Long Madding Poems
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Thursday, December 31, 2020 signals conclusion of latest leap year
Whether alphabetized, digitized,
homogenized, marginalized, satirized... place names
from "A" to Zaire
Thursday, December 31, 2020
signals conclusion of latest leap year.
The Pacific island of Tonga first
to ring in New Year 2021
glad tidings dispersed
celebrated at 10 AM GMT December 31 -
making tiny island nation
first to head into a fresh year.
Second to last
will be American Samoa 11AM –
just 558 miles from Tonga,
where locals and visitors
celebrate a full 25 hours before.
Earth's orbit around the Sun (year)
and rotation on its axis (day) where
latter not perfectly in line there
by necessitating
smooth functioning of Gregorian calendar
(also called New Style Calendar)
which did premiere
fifteen eighty two courtesy king's spear.
Ever since 1752, whence
in the modern sense
the first leap year implemented
madding crowds reportedly rioted
most likely uttering expletive
than "what nonsense"
reportedly riots erupted
courtesy chaos did arrange,
when England made the change
spurring some citizens
demanding immediate compensatory exchange
they get their 11 days back home on their range
from the government haint so strange.
To determine whether a year is a leap year,
follow these steps without Fanfare
For The Common Man
the famous title of Aaron Copeland air:
1. If the year is evenly divisible by 4,
go to step 2. Otherwise, go to step 5.
2. If the year is evenly divisible by 100,
go to step 3. Otherwise, go to step 4.
3. If the year is evenly divisible by 400,
go to step 4. Otherwise, go to step 5.
4. The year is a leap year (it has 366 days).
5. The year is not a leap year (it has 365 days)
‘far from the madding crowds’ and cars
this ‘green and pleasant’ land of ours
conceals behind its dry stone walls
secrets, streams and waterfalls
where stepping stones that gather moss
‘shine forth’ and tempt us both across
to distant fields of eighties’ skies
now clouded through autumnal eyes
where sheep still bleat as we both pass
along old paths of weathered grass
rekindling thoughts as each track weaves
of first love, hope and burning leaves
that once infused a simpler air
but linger still inside somewhere
to guide us on those wistful miles
through woods, past farms and over stiles
in search of where we sat and spent
time dreaming dreams of dreams we dreamt
over the hills and far away
inside a world called yesterday
and where we’d stay ‘til light turned late
in fields beyond the kissing gate
where now through gentle smiles and tears
reflecting on those forty years
it feels like time has flown so fast
since young love asked if love could last.
Thee Mister Re: Spouse...
In summer re: aye cannot whet till
this husbandry season will become
fallow - mare riddle status no longer
honeymoon bridal stage covenant,
nuttin boot lame game of worm aye
go win round robin, since empty nest
syndrome grounded, nee pulverized
papa's purposefulness eschewing
attending, babying, pampering...
dependent wife, she relies on yours truly
for emotional, financial, grammatical
succor unwittingly spearheading self
driven sequestration deep within invisible
hermetically sealed catacombs resigning
remaining decades as recluse getting
linkedin with anchoress named Miss Ann
Thrope, a humble herbalist sustaining
ourselves foraging ample edible native
plants prepared within subterranean hearth
bubbling cauldron issuing delectable aromas
aural accompaniment evoke structures of
silence, neither me nor t'other cohabitant
violating unspoken transgressions nomad
dear ain't no authoritarian entity dispensing,
donning, trumpeting commands, nonetheless
each of us experiences far greater safety,
versus bajillion manned armed force on outlook
for good n plenti interlopers, how heavenly
this rudimentary Shangri la devoid of madding
crowds, no cumbersome technological trappings
daylight natural firelight to scratch out musings
pure unbridled satisfaction emanating reading
and listening in turn as envisioned, imagined,
and lionized hushed murmurs signaling
enjoyment (mimicked courtesy aural exhalation)
as Gaia appeased wafting warm breeze
across each our respective brows, this hermit
ensconced within his kingdom aware figment of
his fancy crafted idyllic refuge empowered by
meditation evoking compatible soul mate merely
generated by auto suggestion illusory
manifestation a lifelike dream.
