Long Mucking Poems
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I sold my accordion ‘cause I couldn’t find the time to play.
Some bum stole my fishin’ pole, but I hardly used it anyway.
I spent my “vacation” pullin’ stumps to clear the lower ten.
And last week that old antique diesel generator broke again.
I should be mucking out the stable. I should be harvesting the wheat,
But when there’s hotcakes on the table, I guess it’s time to take a seat.
Ya don’t need an artist’s soul for to straighten out a crooked frame.
Just stand tall and face the wall; every level’s gonna be the same.
I’m done diggin’ postholes and the generator’s back on line.
The cat’s loose, there’s no excuse not to be my honey’s valentine.
I do my chores as best I’m able; go through ‘em once and then repeat,
But since there’s hotcakes on the table, I’m sure it’s time to take a seat.
I wash up and settle in when my angel fixes me a meal,
Her nightgown all draped around what I’m hopin’ she will soon reveal.
Though I’ve got incentive and the energy to run the farm,
There’s no way I’m bailing hay when my baby takes me by the arm.
She serves a steaming stack of hotcakes; they’re always sugar maple sweet
And when she lays it on the table, I know it’s time to take a seat.
I pored over my weather maps contriving a prognostication,
Of the weather forecast for the consumption of the British population.
It comprised all the towns, villages and shires from A to Zed,
To include the burgs of Wookey Hole, Wyre Piddle and Guys Head!
The towns of Crazies Hill and Cuckoo's Nest could expect clear skies,
Nasty, Mucking and Mousehole were included in this surmise.
Rain bode for Scrooby, Spital, Tiptoe and Brian's Puddle,
Ugley, Ramsbottom, Fitchfield and the village of Affpuddle.
Hail would visit the towns of Piddlehinton, Diddlebury and Pill,
Sots Hole, Inkpen, Birdlip, Scagglethorpe and Toot Hill.
I warned Catbrain, Clock Face and Daffy Green to expect sleet.
That also included Giggleswick, Kibblesworth and Cackle Street.
Broadbottom, Muggleswick and Barking were to be aware of fog,
As well as Yelling, Wigglesworth, Slaggyford and Black Dog.
Scattered clouds were billed for Crackpot, Beer and Fairy Cross,
And for the areas of Fugglestone, Great Snoring and Balls Dross.
Beanacre, Fatfield, Wham and Jump could expect some light snow.
Raging gales I predicted for Lickey End and Harrowbarrow.
Conditions change in minutes in High Brooms and Frog Pool.
I dare not divine weather for those blokes, 'cause I'm nobody's fool!
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!
Adventitious existence birthed introverted spiritual outlier i.e. me
Speculative fictitious flirtation imagined
courtesy grown old male offspring (me)
begat when mine late mother and father met
former named, a popular Arthur Murray
ballroom dance studio instructor.
Subtle social cues (nonverbal or otherwise)
relayed, linkedin and exchanged
constituting courtship between
Harriet and Boyce
particularly on Valentine's Day
circa ~ mid 1950's.
Two young lovebirds
oblivious to cares and concerns
of uncertain webbed wide world
passionately kissed each other
murmuring sweet nothings
within most convenient ear of the other.
Romance blossomed
requited love ensued
avowed marital troth pledged,
a June 1955 wedding planned.
Soon thereafter
bedroom door locked, I presume
unbridled call of the wild
high powered pistol loosed
courtesy soundcloud hit bullseye
with figurative vroom
biological seed of life
and white Lily fertilized.
Thirteen months after eldest sister born
suckling from horn
of good hope
breast nursing done during the morn.
Forthwith brother planted in womb
hereditary characteristics transmitted
eons old traits disseminated
multitude of random chromosomes
deployed comprising frothy spume
housed generations foregone
maternal and paternal genes
unleashed unwittingly bequeathed
by ancestral forebears
anonymous long forgotten handsome groom
memorabilia couched as tintype
(also known as
a melainotype or ferrotype)
treasured analogous as
if relic dug up within ancient tomb,
perhaps clapper and bell foretold whom
yours truly acquired his
mental health predilection
predisposed toward gloom
mindset swirls with nihilistic doom.
Psychological angst chafes and doth abrade
existential crisis rooted psyche with ankh ring
travesty, mockery, and entropy cast charade
circumspection immediately
brings to forefront
of consciousness positive (necessary)
risk taking I did evade
exemplified by failing nearly every grade
inferiority complex insinuated and did invade
mucking up healthy livingsocial buzzfeeding,
when too many cooks spoil the broth,
hence being superfluous kitchenaid,
hence as schnorrer I masquerade.
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
I was moving down an access trail
in my favorite Pennsylvania game land,
heading towards and open meadow,
near which I’d set up a tree stand.
Then came a rustling from some bushes thick,
a buck shot out at lightning speed,
I reached for my gun, but he was gone,
through dense forest the buck did flee.
I was stunned by this strange happening,
for a buck to have gotten so near
to a human walking in plain sight,
it should have been skittish, hiding in fear.
Then exploding from that same thick brush,
came a petite and seething form,
she fixed a pair or rabid eyes on me,
shook once with anger, and then she roared:
“You stupid fool! I had that awesome deer,
all lined up for the kill in my sights!
