Long Heiress Poems
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My dream girl's not a doll, no Kewpie cutie,
Or an heiress, or an actress on the screen.
She's neither nun nor acrobat,
Nor wears fine feathers in her hat,
No frump for Trump Republican,
No beauty queen.
She's not a princess trapped inside an ivory palace
Awaiting rescue by a valiant knight like me.
She doesn't dazzle like aurora borealis,
Or sing arias from "Carmen" like Ms. Callas,
Or practice taekwondo,
Or even know tai chi.
But the girl I dream about has joy and laughter,
And her heart's as full of love as it can be.
When my spirit's low, she lifts it to the rafter,
And I know we'll have a happily ever after
Every time I dream of her
And she of me.
V.
Besides a rushing stream he saw a stone hut,
framed by aspens clinging to a rough slope,
the chimney was stained from long years of use,
But who lived out here? He just didn’t’ know.
Until his eyes happened upon two graves,
one had weathered, the other was fresh cut.
Who could they know who was buried out here?
Curious, he dismounted and walked up.
The older gave said: ‘Here lies Joseph Fields,
1851 to 1912,
Father, and Husband to his dear Rennie.’
The priest stumbled back. “Wha-what does this mean?”
The oldest daughter, who was named Isabel,
said,”She knew the townsfolk would not understand.
That’s why she used to ride back in her youth,
she combed the mountains, seeking out this man.
“She knew our grandpa had done the man wrong,
that a normal life he never would live.
She brought him money so he’d stop thieving,
and it return, his whole heart he did give.
“When our grandpa died they both realized
that without hm none could prove pa was framed,
they both dreamed of reopening his case,
but knew that doing so would be in vain.
“He visited us at night, when he was able,
and we rode out here to his backwoods hut.
We’re not bastards, Father Cobb married them,
you can at least tell the people that much.
“Six years ago, when our father passed on,
she came out here to give her man a grave.
She made it clear to us, when her time came,
we were to ride out here and do the same.
“We could not speak of this when she still lived,
to do so would have been their undoing,
a millionaire heiress weds an outlaw…
You understand this this would have brought ruin.
“But now their troubles are finally done,
and they can be here, at each other’s sides.
I hope you can spare a few prayers for them,
forced to be apart for so much of their lives.”
The priest was amazed, but slowly nodded,
said, “We thought worse of her than she deserved.
I ask forgiveness, I thought so myself.”
Then he knelt low and whispered holy words.
Later than night, when their mom was at rest,
they all rode away as the sun went low,
past a grave that read: ‘Here lies Rennie Fields,
Forever besides her beloved Joe.’
never could this baby boomer papa –
lviii orbitz round mister sun as I write while wife
at present (takes her siesta) imagine
dragons, killer Queen Latifah countless ways,
thee first of deux daughters
would in vite learning how to comprehend
unfamiliar infant siren ear splitting strife
and mandatory pronto reception,
unwittingly ineluctably altering my life
prior to parturition of our eldest heiress,
ah wanna let
chew in on a bit about mess elf
before becoming a papa
no emotional, financial,
nor physical obligation dim manned did
obliged, nor required this bard **** to in debt
any of his waking and sleeping second,
minute, quotidian hour,
et cetera on behalf of another person Yukon bet
char sweet bippy, that despite initial onset
of anticipatory anxiety (no pet
tee personal issue; burping baby,
diapering, swaddling, et cetera fermi person
easily got shucked off), hitherto
didst any phenomena until then
force displacement of personal habits
to become secondary, and obviously,
seriously visibly up set
status quo, where embedded fixations
housed within this scribe
required reassignment of tasks
until salient event forced him to vet
any less important issues
to an unspecified future
date and/or time, which role
i.e. forsook luxury sans,
affordable focus on me,
and immediately didst force crash course
to keep figurative whet
stone sharp every waking
and sleeping moment of me life, yet....
