Long Mucking Poems
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Go ahead, try to separate the races.
You politicians have egg, on your malicious faces.
Not realizing in your frozen hearts.
You toss imperfect, very hopeless darts.
Neither money nor educatiion
Can separate friends of the American nation.
Equity for Blacks only, you shout from your parapets.
ThatWill never separate us, not one bit.
So you fund hate groups to form derision,
Amongst hearts who have made, no such decision.
You paint whites as Nazis, blacks as slaves?
You think we are animals or morons, you hopeless knaves!
We have friends of all colors and religions.
But you go on fake news, as dense as pigeons.
You do all in your power to make this beautiful world dour.
You shout, “The world is ending by the hour?”
Filling us with fear, like climate change,
The ozone layer went up one percent, but not to Al Gore and his gang.
Whites mucking about, pretending they are Black?
It sickens me, Caucasians,it’s a racial attack.
Equity, as if, this were even ever possible.
We of all colors, think you are miserable.
So twenty years ago, I found a Black sister online.
Living in the hood, with loving heart that really shines!
She’s problems with sleep, as bullets fly about all night.
Seven hundred and thirty five, died in that city alone last year, what a fright!
DC bigwigs avoid the Hood like the Plague.
Yet demand Democrats vote for Blacks alone, don’t dare turn the page.
They tell them freedom is food stamps and a free phone?
It is such a lie, it makes me gasp and groan.,
Keeping the Blacks forever, on othe Plantation Nation!
You, while they are killed in the Hood, fly to Davos on vacation.
Dedicated to my Sistah of another mother!
Like you, Blessed Rita , there is no other!
With love,
Sistah Pangie
1/23/2023
It snowed last night, two inches.
Should make Black Friday driving
interesting, to say the least.
The snow sounds like hands on Styrofoam
beneath my mucking-boots.
Green and browns wisps of grass
poke through the white wetness.
Faded color from leap piles
shows itself here and there.
Bob Stratton wears an orange vest,
walks across his big field,
shotgun in hand, looking to land
the big ten-pointer he saw
on his trail camera.
Kids mar the white carpet,
hucking snowballs at each other.
Can’t blame ‘em for that!
Cracklin’ ice breaks beneath
my foot-steps as I walk along,
as fun to break now as in childhood.
Air is crisp, cool, refreshing to the lungs.
Most stay inside today, but
not me. I long for this.
Visions of ski season to come,
of Christmas decorations that
Have been for sale since August.
Of the wood fire I’ll start
When I get home.
And hot chocolate too.
If you’re going to do winter,
you got to do it proper.
Even if, technically, it is still fall.
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!
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.
"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.)
"My passion is to see poets' souls, brilliantly on fire!"... .P. Romios.
" Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world!" Percy Bysshe Shelley, romantic poet
Without us being phony politicians mucking about with pants on fire.
We cannot change things without the courage ourselves to see evil, write about it, and see it ends.
The silence is deafening as the media cheers on Communism wearing the deranged mask of Socialism.
One day, we may lose this right to be truthful as poets forever.
Stop hiding behind butterflies and flowers, as none will keep you free.
Patriots will cheer you on, do not worry about those who avoid you."
"A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep."
— Salman Rushdie, award-winning writer
2/26/2021
~1~
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
How many head do you have?
He turns his weathered face toward me. You buy’n?
His hazel eyes are dancing; I am no cowboy.
I'm in the throes of boot stomping country.
Saturday nights are for dancing
And you better be sleeping in church on Sunday.
I take a big whiff of healthy country air.
We're standing next to a pasture full of bluebells.
There are clumps of succulents on either side of this old barn.
She needs paint everywhere except for her brand-new window.
Two antique milk jugs are down here, with yellow and purple petunias.
The missus, he explains noticing my noticing.
A black crow lights on a fence post about twenty feet away.
The most annoying croaking caw sound.
He is not happy you’re here, the old timer tells me. I grin.
There is one lone renegade sunflower to the left of the shed.
I wonder about that, but do not ask.
Want to see the horses or the cows? He asks.
I want to see both, I say.
We’ll start with the horses then.
The cows are mucking around in the mud; you’ll have to put on waders.
I try to look pleased.
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 hated all those lessons and rules
Playing sports in the cold and the rain
Exams, tests and essays in schools
l won’t need this stuff in my brain
It’s a waste of my time, it's just lame.
I am leaving school in just one week
No more boredom and tectonic plates
A good job, with some training I seek
Will I miss going to school with my mates
I wonder now what my future awaits
An interview can be a terrifying thing
He said, “Why not a single GCSE?”
“To this role, what do you bring?!”
Five years, I had nothing to please
Seven interviews and now, great unease.
Starting work at eight in the morning
Not what I imagined it would be.
Mucking out sheds, won't be that boring
I look back now, and my errors I see
Will my mates have careers, unlike me?
Now I do the same things every day
I miss school, and my mates, I’m sad
In the cold and the rain, I now dismay
and think of the opportunities that I had
To waste all that time… “was I mad?!”
If only I'd concentrated on school
Had fun, but tried when it mattered
If only I could have followed their rule.
All that knowledge I could have gathered
My dreams and future are they shattered?