Long Lassie Poems
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(I'm
an
Indian
lassie,
was
born
in
West
Africa,
(Nigeria),
Grew
up
in
South
Africa
(Swaziland)
and
currently
live
in
East
Africa.
(Tanzania).
So
I
live
in
Daresalam,
near
the
Indian
Ocean.)
I
might
be
like
any
other
expatriate,
desirous
of
their
homeland
Upon
my
country's
soil
fervently
wishing
to
stand.
I
can't
help
feeling
profusely
foreigner
in
this
highly
foreign
land
I'd
give
anything
to
go
back,
say
even
be
a
mariner
for
there's
an
ocean
to
cross
before
familiar
sand.
An
ocean
with
dear
motherland's
name
greets
me
all
the
way
here
with
tantalizing
lure
Tiring
me
of
nostalgia's
seemingly
endless
game,
reminding
the
distance
between
the
shores
is
galore!
Everything
here
seems
just
too
alien
and
foreign
The
air
seems
foreign
punctuated
by
exotic
birds
In
this
land
I
still
feel
as
if
lost
in
some
warren
and
the
foreign
language
-
I'm
at
a
loss
for
words!
I
feel
estranged
and
disoriented,
struck
with
nostalgia
though
I
might
not
be
such
a
patriot
any
more
The
awaited
journey
to
India
from
Tanzania
to
reach
familiar
ground
of
lakhs
and
crore.
Ah,
the
welcoming
scenes
of
my
homeland
always
so
enticing
and
inviting
It
might
seem
surprising
that
for
me
she's
a
dreamland
but
a
desire
to
go
back,
since
ages
I've
been
fighting.
I'm
home-
sick,
waiting
so
long
to
be
back
home
There's
no
place
like
home-
sweet-
home
Here
I
feel
I've
lost
my
tracks
Like
a
homeless
wanderer
do
I
roam.
As
here
I
feel
no
less
like
a
Gulliver
on
his
travels
yet
to
rehabilitate
from
homesickness
might
take
a
lifetime
For now, I can merely
sing of motherland's
marvels
and wait soberly for fate
and destiny's chime.
But an underlying truth
here: I feel alienated
everywhere
as if I hailed from No-
man's-land
They think I neither
blend with the Indian
nor
the african
but hope they respect
my very individual brand.
Because He Beats Me
Back I go into the den of tears
Splashing them across my face
The ones I have shed before
The memories
Some I have saved for years I this horrid place
Standing still I await the blow
My head - My back - My abdomen
Reality strikes
It seems so slow
I am paying for my sins
He loves me – He loves me not
Like picking pansies as they grow
He chose me for this lot
The tender kiss soft as a butterfly’s wing
So special I feel when he’s near
Oh, how my heart does sing
Making up is romantic dew
A glow beyond belief
Discolored speckled vision cleared
It all boils down with grief
Like a Lassie runs I make my way
A carpet for his feet
Bruises show a clotted flow
That fade well in a week…
I plot to steal away
Saving money for my future stay
He breaks my sofa – Says he’s take my life
I am his come what may
Stored anger churns deep within my soul
Backdrop game of blissful years
My bloodshed can never atone… Neither can the tears
For each mirror shows traces of healthy mane
I return faithful in fear
Unchanged
Because
He
Beats Me
- (c) Emily C. Archer
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
One lone rose tumbled from the basket,
the same as the others but set apart
All were beautiful. They congregated
in one basket, these Southern belles,
but she, with her pink cheeks, tumbled,
she’d cut her ties. She loved them, indeed,
but not exclusively. No one was there
to hold her by the hand. She knew
and cared about the world out there.
all the southern belles
beautiful, adorned in pink ~
one lone rose cut ties
She’d end up in a beautiful bouquet,
dusted off, picked up from the floor.
She was the bride’s favorite - was she
something new or something old?
She wasn’t sure - it didn’t matter,
she was used for a moment in time,
carried as the piano played, as
the crowd stood to admire the bride.
how the bouquet served,
open to severed flower ~
the pride of the bunch
Puffed-up in the part she played.
