Long Handily Poems
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The Wakening World
A new world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations unseen to the denizens of land, left in man’s wake.
From diatom, to whale, from single cell, to open hand
from sun, to star, to mushroom bomb, we have light.
Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution;
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, throngs rise asking for hand-
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood ends as the predestined ouroboros wakes.
Death’s rattle subsides, as head eats the tail of depression.
Communication becomes the global antidepressant.
Aborigines in Australian huts and Inuit in igloos see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide, for hand in hand, cells wake.
No longer can knowledge be held. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the breast will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, tyrant and saint will be juxtaposed, their time at hand.
Instant contact scrapes the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of fingertip to keyboard or keypad depressed
sends ignorance fleeing, freeing the knowledge hungry;
showing the way out, the way up, the key. Light-heartedly
heads bow in prayer, the we will rock you will revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.
On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of nuclear rods depressed,
rods magnetized or charged with lightening
will energize the populous for we all hunger.
Evolution brings revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.
Paraskevidekatriaphobia logical as any other phobia right?
Superstition(s) stubbornly linger
impossible to shrug off
(cue Atlas) courtesy pointer finger
regarding Friday the thirteenth bringer
o' ire rush ill luck cue fountainhead gargoyle
nsync with ominous grateful dead singer
uneasiness drilled into collective
conscience since time immemorial
equally puzzling me as harbinger
of spilt salt tossed over left shoulder,
into the face of Devil who lurks
snapping unsuspecting bystander
fast as ginger.
Secular humanists, viz case in point
yours truly, who finds himself
flexing falange joint
as iterated above unable to pinpoint
despite persistent atheistic viewpoint
even when rash of unfortunate events,
whereby sizable tin of yard did anoint
me noggin than hours later dog
canine sank teeth into flesh to reanoint
(handily) these events eyepoint
out occurred 1300 hour August 13th
two thousand nineteen
funeral for William Zison
(late father in law) whose spirit
supposedly, securely, satisfactorily...
passed barred underworld checkpoint.
One (or I), could pick an arbitrary past
month day combination cast
amidst travails, yet fast
as quirky forgotten
mishaps occurred, I long last
forgot unpleasant mishaps vast
among pooled countless
circumstances that did blast
temporary woe out classed
courtesy aforementioned painful
bodily injuries leaving me aghast.
Generally (figurative) speaking
I tend to shrug off (think Atlas)
unexpected misfortune that did bring
momentary such as abby (a bee)
thee wife with painful sting
generating speculation how life fared
if assertiveness prevailed,
when ding a ling
interpersonal opportunity doth ring
regretting forsaking MaryAnne Sage,
whose strengths regarding
compatibility (she shared a string
of characteristics) regarding same birthdate
and square thumbs as
one garden variety generic
NON GMO and gluten free Joe King.
Carte blanche,
this scribe bandies, exercises,
and indulges inexplicable gravitas
drooling, extolling, and fielding greatness,
frothing handily, indubitably jinxed,
linkedin as some lingual philanderer,
which oral intercourse,
this sensate being suckles
figuratively das bosom
sans mother tongue i.e. english language
unbeknownst to this cobbler,
dabbler and fiddler with rhetoric
why those twenty six letters constituting
sole lingua franca known to him,
admittedly beheld captivate, fascinated,
genuflecting, high handedly
inflated educated cerebral cortex
aflame with fiery passion
asper language affianced to himself,
liberal minded radiant,
redolent and rudimentary scribe,
who would book chartered flight
per voluminous Goddess
to the ends of the Earth demonstrating,
hallucinating and punctuating affinity,
cupidity energetically gravitating ingratiation
knowingly manumission
only pleases queen rhetoric,
she thrives unequivocally
viz warbling xeroxed yapping
zestfully, amorously and beatifically,
charming dame, entrances fixation,
germinating hypnosis,
idyllically juicing kinetic love
mister nonestablishmentarian
obliquely producing
quintessential rhapsodies,
sonnets, rhyme less threnody
uber veneration towards prosaic
radiant, redolent romantic
in tryst ting worthily winsome weaver
doth frigate gently heaves illustrious,
joyous, kindness
livingsocial, merrily opportunistically profligate
overlooking many averse trait
viz zit ting this absolute brute,
cheating discrete envoy,
fantasizing glorious hedonistic insurmountable
barbed, blackened, and jazzed ken,
when, even as a haploid male or female germ cell
able to unite with another of the opposite sex
engendered genetically inherent
kickstarter mature oldster
quacking sociological product
tete a tete paramour the
reason aye wrote this poem.
Peer to peer vows of seeded cloud,
Whirli-o-Wisp, of Creation,
thinking aloud,
whismically,
avowed.
Whisps of condense-sings dance in His gaze,
A sky so vast and wide, ablaze.
The stars emerge, one by one,
Dazzling in their sparkling crowdfun-d.
Such a wonder to behold,
A sky so grand and handily bold.
The boon, of a shining silver disk,
Guides the way through the misty risk.
Illuminating the earth below,
Its gentle light a soothing glow.
The sky's eye sees all, far and wide,
A canvas of colors that coincide.