though a crash course imposed role
viz immediate adjustment of mister mom
(which obviously necessitated significant sacrifice
upon the head of this major Tom)
never before until that juncture
such selfless experience ever met,
but in retrospect salutary outcome
found thoughts linkedin whereby
time never divided, partitioned,
or sectored off to another livingsocial being
I never took care of an infant,
when her crying heard
yet, the birth of E_ L_ H_ incurred
(born at Bryn Mawr Hospital),
Attorney General William
Barr black marker in hand
kept promise to censor vital
details of Mueller Report
swift as Usain Bolt candidly,
grandly, lustrously, roundly
youthfully blocked out more
rapid than an elegant eland
vibrantly, regally, magically,
and gracefully skirts borderland
which favored topography
constitutes grassland or woodland,
far more pleasing to observe,
than reading adulterated brand
of aforementioned compilation,
distillation, edification, fortification
zeroing questionable activity
upon head of trumpeting brigand,
whose arrivistic, bombastic, caustic,
demonic, electric broadband
outsize ego still convinces
me, thee commander in chief
delegated one or more chargehand
perhaps while delighting as
gourmand savoring chateaubriand,
where his best buddies imagined
themselves in seventh heaven cloudland
every so often taking siesta sans repast
or golfing with grisly handicapped clubhand
non verbally communicating,
in viz sub bully taking a peas zing
cues from presidential high command,
which coterie (i.e. den of thieves)
manipulated social media with nefarious,
insidious, deleterious, et cetera
analogous to "FAKE" contraband,
maybe even milking innocent cowhand
unwittingly planting GMO electronic
bugs amidst future bovine fodder cropland
to allow, enable, and jackknife demand
that moost every eligible voter tricked
induced by virtual reality dreamland
with sinister motive for thee "Apprentice"
rule his kingdom, and expand,
realm asper Medieval days
declaring himself chieftain of fatherland
and/ or North American motherland
where naysayers guillotined
by uncontested firebrand,
who without provocation
very likely bomb into Stone Age
formerly edenic, lush, verdant
geography into flatland
rendered hostile, poisonous and uninhabitable
nonetheless radiating for miles with gangland
forced labor tilling barren, desolate, fissured
landscape erecting unsightly grand
standing room only (cause he know Shylock)
terrain (reign) vast highland
manor as poobah, and husband
to his only heiress, the former
a kooky monster from foggy bottom marshland.
Her sinful origins
Lavish countryside merchandise
Sold as before therein
Therein her father's cursive
No escaping your mother's wives
Hours of gates in glass
Absconding measures hateful professors
Daliancing courtships of escaping slaves
Travel ignorant
Visit in spite where I succumbed too
Your mother's wisdoms I loved
Dedicated to Taryn Manning's Ancestors
kevin 11m
Sin Filled Residence
Sin filled Residence
Her sinful origins
Lavish countryside merchandise
Sold as before therein
Therein her father's cursive
No escaping your mother's wives
Hours of gates in glass
Absconding measures hateful professors
Daliancing courtships of escaping slaves
Travel ignorant
Visit in spite where I succumbed too
Your mother's wisdoms I loved
Dedicated to Taryn Manning's Ancestors
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
Taryn, the following piece of music captures New York friendship and that, I've got rent taken care of to that.