The lovely pink dustable would be saved,
dried, sprayed. She was loved, as surely
as if she was the velveteen rabbit, boxed
up - almost nearly ever gawked at. Her
favorite time was when a little girl, who
looked so much like the bride of years-
gone-by, opened the box and picked her up.
surprise opening
admired, crushed, and scattered rose
a little girl laughs
She was admired and crushed and
a puckered up lady scooped her up
and kissed her over and over again
telling her of her favorite flower - a foundling
she admired even with its scattered petals.
kisses are gathered
strewn on the cheeky lassie ~
she’s a gift of life
She gave one petal to the mischievous girl -
“God bless you! May this grow into
a pretty bouquet, special and unique.
I’ve been so blessed, dear one.
May your life be so blessed too.”
understanding not
but love was never forgot
for girl’s heart was full
Then the worn out rose saw the old
bride kiss her granddaughter, again,
as they laughed and the girl’s cheeks
turned an eternal pink, taking on the hue
of reignited petals. She would stand apart
from the rest, though she loved them all
would serve the world. Her name was Rose.
her namesake of old
ruffled, lacy, magi’s gift
a blessing from God
9/1/2022
Bonanza of shamrocks will soon blanket Green Acres...
where Lassie free to run across petco junction
All across the webbed
wide esse Scott's landed wold
emerald green Trifolium
carpets harbor untold
burrows of tiny Leprechauns clover
(leaf) ways grant trifold
wishes if captured might
divulge pot of gold
at rainbow's end, and e'en mend
yar shoes, whence re: souled,
thence tread softly beneath subthreshold
of audibility, cuz unseen universe
hapts tubby microscopically rolled
with subterranean inhabited by Lilliputian
mischievous impish beings
(about bajillion holed
up could fill the Taj Mahal) even donned with
heavy coat protecting them
(usually men) against cold
yet frolic with reel delight jiggling
with inborn instinct exhibit twofold
talent to dance with modesty
downplaying (while fiddling)
analogous to some roof fiend
averse tubby extolled,
nonetheless, their popular
doth soar, and grievously scold
persistent myth anchored with toehold,
and thus do not indulge
pruriently with pixies considerably dulled,
since libido practically nonexistent told
me (under oath of
confidentiality), one Grunwald
trusted yours truly, the secrete
will not leak out,
nor spread like slime mold,
this descendant of Lemuel Gulliver
who schleps across the webbed wide wold.
Yours truly (an average
height and weight size ways)
nondescript grown
male munching kin
stands a little less than threefold
larger than full grown homunculi.
Rumor monger kickstarter
Matthew Scott Harris
posits nontrue tidbit
regarding rock 'n' roll star
who (name unmentioned)
became the most influential
musicians across the universe,
with estimated record sales
of around 600 million
as of two thousand twenty blank.
Imp possible mission
to see non elfish (pressed) lee
160 years after his Irish ancestor
crossed the Atlantic
curling his left lip,
whereby convalescing, peep ping auld
timers cavorting wax nostalgic with
itty bitty whippersnappers,
averse to any outliers,
whether hirsute or bald
an honest to goodness painstaking effort
initially stymied friendship proffered, a cold
reception eventually bedecked
hall of the mountain king
(while sharing diet of worms)
deep under verdantly
festooned knolls of Eire land.
American Bandstand, Aqua Velva Ads, Aretha Franklin, and, the Andy Griffith Show
Black lights, Bewitched, bean bag chairs, beads, Batman and the Beatles
Cleopatra, Corvairs, Corvettes, Chevelles, Captain Kangaroo, Civil Rights Movement
Dionne Warwick, Derek and the Dominoes, Dennis the Menace, and Dodge Dart.
Ed Sullivan’s Amateur Hour, Elvis Presley, the Edsel, and new expressions emerge.
Fiddler on the Roof , Flower Power painted vans, Free love, Fiber optic lights,
Giget, Green Acres, Glen Campbell, Gun Smoke, Go-Go Boots, “Go with the flow!”
Hello Dolly, Have Gun Will Travel,and the Hippie Movement begin...“Hang Ten”
Imperial (the car), I dream of Jeanie, and new phrases “In your face” crop up.
JFK youngest U.S. President, and Jackie Kennedy stylish First Lady,
Kennedy was assassinated and the nation mourned the loss of their young leader.