A breathtaking beauty, beyond compare,
A sight to behold, so pure and rare.
So lift your eyes and look above,
And with wonder, fall in love
With the sky that envelopes us all,
A majestic wonder that stands tall.
The sky's eye, a milky gaze it wears,
An ethereal sight that none compares.
With hues of pink and orange so fair,
A painted sky of wonder that we share.
Its cream of Daiquiri-Dowery Fare.
The sun, now set, a memory in our minds,
Leaves behind a moment that eternally binds.
The stars engaged in twinkling shine,
In engagement, like diamonds on high,
Guiding us through darkness to a lighter side,
like a marriage of fairytales in lullaby.
The sky's eye, it sees all that we do,
A constant presence that rings so true.
It reminds us of the beauty in our lives,
And the love that within us thrives.
So gaze up high, and cream a dream, thickly,
deliciously, taste the foamy lips of open zing.
Let your spirit soar, a vast plum-lined plume extreme.
For in the sky, anything is possible,
A magic of possibilty, to dip in your cast of eye.
Gift of our Supreme Being.
Cream of Daiquiri. Pie of Phi.
Christmas Day has arrived; the thought fills me with such dread
For over twenty years they’ve come to me; it's doing in my head!
I get up at the crack of dawn to get the turkey in the oven
Gran moans about my cooking – she belongs in a witches’ coven
I always arrange the festive table last thing on Christmas Eve
I don’t sit next to granny; her table manners make me heave!
My sister is so overweight; you should see the size of her fanny
She belches loudly when she eats, so I’ll sit her next to granny
The taxi arrives at twelve o’clock and I crack open the sherry
When they sit down at the table they are starting to get merry
I slave over a hot stove; no one moves they act too grand
I’ve given up asking for help, they treat me so off-hand
Well this year I’ve rebelled and put laxatives in their soup
I’ll smile secretly when off to the toilet they will all troop
The soup has been devoured and I clear away the plates
When the laxatives take effect they’ll be in dire straits!
The turkey has been carved; all the vegetables are piled high
Uncle Albert grosses out; he needs a trough in a pigsty!
Turkey, and all the trimmings they will quickly devour
Granny moans about the sprouts she said that one was sour
I quietly sit seething whilst they get all get steaming drunk
Uncle Albert farts loudly – he’s worse than a blinking skunk!
Christmas pudding is eaten, followed by juicy mince pies
Sister Annie stuffs her face, as more fat piles on her thighs
Single handily I clear the table, and then we open up the gifts
It costs me an utter fortune; you should have seen their lists
Annie has knitted me the most disgusting baggy jumper
I smile sweetly and thank her, but I really want to thump her!
At four o’clock the taxi comes and they all go off home
I sit by the fire with a cup of tea, I’m so glad to be alone
Next year it’s going to be different; I’m going to go away
Booked a luxury cruise – I’ll be abroad on Christmas Day!
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'Pon bing asked by spouse, while she didst dock
and pooched herself abed
handily at nine o'clock
to see "handsome" pedigree dentastix
dog face of yours truly, me no Kid Rock
yea just a chip off the
ole likeness ice sculptured block,
a sharp pain inexplicably
shoots thru left shoulder blade
generating painful electric shock,
especially after said missus
threw smelly sock
afflicting this muttering chap, where deadlock
partial paralysis analogous to rigor mortis
holding frozen designated
bleep within his flesh bound paddock
(as pop sic hull), non dominant side
of mine body hard as bedrock
(spoiler alert, I write with right hand),
despite best college try, could not extricate...
hell no, this ain't no poppycock
yea, this longfellow felt bewitched by a warlock,
which affliction froze botox smile
engendering gladness to celebrate bajillion
years of blissful wedlock
believe that and I will another truth,
how this lame rhyme stir, he makes buttock
of himself, nonetheless an
oar regional non Jew bull ant debtor,
sans courtesy Shylock
still prone to bouts of flibbertigibbet
ranked as more than schlock,
(no doubt, ye beg to differ)
with mine chock
lot of badinage, basically self mock
curry verging on persiflage, he
freely types what occurs within raw bitstock
of ma noggin akin to babbling
stream of consciousness
initially intending to divulge aftershock
when wife coos this kook
spewing wry verbal
(barley comprehensible) feedstock
as she mimes deadly smooch
inflicting plastered smirk ad hoc
showing pearl white dentures
aiming to entertain, while listening awk
chilly (inspired to contrive
potschke and pastiche) rendered
(if still alive) by P.D.Q. Bach.
Folie à deux
("shared madness," or "madness for two").
