell me.
We should welcome those who are different than us.
Words of truth inspire movement, like fire.
I came to this room to expand my horizons, step outside the box, learn, help, grow.
There will be no apologies dealt for being different, or for being labelled as something uncomfortable to you.
This has been an ok room so far, but there is some clique trickanery going on.
If the dictionary must come into play, let me recommend looking up the term "Poetic License."
True, I may not be the writer you prefer, or aspire to be....but tread carefully my friend, for you have no idea of my profession. I've made a fine living, for a good long time, spewing words onto paper. I came from nothing, and may still be nothing to you...still, I do what I love, have no boss.
I am not an aspiring writer who dreams of a life, I live my dream. In conclusion, I must wish you luck in finding what you peddle poetry for. Until then, keep
In numerous locales countrywide, they hold sway
Pirouetting at intervals like ballerinas from Bolshoi
Beauteous, feline and very feminine
Slender to the point of emaciation, not quite
Cultivating the undernourished look on a frugal diet
Decidedly austere for a longer tenure in the limelight
Basking in the fleeting warmth of an adulatory audience
A gathering of the doting kindred and the upwardly mobile
Some dirty old men on the sly, dirty young men too
Glued to their seats craning for a better view
By and large captive by choice, a handful perforce
Sitting through to pen their weekly column
Giving those they fancy their due in the sun
Witnesses to a parade of demure eyed lasses
And a few with flashy looks walking tall on stilettos
Essentially female and contoured though not prominently so
At least not to a marked degree, yet with excellent muscle tone
Opulence, no longer deemed a career necessity
Once considered right stuff, now rejected as wrong size
An hour-glass shape belonging to an age bygone
But hardly so, from the viewers’ mind, in retrospect
Enchanting and alluring yet not overtly titillating
Each in a state of dress and undress
Willing tools of designers flaunting their creations
Sporting dresses and hats and shoes, and lingerie too
In black or white and loud or subdued hues
Displaying formal wear, casual wear, swimsuits and sleep suits
Some scanty and figure hugging, others flowing and loose
A bony look required for some, others fulsome
A voyeur’s paradise, to be sure
Indulging a fetish without stooping too low
Chilly weather was never reason enough to cancel a show
Heat of arc-lamps taking care of goose pimples
Or brandy taken neat infusing the needed heat
Harbingers of tomorrow’s fashion and pall-bearers of today’s
The strobe lit platform of the pageant
Serving to launch new faces or is it legs?
The leggy look personified by Twiggy of yore
Carried through in the interim and sustained by the new genre
Captivating without doubt, and thorough professionals
Displaying unruffled demeanour and tutored bearing of thoroughbreds
Exuding confidence with every graceful step they take
Cool as ice despite the harsh glare of stage lights
And callous catcalls from boorish males
Performing in a backdrop of future fashion trends
Money and fame finding some, eluding others
Be it centre stage or in the shadows
It is bread on the catwalk for all
Lickety-split, I sit up and look at the clickety clock,
oh my gosh, why am I lollygagging in this cozy bed;
I am going to be so late for dance class, I better skedaddle,
so I canoodle my cats (hugs and kiss that is);
and like a flash I am out of bed!
Oh dear, what a rigmarole of unnecessary complexity,
I run to the kitchen and open a tin of, oh so stinky fish;
for the fur balls, (no accounting for taste,) my tummy rumbles,
I dress in my pink dance pants, brush my teeth;
I look in the mirror, holy macaroni!
I was going to wash the mop last night but didn't,
oh well, the flat iron turns me into a Cleopatra star;
then, I look outside, snow, lots of snow, blast I need boots,
oh yes under the bed where I flung them;
what a stupid kerfuffle!
Walking to dance, a bus sprays with me with slush,
darn nincompoop, I am thinking to myself and then;
a loud honk, and a car roars pass me, I almost have a stroke,
I finally make it and the receptionist says- cancelled,
cancelled, oh la-di-la, that's great!
I am walking back home when I step into a deep puddle,
and my feet are now soaking wet, I am just exhausted;
I will crawl back into my bed for a snoozle I say to me self,
but I am waylaid by my old fuddy-duddy neighbor;
dearie,(she whips out a grocery list)!