Lamborghini 350 GT, Lava Lamps, Lady and the Tramp, Lost in Space, Lassie
Mousekateers, mini-skirts, mobiles, macramé plant hangars, Mash, The Monkeys,
Nissan Skyline GT-R, Nash Metropolitan, and Nestles’ Nestle were signs of the times.
Ordinary people seek peace during the years of war and social change of the 60s.
Pillsbury Doughboy, Petticoat Junction,and Peter, Paul, and Mary, placate.
Queen for the Day TV show, bring a fantasy escape during radically changing times.
Rabbit ear antennas for TV shows: Route 66, and Rowan and Martin’s Laugh- In.
Sherri Lewis and Lamb Chop, Shake and Bake, and the sexual revolution start.
Twist to The Four Tops, The Flintstones,The Adam’s Family, The Twilight Zone.
“Up your nose with a rubber hose” and similar expressions are the times’ lingo.
Valley of the Dolls, Volkswagon Karmann Ghia, and Vanilla Fudge, gain popularity.
Wonderful World of Disney, Vietnam War, protests, and “Groovy” words crop up.
Xenoglossia emerges; “Make love, not war,” “Far out,” “Catch you on the flip-side.”
Yonderly Vietnam Veterans return home to social unrest without a hero’s honor.
Zanadu dances around in the minds of the partakers; religion is legal, not marijuana.
Copyright March 7, 2015
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: The Decades
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
(Written in response to the poem “Black and White.”)
Over age 40? Here’s some truth from the new generation.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love those old shows.
Classics for long
All that and more.
But if I may speak a while.
Sir, sit down and please don’t be sore,
And don’t view me as a child.
The shows of old are lovely and dear.
So simple and sweet
Parents needn’t be ware
Of the bad things and screams
They never harmed any babes, those old TVs.
But something’s not right
The black and the white lied you see.
The loving families of “Father Knows Best”
The eyes of “Lassie,” brilliant and true
They are no different from the mess
On our high definition color surround
The only difference, the only thing
Is that you never got to see
What went on behind the scenes.
Violence and hate survived in black.
Lies and deceit thrived in white.
Let me tell you why you really want the old shows back.
The simplicity and the friendly smiles
Were all painted on with a poor painter’s brush.
The breakfasts, the perfection, the people’s damn reactions!
All you want back to feel safe when you have the truth crushed.
The world is no different now from then.
The only difference is
Now we can zoom in.
Into the faces to see the lines
The living color reveals
The lies all of the “great actors’” eyes.
The fake and the phony
Is what you truly love, you asses.
You’ve known all along that the world never changed
Only plucked from your nose those rose-colored-glasses.
Let me tell you something, if I may.
The black and the white that you love so
Is the reason the under 40s are screwed up today.
The God they trusted as they slept in their separate beds
Is the one so many of us defy when your lies about Him were seen in color.
But now we know there are bad guys who DO win fights
And so we’ve learned to hold one another
At night when we know promises CAN be broken
The wind will CUSS from somewhere cold
And some NEVER will NEED vows
For the one they hold to know they love them.
Even though we NEVER fully knew wrong from right.
At least now we’re not hiding beneath the Black
And that White.
Countless generations lapsed since height of Greco-Roman mythology conceived, birthed and populated vast canopy of sky and expanse of terrestrial firmament, whereat obeisant propinquity quintessentially remains stalwart this day and age as guise dolls dote demonstrably come Valentine’s Day, when Cupid plucked from the quiver, notched in bowstring and launched Eros tinged arrow induces love struck swain to swoon upon a lassie fair, whence fecund female feast proliferates progeny.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
bona fide hormonal hankering didst since Adam and Eve a wake
aromatic, balmy, and captivating as effect from drinking sassafras
kin powerful pulsations viz diving rod erect phallus
creating con fusion pro bono er to enter lips engorged mass
Pussy swathed qua tangle of coiled, kinked, and thatched course grass
Willy wonka with vestal virgin hair line gonadal zone **** embarrass
twig and berries rutting, rusticating, routing and romancing intent
to deflower re: piercing hymen
with nary immune to perdition or déclassé
hello kitty edenic tropic of cancer coital compass
emitting pheromones culling asper a bong
clapping banging brass
intractable supremacy reproductive sport
waging whore with contemporary take
verboten fruit sexual pang thrust forward
omnipotent magnetic thirst to slake
unstoppable passions flared unfazed as annals
depict how hot coals feet did rake
despite hollow religious strictures obloquy,
the serum filled genitals did quake
infiltrate historical manifestations, naked humans
prey zing clear or opaque
deities of yesteryear demonstrable
bas relief showers copulation doth make
primal urges imbued *****sapiens
e’er since first man saw lady of the lake
triggering libidinal longing inducing salivation sans love struck drake
multi-tiered mouth watering orgasmic gastronomic carnal cake
Aphrodite spellbinding storied sport thrives inducing heart break
imbuing human guys gals feverish enthralled dizzy catnip behoove ache.