"Petrichor "
Two minds
have made an entrance
magnetic bodies electric
minions babble
it’s just wasted white noise
sandpaper against back stories hit
The Wall of Wasted Time
He’s read most between the lines
He’s all hard hot and cool
unruffled piercing eagle eyes
forever on the hunt for willing prey
She’s incognito in disguise
seeking a challenge amongst
the spoilt and unsoiled
green-eyed fray
the two watch
in studied silence
like heat seeking missiles
they will find each other
poles apart
opposites
light and dark
fascinated
they are each other’s mark
the ozone is now charged
the crowd dissolves
invisible all their faces
unread their lips
unheard their madding mob words
whispered all graceless
passionless empty pages
time departs
the fuse is lit
Two minds’ eyes connect
both burning id reflect
the moment before they met
neurons travelling at lightning speed
through pulse to fingertips
reach out towards
each other’s mortal form
to touch the cerebral net
then later
find fingers reading skin
like braille and thirst
to drink from reigning lips
the moment before the
welcome storm hits hips
to taste the salt in
the cumulonimbus bursting
blue feral hollows
of their naked terraform
the Two minds
like absent gods
high and lost
in each other’s ocean
bent and tossed
live their story
tattooed at the place
where bodies leave clean sheets
and souls connect
electric bodies ignite
La Petite Mort
wave after wave
their drowning moans
ecstatically deplore
their final becalmed
silence approaching
the sweet mercy of
Petrichor
(LadyLabyrinth/2018)
https://youtu.be/5hFCZ1tzWR0
"Body Electric"/Del Ray
"I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul"
I Sing the Body Electric, Walt Whitman
(American Poet, May 31,1819 – March 26, 1892)
"The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect."
I Sing the Body Electric, Walt Whitman
(my fashionably late xmas greeting
could long foster for this century 21 a meeting
of thee poetic minds pleasantry sent once
boot not worth reap peat ting).
up in the air
mine barrel sized girth
sloshes with cheap beer
wishing many strangers
happy holidays and good cheer
making me suitable
as santa claus and his team of rein deer
chewing gum to avoid
popping in both left and right ear
yet the rickety sleigh
may not become air borne I fear
landing ungracefully
scattering presents and gear
if wooden contraption alights,
a horrendous crash many will hear
no doubt instigating
children and adults to jeer
comparing this jolly fellow to king lear
yet running for the hills
as this mad man gets considerably near
the madding crowd,
who expected a more
healthy saint nick to a pear
with healthy physique
instead of the trademark outsize rear
which cause for observers
to guffaw and sneer
whereby my trademark suit
will seemingly tear
and reveal that this clown
wears frilly under wear
prompting me to avoid
accepting this role for next year.
Life, and the people in it, squeeze us into boxes.:
Sometimes we fit, sometimes not.
Often we try to live in a box not meant for us
To please other people: stressing, straining to conform
To social 'norm' or what is 'expected' as we fill a role.
At first the box feels fine as we snuggle in,
Looking at the sky through the open lid.
We don't even notice it closing in, so cosy are we.
Until one day we can't see the sky any more,
It has disappeared from view, and we're stuck -
No wriggle room, shackles on, claustrophobic, stifled,
Fused into conformity, a uniformity of existence.
No music, no singing or bird song, joyless:
Drone and not queen bee, steadily descending
Into anonymity, automaton, devoid of emotion - numb.
When realisation hits, we scratch at the lid;
Frantic, manic in our effort to see the sky again.
To sing, to run, to flee, chasing after 'me' - if I can recognise
Myself in the madding crowd. Shouting loud, pleading for
Recognition in the sea of faces surrounding the box.
We are all prisoners of societal 'normality': all have roles to play.
'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances', and their boxes!
The key Is to always leave the lid ajar to see a glimpse of sky.
To have a little perch outside, and a mode in which to 'fly'.
I can't write nuttin' worth a damn on a full stomach!
Hunger pangs fuel mine poetic juices,
yours truly moost best be famished
resembling lovely bag of bones
beyond irreparable damage
wrought courtesy anorexia nervosa
nevertheless literary masterpieces
one written quick succession after another
profusely gushes forth
unstoppable tsunami surges rhythmically
metaphorically allowing,
enabling, and providing
voluminous water logged noggin
able, ready and willing
to burst infinite outpouring
at Möbius strip cerebral seams.
Hyperbole employed
regarding above attestation
regarding conducive bodily
state to whip out
acceptable, passable and
reasonable rhyming creation
to experience and
witness poetic emancipation,
whereby until the end
of time modest glorification
endowed upon me who
imbues vast majority inspiration
of contemporaries, plus unborn peoples...
imagine renowned said
author wannabe just for kicks
(sinks false teeth
into verboten rotten apple -
oohing and aahing yum zuck)
subsequently vicious rumor affecting
millions future generations
debauched learned primates
inescapably slide into behavioral mosh pit
analogous to eventual
senescent cellular detritus
sloughed off vis a vis keratinization
anyway figuratively swinging around
deftly cycling back thru
imaginary infinite jesting loop
unlikely neither chance fame nor fortune
promises me financial materialization,
nope, not even until hell freezes over,
nor when grim reaper feasts upon
*****sapiens obliteration
witnessing every flora and fauna
molecular repurposing quantification
simulates signifying universal recycling
umpteenth big bang occurrence
erasing all cosmic consciousness
nary trace left behind
encompassing collective satisfaction
since genesis wrought life forms
wherein primitive organisms
begot reproduction fast forward bajillion years
madding crowd punctuated
planet Earth avast urbanization
essentially branding oblate spheroid
viz totally tubular vinyl city westernization.
