Long Ninety six Poems
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B.C., seven hundred seventy-six
was the date of the first Olympic picks.
They held (these sportsmanship pioneers)
Olympiads ev'ry four years
The first Olympic race was for sprinters -
Corubus, a chef, was named the winner.
Running one hundred ninety-two meters
he took the lead without any sneakers.
There were no medals; first place got a wreath
worn on his head, twisted from olive leaf.
Second and third place got only glory -
plus bragging rights in telling their story.
Men competed in the nude at the start;
women were invited "not" to take part.
These games were stopped by Roman signature:
“Way too pagan,” declared the emperor.
Make no mistake; it’s not a mystery
exclusive to Athens’ sports history.
What we still call the “modern” Olympics -
were revived back in eighteen ninety-six.
Nineteen-o-four, here in my own country,
my grandmother traveled to St. Louis.
The Games were held as part of the World’s Fair;
Granny Emma and three sisters worked there.
written August 13, 2016
for Janis Thompson's Olympic Mania contest
Finally after twenty two plus
years of marriage,
a husband (namely yours truly -
hitherto known as Matthew Scott Harris)
exhibits glint of care and concern
toward his significant other,
which wife bemoaned
absent expressions of love
particularly before the
honeymoon even occurred.
I readily admit shying away
from emotional intimacy,
especially toward the gal
whose pledge I trothed
July twenty fifth nineteen ninety six,
(fifteen days hence)
yet even formative years (mine)
scant overtures displayed toward
me father, mother, plus
older and younger sister
(neither non twisted).
A strong suspicion predominates
neurological, psychological,
and social perturbations
commingled while said christened goodfella
developed in utero, whereat genetic quarks
sparked, manifested, and engendered
unforeseen grievous hardship
severely, inexplicably, and figuratively
dislocated, truncated, and uprooted
his promising, (albeit
short lived) blissful boyhood,
which happy go lucky preschool years
abruptly analogously came to crashing halt
soon after setting foot into first grade.
Impossible mission
to tease out telltale explanation(s)
only thru courtesy 20/20 hindsight
can hypothesis be formulated
regarding congenital
chromosomal cellular discrepancy
birthing what appeared a healthy baby
though prone to wailing
without rhyme nor reason,
especially if held
by any person except mother.
At a tender age behavioral blitzkrieg
rent asunder tenuous connections
shattering nascent aggregation
to allow, enable, and provide
healthy interpersonal development
unbeknownst what molecular processes
kickstarted, pronounced, triggered...
wayward son to recoil against humanity
(think how like magnetic poles
repel each other).
Most all mein kampf
scant communication brokered
never establishing linkedin bonds,
nor fostering emotional intimacy
despite witnessing overt caring
among parents who begat me
or siblings, who exuded
natural propensity to comfort each other.
Something so primal as to elicit
heartfelt sympathy I lacked
which aloofness generated offensiveness
essentially buttressed (with flying colors)
hermetically sealed existence (mine)
nsync livingsocial within alien nation.
Oh, you did not know Mrs. Klondike said.
Haughty, uppity, not nice in the least.
The festival has been moved and renamed.
The Aprillstica has been re-named?
No way!
I was horrified, shocked.
As my Aunt Bee was one of the original Villageonians,
I felt she should be bothered immediately.
“I know,” she sang gaily, in an unknown way into the phone.
“It was my idea.”
Her idea!
Now I was truly confused.
Had she gotten her pills mixed up again?
My Aunt Bee has not sounded this happy since 1971
When she married the newest “love” of her life who
Was her eighth husband, and a shyster like the others.
I quickly drove to Springton Nursing Home to see what was up.
“This is Harold,” she said in a voice I barely remembered.
A sing-songy, happy, uplifting voice.
Harry had initially had the idea to change Aprillstica Festival
To Marchatillion Festival.
Well, then, okay by me.
She is ninety-six after all, and running out
of charm.
I am a wedding planner, and
frankly, although I too am a Villageonian,
business has been slow….
I wander over hills and valleys
looking for a remedy
the clock is ticking fast
and I don’t know
how long this deals will last
You keep going back and forth
and you are still holding the knife
at my throat, I will not surrender
unless I have a good doctor
to cure the disease you left at the altar.
Suspicion is floating around
and still no cure can be found
we sat up all night looking into the
light and I could still hear your breathing
and feel your spiritual fight
I know that you are a hard nut to crack
and you will hold on as along as the heavens are lock
a hundred and ninety six doctors are coming
from Rome, and they are going to light up the town
they can find the remedy that you seek
and they know how to lift up the weak
I can feel the joy that lights up your soul
and just one tender touch will make your body whole
the universe is coming to see you
and they will correct the mistakes
before the crowd gathers at the gate
There is not much time left
but we can get it done before
the sun goes down;
each doctor will get a task
to work on a team to realize your dreams
It is almost done and after the meeting
we will have fun, don’t count the chickens
before they hatch but I know in my heart
when the music starts you will be victorious at last.
Take courage and come
take one step and walk towards me
open your eyes and the magic numbers
will suddenly appears before thee
the heavens will open and the
treasure from above will repay you
for your unconditional love.
The arrow and the spear stands on the
solemn hill and calm the water and wind
And universe became silent
just before the break of dawn
and the hundred and sixty years
mystery is finally complete and
the people are celebrating in the streets
Apostle Matthew encountered...
artist, dragon and gangster extraordinaire
Written September ninth,
two thousand and twenty one.
Reposted exactly three years later.