There was a young lassie named Heather,
Who played on the beach in hot weather,
She thought it a sin,
Just dressed in her skin,
So covered herself with three feathers.
II
Remember the beach-babe named Heather?
Who covered herself in three feathers?
The boys were aware,
And started to stare,
So now she wears tight shiny leather.
The following is not a limerick, but it continues the story of Heather's Feathers
III
‘Twas a fine use of leather,
On our girl named Heather,
For the boys had to be on a tether.
But leather made Heather
Break out in hot weather,
So now she is back to the feathers.
Now, back to the limericks
IV
Our sweet northern princess named Heather,
Is hooked on a new kind of feather,
It is not from a moose,
It’s Canadian Goose,
So cozy in all kinds of weather.
V
Our Canadian Heather’s a Newfy,
Which to most of us sounds kind of goofy,
But to those from the “Rock”,
She’s the belle of the docks,
With her feathers all ruffled and poofy.
VI
Our Heather has moved to the prairies,
She’s tired of travelling on ferries,
She’s now wearing loafers
And chasing poor gophers,
Which makes her all sweaty and weary.
And now for the conclusion to our story (in rhyme)
VII
Oh, Heather, dear Heather,
What became of your feather,
The last one you had left to dance in,
For the two had been sold,
As the story was told*,
And the last one was held up for ransom.
Some bikers in leather,
Kidnapped our dear heather,
And wanted ten grand to return her,
Let there be no mistake,
She's a lovely 'cheesecake',
But I haven't the money to earn her.
So I made up a plan,
'Twas a bit of a scam,
When I told them I'd pay for my Heather,
So it must have been fate,
When I broke down their gate,
Took my Heather and left them the feather.
Now I have my dear Heather,
Who is plucked of her feather,
And I haven't the money to buy one,
But she says it's okay,
Says she likes it this way,
For the boys in town call her 'The Nude One'.
*That's another story for another time.
What were you doing, alone in the woods, my John,
What were you doing out at dawn?
Why it hasn't rained for ages now,
So many failed crops, and fields you must plough.
Your dirty clothes are all so glum.
You're just a little dirty bum
You deserve no pity, my son.
Go up and clean yourself, get done,
There'll be no food for you tonight,
And don't dare cry you messy mite.
What were you doing, alone in the woods, my John,
What were you doing out at dawn?
You dared disobey me again,
Bastard idiot and a pain.
Look at your clothes, all wet with dew,
Torn without a valid reason, too.
Do you think that I can afford
Money needed, is all we hoard?
I'll show you what attire you'll fray.
I swear I'll tear your hideaway.
What were you doing, alone in the woods, my John,
What were you doing alone at dawn?
Did I not send you to get twigs,
Why do you behave like poor pigs?
What are those stains around your face?
Eating berries? Did you say grace?
There, how's that for a bloody punch?
Now your face looks best like a crunch,
Can't even take his correction.
Wipe that juice, you misconception.
What were you doing, alone in the woods, my John,
What were you doing alone at dawn?
Were you smooching with silly ****,
That goody goody, y mutt?
Go find a hooker, try to learn
What true pleasures women can burn.
You'll never learn from that hussy,
Good for nothing bit of lassie.
If I see you again with her,
Why I'll castrate you forever.
What were you doing, alone in the woods, my John,
What were you doing alone at dawn?
Were not your father there with you?
Why is your face so red and blue?
Why haven't you returned together?
Eating berries in this weather?
Why is your new shirt so blood-stained?
Don't you know he will have you chained!
Oh John, my John, you'll never learn
Your father will kill you, he's stern.
What's that smile on your face, my John?
What were you doing, alone in the woods, my son,
What were you doing?
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