Long Hoodlums Poems
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Peter Pan Syndrome the most
accurate way to summarize
psychological mindset of yours truly,
particularly as a boy with brown eyes,
who did NOT holistically acclimatize
himself with peers, which insecurity
latched deadbolt draw
bridge guaranteeing Harris
parasite to cannibalize
(figuratively), sans rip
pull sieve flesh eating das guise
nanobot, while clinging with dear life
to mother's apron strings, no surprize
unavoidably, predictably, inevitably,
trauma did successfully burglarize
(more serious than Watergate)
rendering this withdrawn, small size
passive, and docile pipsqueak
human punching bag to other guys,
one puny slip shape lad's bodily statecraft
always ready to capsize
silently suffering lifetime, threatening
afflictions, harming easy target
inculcating aghast fear to socialize
compounded by stature quite undersize
additionally afflicted with minor defect
submucous cleft palate did compromise
vocalization with severe nasality
(iterated previously other poems), where
bullies did zero Kamikaze like to criticize
relentlessly, an ideal
defenceless, friendless,
and helpless "scapegoat" booby prize
scared kid, who stood
stock still cowering in an agonize
zing posture, while my whole felt as if tied
into gordian knot as
"hoodlums" did gleefully antagonize,
yet never confided hostile treatment
to either parent, I wanted to disappear
and DIE, hence escapist wishes aye did fantasize!
(alternately titled ringleader Harris hooligan,
Hence, any resemblance
between characters port
rayed, and living persons
purely coincidental.)
Claim to fame creating
an overnight sensational
boom town explained
by lodestone of zinc
while the town
crier fast asleep
(until next to last 21st sentry
caught up on
much needed
protracted wink),
his dreams informed
him of a getaway,
whereat just
with mental power to think,
could render forth pour
favor riches aplenty
appearing once
one did awake
meanwhile oblivious
to encroaching hoodlums,
whom didst blithely slink,
(analogous to a
waltzing skater on a smooth
as glass ice rink,
whereat razor sharp blades
noiselessly sliced cold air
with an imaginary plink),
thus while one man guard
zonked out, sans steeped
in a glistening escapade
cuddling, nestling, and snuggling
with his pet mink
Hun dread scandalous vandals
(Atilla among them)
word less lee
located weakest linkedin chink
coalescing, comprising,
and constituting,
an otherwise excel lent access
duff fence sieve link
iron wrought chained
formerly mistakenly invincible
against a Trojan
Horse, now even
vulnerable to a dolled up,
decked out disguised rat fink,
slithering snake like afore
the zoned out patrol
did awaken and blink
only after invasion of swiftly
styled, harried tailored,
foo fighting beastie boys
ex post facto, when steely
dan sing motley crue
made discernible noise
far to late for the
"FAKE" Don to trumpet
successful "Stormy Daniels"
counter attacking ploys.
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea
To this chrysoberyl dawn rescue from chuted linen bedlam,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
She sits on her hands and shuffles her ugg boots,
And watches me toast, I'm butter, I'm smoked ham.
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea.
Pepper shakes, egg white eyes, her yawning toots,
Her champagne hair bubbles still of our liquory sham,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
The wonder to her sprite body and this morn in cahoots,
When I feels like I'm sunken, with lids like a sleepy clam.
Now for warm oatmeal and honey and sugarless tea.
Not flowers on feathers, hoodlums we are - munchy and moose,
Nothing much matters but her lippy kiss coat of strawberry jam
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
This first light and cigarette and her shuffling caboose
Closer, comfier, her smile on my shoulder, to the day be damn'
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat
Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber
(think unclogging toilet)
please support your local bummer
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare ass tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.
Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into bloody pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully
nonetheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully
delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.
Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds valuable humor less or mo'
feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero.
:)
What kids are watching on telly
are crimes and crimes in all variety!
Crimes of hate
crimes of passion
acting it out at shocking rate
thinking in some wild fashion
then ending up cell mates!
When kids watch their movie heroes
shoot down people with the gun
they are incited to do the same
to achieve some thrill and fun.
When they see their very film star
slash someone's throat in a fit of anger
they think well of crimes of rage
and plunge everybody else into danger.
The tendency to portray the violent scene
luridly and shockingly on the Big Screen
Ah even for the small screen, tis the gory
that makes for the dark and thrilling story.
Now that technology's long opened this pandora's box
the dispersal of amplified social ills ain't no hoax
The rowdy hoodlums and reckless gangsters
are simply by-products of Tv influences
The world watches the thriving of the bully-boy pranksters
passively in helpless terror of their offences.
It's all portrayal of the vulgar, the obscene
by that devious Silver Screen
And the horror movie
though it may seem groovy
begets the horrendous
and drills evil thoughts subliminally
into the subconscious!
It's an unrestrained dark faking
of real life reality exaggerating
Whether it's Bollywood in the East
or it's Hollywood in the West
they don't merely impart tactics of defence
but rather those of aggressive offence
Viewing those gruesome swashbuckling films
gives rise to morbid sadistic whims
Flipping through the TV channels
just ponder if the telly's the perfect channel
of information is it a proper panel?
Dad always tells me, 'fear ye the roaches' flicking antennae?
While you oughtta fear the influence
of 'em' flickering images by dish antennae'.
Then a mere single merit that I dug
as I drank cappucino in my mug
that atleast one couldn't live in a bubble
daily watching the bubblebug.
