Long Leaching Poems
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Poetry tears ..
Crystalline ants march down my face
Like little soldiers they line up in formation
communicating with their feelers
words drip drip drip onto the page
Leaching out
Spreading a message…
Are you paying attention to what they say
As they splash from the puddles of my mind
They run run run
f
r
e
e
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
until the ink is dry
Poetry Fill in the Blank Contest Sponsored by Poet Destroyer A
04~30~16
an introduction
written upon her wall
even in the darkness
sparks struck
where one could see it all
blood of man
chalice'd
leaching out
a dying hand
sacrosanct in stature
soliloquies of structure
unscripted
pure nobility
freeing
fixture infused
upon a crux of more
than mere
mortal whim
flirtatious
notes passed in passings
tongues aflutter
no flight
full of fight
words afeather the wind
in a creative oper'anda
open wounds
salved
cremated a'will
within the calm
present
teased locks flow
muscles tensed
plucking the verity of harm,
strength, armor
battles yet to come
snug senses
save thru the fall
the harvest moon aglow
hanging out true arms
need for her only
a heart to warm
the cold of man
That the waves and rocks
find voice here
in the howl of winter,
is because I have come
to listen and to be
in the loneliness of this place.
Only the seagulls are here with me
and hang in the tumult,
taunting the wind.
Deep in this solitude
is the thought
of a drowned youth,
swept away and lost
to the silence sunk far below
the furious sounds that headstone
his name. I am the last
to remember him and reach down,
but he is now beyond my grasp.
I have let him go.
I feel the sting of the salty air
on my face, the cold leaching
through this old coat
and my unsteady feet stumbling
to find balance
on this rubbly ground.
The air shudders with the crash
of nearby breakers.
I cling desperately to the sound.
Inside The Mysterious Enigmatic Fragmentary...
Mortal Mind Of Matthew Scott Harris
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Seedy gobbledygook ergot
visibly argot bubbled, burbled, bustled...forth
yea...give garbled, jangled, warbled shoutout
if ye doth render
mug gadabout totally confounding,
this unfettered voluminous confection
ruff lee in toto as sample
doggone freelance gargon
sublime red rover - misaligned with
twenty first century time
emerging, fishtailing, kvetching,
slithering, whipsawing
during springtime
thaw - oozing out primordial slime,
schlepping aboard bissel mishuga train
while kibitizing with longfellow
ghost hosts Bartleby,
thee Herman Hermits,
and Stray Cats caterwauling
scrivener circumlocution showtime
evidences troubadour prima facie
tremendous struggle rustling rational rapport,
ruminating, citing his dismal schooltime
track record muddled, and hence
questing to cobble a rhyme
distilling, harvesting, and
leaching (out pulpy, knotty,
Max Headroom Ancien regime
filmy... gray matter) in realtime,
while strains of Ragtime echo
from late nineteenth century
tin pan alley, nsync, linkedin
cubist, dadaist, existentialist...
mine poetic melange jerry rigs
flashes random discordant phrases
kickstarting hotmail...faintly
analogous to processing quicklime
mucking with abstract alphabetic
mire ranks as playtime
forging whimsical tactical trippy thoughts,
nursing eternal idealistic Earthly peacetime,
worrying away looming mortality,
noshing post death as pastime,
welcomes input and alien abduction – ME,
mine "FAKE" existence, sans charade,
facade, masquerade onetime pantomime,
no second act allowed, nor
revising questionable tour de force
I claim NO pièce de résistance, nor overtime,
asper waning game
of thrown away Life
approaches nighttime haven
soon...forever rest in peace
surrendering requisite burnt offerings,
sans (cremated ashes) - meantime
fete grateful dead
scythe lent hoodlums on warpath
to incite bedlam
postprandial mealtime prayer final -
deathly hallowed gleeful grimace
witnessing successful electroshock therapy
of yours truly emotionally frozen
decades long comatose state
thankfully oblivious, when impending
curtain call signals finis!
...Harper said,”I’d no choice, I had to be,
to save Ted from staring down a bad path.
We see what happens to men who won’t work,
rarely do they ever come back from that.
“I love that boy more than any will know,
but to be a father I can’t be his friend.
My job is to prepare him for this world,
and steer his from any sorry ends.
“If I succeed, and he supports himself,
he has a fighting chance at a good life;
a home and some kids, money in the bank,
to take care of himself and any wife.
“Ted will never live a life he enjoys
if he’s leaching off another man’s wealth.
If I could stop that, but instead failed to act,
I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.”
When he heard the words, Jaquan’s face went sad,
he said,”I think there’s some place I should be.”
He moved quickly away, Harper knew why,
see Jaquan had a one-year old baby.
He was not wed to the child’s mother,
though he still sometimes visited her bed.
The reality of being a dad
had not quite sunken into his head.
As he disappeared, Harper look upwards,
said,”Lord, I know that I sounded harsh.
But please let then hear at least some of my words,
because both have goodness in their hearts.”