Lockdown (courtesy coronavirus COVID-19)...
Minimally impacts mine secluded lifestyle,
cuz yours truly came into this madcap world
approximately 534714.57958 times after
gnomon cast shadow across flat plate of sundial
ever since being a little boy, I throve while
existence kept me in solitude, thus isolation trial
directly linkedin with pandemic necessitates
sparse human contact, yea analogous to an exile
punishment far removed, quarantined, condemned...
and essentially metaphorically banished necessitating
befriending self as best beastie boy bad company
where madding crowd hashtagged insync existing
within territory hostile currying aversion to socialize
worse fate than being eaten
alive (with one chomp) savored
by token smiling crocodile
absentmindedly pitching
head over heels into... state of denial
after out running a tribe
of 10,000 aboriginal maniacs,
hence out distancing latter only to buzzfeed former
whose absence not noticed, until long in the tooth
(actually between 60 and 72 teeth) said reptile
captured and subsequently dissected (I'll)
spare telling thee gory details
though amazingly well preserved facial profile
comprising fully intact features
exhibiting me eternally frozen cunning guile,
nevertheless greater excitement arose
at similarity between former poetaster
and La Brea Tar Pits fossilized dinosaur kin
especially their respective coat
of armor ironic steely iambic style.
Understandable... the sensible
(three ringed circuitous) logic
to trumpet necessity
each individual moost heed
bedecking, cloaking donning,
ludicrous interloper facial covering,
(I prefer sporting
latest custom made
invisible máscaras faciales),
when commingling amidst madding crowd,
nevertheless coronavirus (COVID-19)
makes laughingstock kickstarting
maniacal paranoid testing yapping
authoritarians blabber ceaselessly
bleak household pandemic
plagues (sear ring)
robust human specimen,
hence yours truly,
a feckless (gibbon) primate
breathes sigh of relief,
why? cuz he counts himself insignificant
absolute zero worth
versus microscopic prickly orb
aging long haired pencil neck geek
best beat hasty retreat
to his man cave
not necessarily avoiding microbial denizen,
yet any potential suffering
scouting out troubadour woefully
jackknifed inept hideaway
availed no choice
rolls out Harris tweed Scottish matt
courtesy minuscule germ man
greeting me with gotcha!,
I willingly surrender
the only thing at stake iz my life,
which would immediately
ebb fate (mine),
automatically buzzfeed chap
offer no chance
for symbiotic relationship
as pathogens indeed choreograph
(dirty deed done dirt cheap)
loft hilly doth waft
through cellular skeins comprising
garden variety/ generic gent
herewith essentially crafting
his poetic epitaph
before onset disables,
disallows, and disvalues
one humble, intelligent, jesting
kindhearted, literate, modest
nincompoop aimlessly adrift
within Brownian movement
(*****sapiens random motions
viewed miles skyhigh)
ostentatious, piteous, querulous,
ridiculous, superfluous, et cetera,
thus forward donations
and/or pledge
(I promise you -
swear to dog
portion of me ashes)
to favorite charity
and will hoop to visit thee as repurposed
noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun,
preposition, conjunction, interjection,
numeral, article, or determiner...
She's a Cyndi Lauper look-alike.
had a ‘one hit wonder’ back in the day;
a tune about some balloons and a bike.
She's not new anymore
but still a ‘hip’ artifact for sure.
Glittered eyebrows, bangles, and beads,
she’s what any wistful old guy
thinks he needs.
The spiky hair with crimson streaks
peeks between lacquered tweaks
of graying strands;
a pixie named Trixie, revered
by many 80's rock bands.
We like her colorful untidiness;
the prismatic stockings, her
mismatched punkie-ness
always the under-dressed
epitome of a pop princess.
She has her own style,
not old
just been around awhile.
Notwithstanding
folks still smile
at her girlish wiles.
Still an internet presence,
still childish enough
though her voice is more gruff
due to toking
medicinal stuff.
Now she sells pain creams,
and walk-in tubs as seen on TV
for those with gout and unworkable knees.
The renowned owner
of pimped-up poodles,
she maintains herself
on bowls of wasabi noodles.
The lady dwells above all commonsense
amid a trendy affluence,
way above
the madding throng,
forever hopeful, ever young
a songbird trilling ambrosial love,
of balloons and bikes and far off days
when sheeny rainbows
paved our more simple ways.