Ah but then tougher gun laws couldn't halt
even underage shooting sprees
Rather it's stringent scanning of Tv content
that might make it all cease
Parental supervision too tis gravely essential
Should've been of parental code quintessential
So the next time you catch your teen
absorbed and engrossed while glued to the screen
Just sleuth a bit just to make sure
that for the x-rated he's not too keen!
A baby's birth, a tale to tell,
Of a day when riots rocked the land.
Hoodlums and fire, chaos befell,
As Nasya's arrival was at hand.
Her mother, anxious, in labour pain,
With fear for her life and the baby's too.
To the hospital, she did remain,
But the journey there, a dangerous road to pursue.
The gas station burned beside the place,
Where doctors would bring life to the earth.
But transportation gone without a trace,
So they trekked, with their medical gear's worth.
No baby food to nourish the child,
In a world so filled with strife.
Yet the doctors worked, with hearts so mild,
And brought Nasya safely into life.
A story of love and hope untold,
In a time when chaos rules the day.
A mother's strength, a baby's hold,
A reminder that peace will come someday.
Two birds like mischievous teens
skipping, giggling as they cross
the pumps, dodging car scenes
through the oily and Oldsmobile dross.
Scoundrels living loud in their little world
chirping along, rippling through grime,
gabbling as they kick the can, twirling
and uttering in incoherent rhyme.
Oh the crime of poetic injustice,
those bobbing teeny hoodlums -
their imagery without substance.
No alliteration nor allusions.
But the human takes notice of the couple,
just too cute, their slim legs and beaks
skimming through the rainbow puddle
with sputtering tweets, puttering in the grease.
I walk with confidence into the world.
My silver hair is all pinned up in curls.
Every step knowing that my time is money
Listening to the sounds is making it more sunny.
A vault full, starting when I was young,
as the house was never quite full of tongue-
in-cheek, tending to be taken lightly.
Mom would say, "Up to bed, hoodlums," nightly.
Those meaningful times when I could dig
up that pot of money that had grown big.
I was the oldest, the one who kept order.
Now, old as I’ve become, I'm a hoarder.
My life is a tangled patchwork blanket.
Under rules and sworn oaths of loyalty, a bandit.
How many hours of time turned into currency?
A dreamer with echoes of laughter, all so cozy.
It was a crisp day October 27th 1942
that's when my pop set out for WW11
right after my grandmother Nona
gave birth to my dad orders arrived
his job assignment was to protect the
priest arch bishops and future Pope's
being captured and killed for their
religious belief safety guarded in
Saint Sebastian church in Rome
the actual sight where Saint Sebastian
was arrowed to death I adore my military
family my husband saved Pow's during Vietnam
two uncles served and now my granddaughter
the history of thee armed forces within my
family is quite a treasure my pop protected
Pope Benedict and stood side by side
Pope Saint John XX111 1944 during
the Victory after liberating Italy he would
often shed tears about the mafia in America
with Al Capone how they actually portrayed
all Italians as criminals left a sore spot for my
own great grandmother born Mason Vicentino
all of pop's letter from war read somewhere
in Italy Apo New York my Pop died at 97 years
old clutching this photo of Arch bishop Pope
Saint John XX111 he made me swore on his
death bed to protect it from the mafia hoodlums
so it would stay in the hands of the Vatican
sadly Mafia hoods broke into my home trying
to retrieve the photo without success I'd copied
it several times sharing with the Knights of Columbus
the Abby of Monks the Franciscan sisters Arch Bishop
most Reverend Cardinal Francis George of Chicago
of course storing the original for safe keeping
and Honor for the sake of his sorrowful passion
over Saint Peters Square Di Vatican in Rome
my Roman heritage Somewhere in Rome I'm home
Autumn though of herself as a kind soul,
and she took great pride in her compassion,
she believed things could be made perfect,
and her voting reflected this fashion.
She was to see that the wealth was shared,
and that people were nice in their words,
since so few out there ever recognized
how what they said could offend and disturb.
If folks would only learn some basic tact
then everything would run more smoothly,
and she was so glad to help elect leaders
who would take a strong stand against ‘hate speech.’
One day she saw on social media
a report about a conspiracy man
who liked to breath fire when he spoke his mind,
so the tech giants all had him banned.
But she didn’t think that much about it,
she’d never liked that fellow anyway,
so she shrugged it off as unimportant,
and mindlessly went about her day.
A month later she saw some new footage
of men’s right activists under attack,
for trying to change the family courts
they were set upon by hoodlums in black.
But Autumn did not care much for their cause,
opposing women was beyond the pale,
why listen to fools who had never been told
that the future ‘belonged to females?’
A year after that a church made the news
when it refused to marry two men,
the pastor tried to explain his reasons,
but ‘Anti-fascists’ just threw rocks at him.
Autumn just shook her head at the scene,
had not the pastor heard of the new laws?
Who was he to claim that he knew the truth?
To exclude folks on the word of his ‘God?’
Three months later, in campaign season,
a brash man roused the crowds with his rants,
said all sorts of things she found horrible,
it was really getting out of hand.
And when the networks block out all his ads,
and refused to cover his rallies,
Autumn felt that peace had been restored,
there were ‘standards’ to democracy.
Then a year later a new judge declared
that ‘hateful words’ were not protected,
Autumn was glad, progress would be made!
She eagerly waited for what lay ahead…
Over the next two years many people
ran afoul of this new ‘moral code,’
it started with fines, then came prison time,
hundreds, then thousands, to the jails did go.
Autumn started to feel a bit uneasy
at all the chaos that it had caused,
but every change came with some trial,
and those people had broken the laws...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.