With that he felt a fatigue born of time,
and greatly wish to sit and bleed stress out,
so he climbed the stoop, up to the front door,
and disappeared inside of the house.
I think that I shall have a drink
and toast to you and all you think
'bout love & hate & art & war &
what this life is really for.
Giving, taking, making, breaking
lonely hearts club band;
reaching, preaching, teaching, leaching
blood sucking beggars with outstretched hands.
I think that I shall have a stink
and tell the world before I blink
that all is well as well can be
So kiss my glass and bow to me.
Just below my drunken stem
Connected to my brain, my friend
You know the one that makes you bumble
and people laugh each time you stumble.
Down upon your royal spot
Licking your wounds with all you've got
Until you get right back up again
With a head that aches & pounds & spins.
And I think that I shall pour another
in honor of my departed mother
and dad as well who passed away
Here's to where they are today.
Be they high up in the sky
Or somewhere quite unfathomed
Beyond our wildest hopes and dreams
And the completely unimagined.
Where now I reek & no longer speak
from too much of this brew
where the ice is melting rapidly
on folks like me and you.
So one last toast before we're ghosts
and life was a sweet chardonnay...
Here's to those who brought us here
And all their love along the way.
HUNGER DOES NOT KNOCK
Lone tears wrapped themselves around her heart;
blue skies lost their luster---gone dark
like the clothes of those who had to mourned
the blessed children they had borne.
Hunger does not knock: just bellies in---
whirling through empty spaces like free winds
leaching cracks in abandoned barns
rotting in barren fields no longer sown.
She tries to imprison herself in the sleep
that delays the storming awakening pangs;
seeking that dark abysmal deep
to fill the vacuous abdominal lanes.
Hunger does not knock:
just seeps through the cracks of life
like rays through shaded panes.
Each day is an audacious dare;
life grows invisible
to those that say they truly care.
Hunger does not knock:
just creeps right in and steals its share.
Within, life and death resides; but
but suicide is the greatest sin;
only the Master must decide
who, where, when; but then---
Hunger does not knock:
just walks right on in---
blessed be you and me---
starvation is not a sin.
I don’t have a blueprint,
just this smudged version
of what she would look like,
an impression in a shop windowpane,
just as the light catches her in mid-thought.
To recreate, I must fillet an idea until
it is just a pulse, a blood surge,
a milky image of smoke;
I must work on her from the inside,
teasing out strands of mutual desire
from slim neck bones
and a tidal whelm.
My hands are palms outward and kneading;
a kind of questioning masturbation -
that is the gentlest way
to daub such imaginings into prayer.
Maybe I could chafe that conceit, like fresh
Virginia leaf between my fingers,
dunk her in a glass of Folonari Valpolicella
then place the wad between my gums,
chawing on it until she takes shape in my mouth.
No need to ever take her out,
she will disappear soon enough
into a space reserved only
for dwindling morning stars.
Perhaps she will suicide
on high-tension wires. An electricity
flaring her into a wind-blown gawkish appearance.
The sculptor in me leaves a fatal wink in this ideal,
one that will metamorphose into something
too fair for my skin-leaching hands,
too transient for still-life.
Then, when all is said and done,
she will simply remain this poem,
an on-going motif,
one that will surprise me again and again,
as I glimpse her once more
through a forever blurred shop window.
Less any objection with the missus,
versus never experiencing living alone
well...yes during that rough patch,
(sans during early adolescence),
I existed in a bone
huff fied impenetrable cocoon,
and just maybe before
yours truly dies, a clone
can be created from
stem cells of this doggone
melon collie, whimpering
beastie boy finally revelling,
where destiny does enthrone
me rendering unfettered
with round the cluck nymph fone
mani yolk hen pecking, nagging,
and leaching... from blood sucking
vampire spouse foregone
as a "bad" dream worse
than getting Rhode
Island sized gallstone
removed subsequently
saving said as gemstone
whiling away hours, days, weeks...
chiseling away at my gravestone,
no matter yours truly will get cremated
ashes scattered, liberated, and dispersed
finally exempt from grindstone,
where thee spirit
of Math Hew Homophone
Scott Harris appeased
as powdery gray flecks
similar to limestone,
that swirl reintegrating with Earth,
this quirky I poetically intone,
and soundlessly utter from jawbone,
perhaps communicating more
clearly by knucklebone.
In the country we see more
when it is the darkest.
Horses shine in the moonlight.
Stars bore holes through infinity.
When a full moon
leaps over the trees
the land ripples
with nocturnal exposures,
things unnoticed in daylight.
After a deep gloom
when nothing glows or shimmers
the dawn can look like a shipwreck,
as if a night sea had crashed
upon sleeping eyes.
Later, daylight struggles up its beach
shaking off a leaching blindness.
In the country,
just one star is enough to see by
we don't need a starfield,
but in the city
just one streetlight
can cast acres of shadow.
In the country
we look up to confirm where we are.
In the city
we look up and wonder if we are lost.