If it weren’t for the sound of your footsteps,
I would have had that buck dead-to-rights!”
I instinctively bristled at her sharp tone,
snapped,”Forgive me for walking a public trail.
Maybe if you had a stand, weren’t mucking ’round,
you would have seen more than that deer’s trail.”
She roared,”And maybe if you had half a brain,
you’d be able to pick out my ground blind!
Took me days to find their bedding space,
now all of that is just wasted time!”
I yelled,”If you really do have a blind there,
I would have to stay that I was impressed.
But I’m so damn mad I wouldn’t say so,
even if it’s camouflaged with the best!”
She screamed,”And I’m so pissed, I won’t say ‘thank you,’
even though I worked for this so very hard.
How could I accept a compliment
from a fool who sends deer running far?
“And I certainly couldn’t appreciate
That pristine rifle, that cowboy gun,
owned by some rookie who makes too much noise,
who scotches up my shot and hunt!”
I laughed. “And I clearly can’t ogle at
the ancient bolt-action you’ve got there!”
She said,”And I would never tell a greenhorn
that my gramps once used it to hunt bear!”...
CONCLUDES IN PART II
A cloudy sky pouts, under threat of rain,
as a brisk breeze rattles my windowpane.
And a ghostly fog reinforces doubts;
under threat of rain, a cloudy sky pouts.
There's little change; Winter is persistent;
any trace of Spring is nonexistent.
April is gone, and May is acting strange;
Winter is persistent; there's little change.
Winter is stalling, unwilling to leave,
sending signals that confuse and deceive.
And defying Nature, she's stonewalling;
unwilling to leave, Winter is stalling.
There's no trace of the permanence of Spring;
climate change is mucking with everything.
Until Winter leaves, Spring can't show its face;
of the permanence of Spring, there's no trace.
We will be in June before you know it;
Spring is teasing, not willing to commit.
Another miserable afternoon;
before you know it, we will be in June.
Like a young heart, the sun outshines,
flirting with the billows of clouds,
leaving a gentle kiss on the blushing horizon.
Cry of mucking gulls above,
visit the no longer alone, white laced-topped waves;
its bounty full, a romantic love with morning gone.
A tern with its black hat,
near goldenrod, scattered in heaps,
pecks on the length of the treasures of the beach.
The tuneful sound of the spring ocean surf,
rolls in, touches my toes in a tease,
then runs away giggling, but not for long.
Once again it rolls to chase me for a nip at my toes.
4/12/2022
"I don't see myself..." he began.
That's quite OK.
You can feeeel yourself.
We can see you.
We do see you.
(and we are trying to feel you.)
Let us in?
"...making it through the next few days..."
he continued.
That's quite OK.
There is nothing to make it through.
Time doesn't have a vessel,
you aren't a vessel
hurtling along, bumpily
racing along, perhaps lost:
pinballing are caroming along,
ploughing, skiing, skittering,
piloting, surfing, mucking,
hopping, dithering, meandering.
No!
Time washes over the ever-present
present.
A tide, or swath of sun
rolling over the shaded meadow.
Time comes to the immovable,
the unchanging. To know this,
locate your heart. Your Spirit.
To do this, seek another, serve another,
open, offer, extend, comprehend.
Touch, Listen, Grieve Unalone.
Smile.
"...without inflicting grievous bodily harm on someone,
much less the next four years." he ended.
That's quite OK.
You're quite OK.
Today, though
you're losing sight of
how you deeply are
and you are...
quite OK.
Turn, perhaps instead
to Beauty.
Seek Awe.
Revel in some Ridiculous.
The prickly-sharps you feel now,
are real, are true.
but feel, you're you.
Not them.
Let's them, too
be washed off,
be abraded,
let the Tides of Time
wash clean the
needly pokey stuff
let the Tides of Time
polish the youYou.
Let us help, too.
you ARE felt.
you ARE seen.
you are not OK.
You are OK.
-ShhDragon
(for Joe Turecek.)
Wisdom comes with age
So the old saying goes
But so does dementia
As the world so sadly knows.
It’s so easy to be vociferous
Brave aggressive and bold
Deferring action to others
Just because they’ve grown old
If Old Men fought the wars
Would there be quite so many
And as more of them got killed
Would there even be any.
Maybe they’d realise
It’s better to jaw jaw jaw
Than to risk their lives
Going off to senseless war.
It is after all just
A crazy situation
Sending off to war
The youth of any nation.
No let the Old Men fight
And let the old ‘men die
It really couldn't be long before
Old men started azz sking why
And found alternatives so
Nobody had to fight and die.
Maybe they’d discover
And give diplomacy a try.
So much more incentive
To avoid any mortal strife
When the life put at risk
Is an old person’s own life.
Bur if they insist that
They really want to try
Put them in uniform and
Let them go off to die.
Better to have them be
The wounded or dead
Than younger men with
Their whole lives ahead.
So put the Old Men in uniform
Give them the bayonet and gun
It’s not really fair after all to let
Younger men have all the fun.
It’s called taking responsibility for
So many of the things going wrong
Maybe Old Men have been in charge
Mucking things up for far too long.