You know, I cannot walk in the snow, meantime her cat,
a fat Persian rubs my legs and I have fur from knees down;
but what can a girlie do, I turn around and hocus-pocus its done,
finally, I am standing in my bedroom all tatterdemalion,
like a child in rags, I feel like weeping!
And then I notice the collywobbles in my tummy,
like butterflies swirling, and then a great rumbling;
oh, damnation, I need something to eat, so I gongoozle,
stare that is, into the refrigerator, close the door, slam;
and grab a handful of cockamamie cookies!
_________________________
January 26, 2017
Poetry/Narrative/Lickety-Split
Copyright Protected, ID 17-8691-18-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest , Any Poem Written in January 2017
Sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
(Chorus)
You think you've got swagger but really you hobble,
you've got the jet lagger and you're drunk so you wobble,
don't start on me mate 'cus I will bring trouble,
to put it into slang words I'm Barney Rubble.
(Verse)
I will ruffle trouble
'cus I'm on another level
that bombs with the base
and stings with the treble,
I'll strut face to face with any ace rebel,
and put them in their place with their constant bull.
When I rhyme with my contortionist wrist
it expels a mist that sits around my fist,
I spell magic out on paper,
I'm playing with danger,
Mr. Wizardry the word selectionist,
squiggling fiction at speeds that feed friction
into rhymes that are non stop hot and cool,
so flames don't flame on the table top,
journey with me to witness the plot,
the earth shaker creator of perfected hip hop,
starting revolutions so that mumble is forgot,
dislodging the rust and rot it coughs that clots
and instating my Barney Rubble at the top.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
That last verse was just a small handful,
a sample of something that you cannot handle,
a scan like a bar code,
so lets open up the road and I'll unload these words,
I can't conceal this skill that rolls like wheels,
a Rolls Royce wearing heels,
in fancy halls doing dancing drills,
with golden walls
to an old skool beat treat.
I wont get signed up by any record label,
but I'm still rhyming better than mumble's able,
just admit you're tapping your feet to the beat
while my rhyme sits on top solid like concrete,
with the dancefloor crammed full,
they're pulling at all angles,
making the memories
that'll last 'til they're O A P's,
they think they've got swagger
and they're like Mick Jagger,
they're more like Sepp Blatter
but a little bit fatter.
(Chorus x2)
(Verse)
You can call me Trimendous and true,
you thought I'd flew crashed and was screwed,
but I took it back to what inspired my act,
an old skool hip hop sick rhyme attack,
I rhymed in flight with this write
and its smile's wild with sublime delight,
there are no poetic rare words
and I don't need swear words
in this dictionary spared verse
with airstream rhythm you can't burst,
I'm wearing this deserved set of words
that pilots and surges to my re-emergence,
a certainty that was never urgent
and not an encore from behind the curtains.
(Chorus x2)
He made no move at all
As the alarm clock went off.
But ten minutes later,
It was obvious he was awake.
He lifted himself out of bed
And went towards the bathroom.
He shaved himself
With a Gillette Techmatic
After having sploshed himself
With a double handful
Of icy cold water.
He washed again, dried his face,
Put on some Monsieur de Gauviche
And got dressed.
He wore a Brutus shirt,
A Tonik suit and a pair of
Shiny brown boots.
He was six foot two,
And he smoked sixty Players
Medium Navy Cut cigarettes
A day, and he lit each one
With a Ronson lighter.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
He was immaculate,
Wore long sideboards
And a long moustache,
And his hair was shortish
And well-combed.
His shirt was light blue,
And he wore a dark blue tie.
He wore two rings on each hand.
He washed himself
After his usual breakfast
Of toast, black coffee and health pills.
He cleaned his teeth thoroughly,
Put some more cologne on,
And then went to do
His isometrics.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was born in London in 1940.
He went to Eton and Oxford,
Had taught at Oxford for eight years
But was sacked.
He had been an Oxford Rowing Blue,
And got a degree in English, Art and History.
His father was Lord Alfred Hardin, M.P.
Titus loved teaching,
And not many people know the reason
For his dismissal at the age of thirty one.
He was nearly expelled from Eton
For smoking, drinking,
And being head of a secret society
With secret oaths, but he was
Too promising a sportsman,
And all the boys respected him
As a prefect.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
His flat was beautifully furnished.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest wardrobe in London.