Un Doted Losses
Un Doted Losses
Huuhhg, huuhhg
Cried?! Call
Hallway
Ever cried
Call way
Rounded strings
Parent darings
Love you going
Eyes in minds spearing
To yell when it dries
A city inside
Rounded states
Hats tilting despair
Losing footing
In a hand worth turning
Parents darling
Missed the meaning of spent
Before you return
City squares I've made,
Steps upon all ponds
Travel days, nights as dawn
World's go to run
Having all dreams in done
Yet hearing the shore
Foreign and open latching boards
We waste under joy
Bereaved he'll stay a boy
Copyright © kevin mathenia | Year Posted 2025
Romance, jazz spent verses
#kendalljenner
Hoping won't pay for Linda Diaz
#tarynmanning #lindadiazmusic #blackpinkofficial
5 Girlfriends
Girlfriend number one was wealthy and clean
Air filled her head as she got lost along with rain
Could not find her way out of anything
Paper bags were not her thing
The next one was a pretty blonde
Heterosexually inclined but changed her mind
Imploded on impact with all men
No one knew why… She came with no instructions
Number three was a kleptomaniac
Stole dirty dishes on the sly
That did not make them any cleaner
She was as simple as her crime
The best thing about little Miss four
She was a nuclear physicist
And liked to explore the universe
But she also liked divorce… I can say no more
Girlfriend five liked money, houses and cars
Had not a penny to her name
Told stories about the wars she won
Claimed to be heiress to a throne… someplace unknown
Bridge stones cobble streets i'll take whatever God gives to me
Fortunes won and lost by wars
These wounds will never heal because they are so deep
Vast amounts of posion alter the ego I once had
Three stories like these are my babys dreams
Lillies grow and storms blow them away
Needful for employment but not greedy for gain
Sabatauge is a crooked path so i take the narrow way
Streets litered with good intentions have become my home
No where does a man find his true Love
Unless he first look deep down inside himself
Classes like Cladestine and irrational men are not my breed
I'd rather fall off a horse than die in a car wreck
Stars fell spells cast darkness never flees from the light
Hitching a horse to a post is an easy task
But riding at night proves your worth to men
As she introduces herself as a heiress of a King
Etchng this ethic into the ethos A godly man is full of evil deeds
Continuim of Time the features are often at times the equivilent of the McAbees
Sanctions dont stop the Gods from appearing on the screen
Hesitating in the face of caution is likened to repeating the actual events
So I follow through the veins of every man like the voice of Life does
Helogriphs that express the worthy are from God
So remember the voice of Cain as Able killed him by His decree
I Theme To List Toward Secular Humanism ©ø¥
Mine excel leant
powerfully pointed
nonestablishmentarian
outlook accesses
prolix laced threads, whereat
aye weave with zeal
spinning, sans metaphorical
loom min esse
cent invisible wheel
finagling, incorporating, and lurching
sesquipedalian ward webbing,
sans existential warp and weft
asthma trademark seal
begetting poetic offspring
for no rhyme, nor
reason and less real
than an actual progeny,
(das papa percolates,
per predilection toward prolix)
as poor substitute
to apply seminal seal
if only...grace with
a younger fecund wife,
where becoming
pregnant would ap peal
and be chronologically viable
plus said mother
hood ambition would,
(asper this
hypothetical scenario)
might warrant me to inculcate,
and if necessary
take a knee to kneel
yet stopping short
of any Machiavellian
(cut throat...er rather
umbilical cord) tactics to activate
no explanation why
hankering to create
additional "NO FAKE"
fallacy aye in inflate
cuz, nothing compares
to sire (with love)
heir or Harris heiress,
and coveting father hood again
a son or daughter
even though pushing late
fifties, which age finds me
to instagram, shutterfly,
or snapchat with disbelief
aware that divulgence to experience
such poignant pang mate
be attributed to absence
of mine deux darling daughters
ah...juiced a small
pipe (petty filed)
whet dream wracking ma pate
no great expectations
by dick ends
for any physically
intimate tete a tete
thus assimilate call
of the wild crafting writings
with my huff firm mitt heave
gen till loin that doth undulate.
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
When I was but a boy
in the small village of Cold Springs,
I lived near a cantankerous old witch.
At least, that's what the gossip implied she was.
Her name was Almeda Hamilton, and she was a hoarder.
Of course, we knew nothing of hoarders back then
and most everyone thought she was plum crazy.
She'd trap and skin groundhogs and squirrels,
salt their hides and stitch their raw pelts into fur coats.
Pew, you could smell her coming downwind for miles.
She lived off-road in a patch of trees
in a dilapidated cottage crammed with garbage.
The irony is, her father once owed the whole county,
and she was an heiress,
suffering from a severe phobia and mental problem.
Years back, or so the story goes,
her fiancée had left her at the altar,
but her father had built them that house,
and so, she stayed there a recluse.
It was rumored she'd buried hordes of cash,
and when she died, alone in her filth,
her property was potholed by fools trying to find it.
I confess, I felt sorry for her then, and still do,
for the lady got mistreated by the world,
and on its behalf, I apologize.
(Free Verse)
03/18/2020