I suffer in silence, though not alone
kvetching old curmudgeon (me)
(once upon a time, a promising
long haired pencil necked geek)
buzzfeeding off life's miniseries
of unedited miseries in tandem
with ideal counterpart ofttimes
easily mistaken for a clone
Matthew Scott Harris
unable to function without her
(zee wife), he doth espouse as integral
to calculus of his existence
plus attributes wizardly
powers within (yours truly)
derived, highfived, and thrived courtesy
(think symbiotic), quietly riotously quintessentially,
nevertheless beloved hen pecking crone,
we carrion and cavort
(our respective wings
beating at speed of sound)
generating humming drone
beehive ving amorously
exhibiting unchoreographed tableaux
long practiced routine
equilibrium intermittently punctuated
with dynamic pantomime tour de force
communion words superfluous
since telepathic communication
predominates the unspoken wavelength
long established modus operandi
since... before pledging our troth,
while each ourselves in utero
womb during fait accompli
vis a vis gamely matched
think arranged embryonic marriage,
thus marital covenant
essentially linkedin since conception
both of us coaxed when livingsocial
no longer being tethered to umbilical cord
as lifelong playmates
forging compatible association,
now a gratuitous nod to our long since
dearly departed mothers
unbeknownst to them
how like firmly attached barnacles
each handily, snugly, and warmly fit
(esse mitten hand over fist gal love)
vicariously experienced reciprocal
trials and tribulations
whatever fate visited head of the other
permanently anchoring
nsync out rolling - rock of Gibraltar
across metaphorical stormy seas
trying against all odds
to weather strongest
emotional/psychological tempests
wallowing, née drowning in despair
at aging body, fading senses,
and thinning hair
which last named
akin to Samson
bolsters mein kampf
since... infancy, whose
counterpart betraying me like Delilah
wishing and threatening
(albeit jestingly) to lop off golden locks
each hair reed stranded longfellow
woolworth more'n fine spun gold!
I remember the day—historic NEWS FLASH,
America said YES, to that famed man of brash.
Too good to be true—for conservative folk,
Donald Trump now our Prez—was surely a hoax.
But indeed it was true, and no sooner had he
recited the oath—as executive Trustee, and moved to the swamp to set records straight, to drain the bog—and launch a clean slate.
But taking the reins, what Trump didn’t know,
a Deep State had formed—a coup to VETO the Will of the peeps, who’d legally won—a web of deception now handily spun by treasonous men and women of Hatred for all things American, legal, and sacred.
COLLUSION they lied from Capitol Hill. COLLUSION by media in a fake caring shrill. Across every city, County, and state, COLLUSION—he’s guilty, let’s make no mistake!
Talking heads named Pelosi, Schumer, and Lemon,
Declaring Due Process, was NOT meant for Vermin like President Trump, his family and friends—people of MAGA, no justice shall cleanse.
In the end all were wrong—there had been no such thing, our president—the victim of a terrible sting. A hoax of proportions never before seen since 1776 in the Land of the Free.
Double standards now stand as America’s way.
Lies, deceit, and reputations all flayed.
Savvy Americans saw through the lame scheme, loyally standing by their President and Team.
Despite main stream media, & stirred up confusion,
Hillary lost, MOVE ON—your COLLUSION'S an ILLUSION!
(alternately titled: venerated
uber transcendent state haint give me no lyft)
Ultimate mission (ofttimes possible)
closed eyed insight courtesy meditation
ideally buoys state of consciousness
to naturally induced doze zen realm
disgruntlement arises if yours truly
unaware headstrong winds overtake helm
I invariably drift into light sleep
hours later jostle awake
(analogously experience self named
compressed Rip Van Winkle syndrome)
just smidgen fifty plus shades
gray grizzle coating chin
clumsily amble toward nearest sink
splash cold water across face
apply towel - daub cheeks
various sundry mucus loosened
thick globs phlegm
subsequently, significantly, satisfactorily
expel smallish secretion
out nostrils (pressing
one damned nostril closed
expelling repeating process
other nostril cleared) Semitic nose
clean as a whistle
don glasses to espy time
digitally printed white
within rectangular panel
courtesy electricity illuminating
Verizon set top box
reckon eyes clockface reads
what the ƒ*©* in dog's name...
of Sam Hill, Judas Priest, Matthew Scott...
dadgummit yikes, the time
way past bewitching hour
relaxation cast sleeping spell,
I awoke with a start
'curse saliva drooling and curdling
chin see? ole beastie boy body (mine)
aging baby boomer codger
don't be fooled by
boyish good looks (mine)
nevertheless feral, corporeal
being somewhat refreshed
particularly quaffing
CALIFIA COLD BREW MOCHA
to smooth edges jagged grogginess
thus set self able, eager,
ready, and willing to dash off
aforementioned poem at expense
handily deferred (furloughed)
exercise ma moose hills with
two fifteen pound dumbbells
least till complete literary task
which syrup rise ending snuck up
from outer limits of twilight zone.
By thirteen I was quite tall—
Five-foot seven—friends were small
Always tallest in my class
On school lines—was always last.
Friends were shorter, more petite
Always looked to size-up feet
Compare shoes, I do not fib
Was self-conscious—mine were big.
Their size five to seven, fine—
I was BigFoot! Mine was nine!
Teenage complex anguished me
BigFoot phobia, you see!
Later friends caught up with me
Height and feet grew handily
Soon size nine in grownup form
Looked upon as kind of norm.
Thinking back on “BigFoot” years
To fit in, drove me to tears!
Teenage stresses to compete—
Happy now with normal feet!
© Sandra M. Haight 2015
All Rights Reserved
~3rd Place~
Contest: BigFoot
Sponsor: Skat A
Judged: 05/07/2015