(This jackadandy's original title was "An Essay Written by a Guy Who Was Too Lazy to Finish It", and it dates from my mid-teens.)
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Form:
Cup does runneth
over, rhyme inside'a
me at last, was
barren and so
empty til inside
there drops a
splash,
of rich poetic
potions mixed with
collard greens and
hash, let's picture
hours after the
economy has
crashed.
The whole world
saw it coming on
our back;
impending doom,
so don't believe the
newsroom talk of
how it's ending
soon,
it's not just pipin hot
it's burnin 3 degrees
from noon, but won't
be real until you
hear this nation
sing the blues.
We'd lose the
government's
assistance, it would
be no joke, the
unemployment,
welfare food stamps
gone, there'd be no
hope,
come slice this
mental Wonder
bread then sit and
eat a loaf, there
wouldn't be much
growth around at all
to feed the folks.
The homeless
though do lay their
heads by where I
catch the train, the
richest country in
the world can't help
them, that's a
shame,
but multiply the
handful by the
millions that'll hang,
their heads in
shame with no
economy, yo that's
the game.
The President's
approval ratings
dwell where cellars
be, the days
of 'meat for dinner'
gone, no sales on
celery,
and that's for those
of us who're
blessed with God's
defining truth, or go
out like the 30s
where we'd stand in
line for soup.
A real life 'Book Of
Eli', ain't no gas to
run the cars, your
feet would beat
retreats in cold and
heat to run you far,
in fact if the
economy did end
up true deceased, I
guarantee you'd find
those selling kids
for food to eat.
The loss of all
morality heats up
like yellow sand, to
witness inhumanity
defeat your fellow
man,
brutality and
savag'ry would grip
this very land, to
have the cleanest
water or a bit of
DairyLand.
It then would turn to
war amidst the
races and the
creeds, Apollo died
while boxing, folks
like that are safe
and free,
majority's priority,
minorities would fall, they'd
light us up Paul Mall
in other words they'd bomb
us all.
Scenarios are
worse case but I'm
not that wrong at
all, so fellas stuffing
dollars in the
thongest of the
draws,
and ladies who just
live to go and ball
out at the mall,
enjoy it, stand up
tall and pray to God
it all don't fall.
Time is indifferent to our words
And Time does not heal wounds
Made by the careless lash of sound
In fury - or by corrupted Law.
Set heart deep in Purpose without direction
Stretching on without surcease
Bias for the ages thrown away.
Time does not reveal layers of honesty
Without a costly step to rest
Or try to grow without the sun...
And we can live a thousand hours
In a handful of breaths
To no avail in any mind committed.
Weren't they here for us..To protect and serve?
Time does not explain the immediate pain
That cuts so deep we do not bleed,
And cannot heal because of need....
Because of liars and deathless greed
Made by those selfish few
Lounging still in ease...
Time does not reshape the truth
Or shows us how to face a reality armed with teeth
Or tells us how to draw a line
Beyond whatever binds us to believe..
And give us "leave" to Occupy
What must be filled apace...a living, breathless race.
Time does not grant instant understanding;
Incomprehensible, the scope of deceit
Improbable, the Rule of Law prevailing
For none of us...for all of them
Across their newly minted Bridge of Moral Sins
Destruction created from financial quicksand and filth
Time does not respect the Norm
All twisted out of space - of form and resaoned madness
Due process tainted deep beyond repair..
Gaping wounds bound up in plastic trashbags
Where only wealth will hide despair,
Hide the rotting corpse that is Society
The differences to hold the mark - leaving children homeless
To catalog us all around forever
How to try beyond a single doubt
To "free" us - one and all - by stealing everything.
Weren't they here for us as promised - to protect and serve...?
Let Freedom ring; let all the young lions sing
In acapella rendition of whatever seems important
And echo every single broken pledge
Back at the ones who broke them.
Make them pay - make them explain away
Deception - abomination..
Occupy the Wall Streets in their Living Rooms..
Occupy
Their longest day
Watch them slither fast away from sunlight
Hiding under dark, wet rocks.
Occupy their rotted souls
And watch them die of blame..
We will protect and serve ourselves.
Occupy
And serve them up a meal of shame.
Occupy.