Here at 2 Highland Manor Drive
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Actually all three people
linkedin to each other courtesy
Dissociative Identity Disorder
(Multiple Personality Disorder).
Wiccan up to mystical alien way
I raptly listened as she didst soothsay
scanned -- din heavy yen reference
about paganistic folkloric history
regarding Sweden and Oslo (also) Norway.
The missus dubbed
aforementioned young gal "curvy girl,"
a zaftig smart young woman
super talented self taught herself
to draw, sketch, and paint.
Only unmarried millennial men need apply,
perhaps someone who hails from buckeye
state - ideally above average
humorous gallivanting fellow
plus somewhat meshuggeneh cockeye
Louie garden variety
wealthy eccentric recluse
who doth blatantly defy
establishmentarian paradigm
you rarely espy,
cause he stays sequestered
about dozen doors down
from (femme fatale) ha
said alluded to chick named
three faces of
eve vent jewel one named Jen Fry
easy on the eyes
courtesy me, a generic guy,
who experienced amicable chat
referencing aforementioned lass
the first encounter with her
found yours truly saying "hi"
devoid of ulterior motives
only casual acquaintanceship did I imply
cuz even if this former bachelor
(got married twenty fifth of July
nineteen hundred and ninety six)
hypothetically decoupled,
cuz the age difference between us
quite substantial qua aging baby boomer
born two years after Bridge
over the River Kwai
filmed - then rocked to sleep
courtesy Brahms lullaby
if fain to sire offspring with lass
(young enough to be my daughter)
kiddos would witness their papa to mummify.
Our friendly communication
peppered with structures of silence
coasted along with zest
and dialed up quite lathered dialogue
betwixt us I do attest
mutual comfort level quickly established
between yours truly
and said attractive beefy babe,
who possessed killer thunder thighs
shaking the entire firmament.
Birches took a vote after the child left the forest
Next time, two wanted to capture her, to keep her always
Ninety-six others voted this was wrong.
The magical birch had a new idea.
Let me create a phantom child who will traverse the river.
She will be seen only in moonlight, and she will laugh like this one.
Her titters will uplift us, and make us joyous as the two legs sleep.
The two potential kidnappers groused, but the rest agreed to a trial.
Magical birch called on all of the nocturnal creatures for input.
Fox chose her hair. Raccoon chose her shape. Owl chose her laugh.
She was created into the water a few hours before the sun rose.
The forest woke up to her glorious laugh, and felt excited and joyful.
What shall we name her? Bee asked. She disappeared at that moment.
The sun had risen. Name who? Grasshopper asked, having missed her.
The night creatures smirked, happy she belonged to them alone.
A name was a great idea. They decided upon Diana of the Birches.
The magic birch was deemed the official Birch Maestro.
He created other creatures for the forest, propelled by this success.
If you see her reflection, please pass by without a fuss.
The forest of the night likes to think she is unseen by two legs.
In Nineteen ninety-six, our son and wife, Majors
In US Army, moved to Izmir, their new base.
As usual, whatever place they were assigned,
We flew to visit them as well as dear grandkids.
So off we went to spend two weeks in Turkey, this
Outstanding country we had never been before.
So much to see at Ephesus—Metropolis
Of Antique Age; The Stadium, the Harbor Bath,
Basilica, the Marble Road, Heracles Gate—
All ruins now. Were sad to see these wondrous works
Of art and architecture now in disarray
And strewn about on fields on which they proudly stood.
Of varied striking sites in Pergamon, we saw
The City Walls, the Aqueducts, Acropolis,
The Temple Dionysus, that of Trajan too.
So many ages, periods had ruled this place,
Artistic wonders, structures turned to ruins—works
Of Persian, Greek, Roman and more, in pieces lay.
Besides the many ancient ruins visited,
We were amazed that many locals spoke our tongue.
They did their best to make us feel so much at ease,
Were gracious in combined Mid-Eastern/Euro style
Of hospitality and types of food they ate
And served, like cheese, tomatoes, olives of all kinds.
Izmir, a city mixed with culture old and new,
Like modern shops and open markets, outdoor stands
With fish and meats on ice, yet weighed on modern scales.
And women with fine bread on plates held up on heads,
Who walked the streets in morning, dressed in peasant garb;
Yet working business women wore more modern dress.
We ventured to the famous city, Istanbul,
Surprised to see the many high-rise buildings there,
And streets so overcrowded with their vehicles;
Large offices and business centers everywhere—
Ladies with fashion boots, purses and western dress;
Big contrast with those living back in country hills.
Such history surrounds this ancient, distant land;
So many varied cultures ruled their sacred world.
Museums filled with artifacts from centuries,
Safeguarded and in view to honor and behold.
This trip shall always hold such special, vivid thoughts
For us to cherish and remember for all time.
Of course, this one-time trip was many years ago;
We're happy we had ventured then instead of now,
For times have changed; such unrest grows within our world.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Memorable Vacations
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: May 8, 2015
Iambic Hexameter
Upside Down World
The great man and conjurer of poetic license sat behind
the analytic couch and murmured to himself that it is
all about aggression and sex lots of sex for that grave matter
it shapes the world from underneath a smouldering gun
Phallus in metaphoric metaplastic hands ideas vibrate
‘what goes up must come down’ he pondered as he smoked
the cigar piped up dreams when a pipe is simply not merely
a flute and the lute brings luscious shadows to the fore
Eros meanwhile contemplates on regal roads from joy
to consciousness at ninety-six the styx is near enough
What has the world come to he’s no more sixty-nine
where is Freud’s promise as wars rage rampantly but
flaccid skin shrivels beyond tall towers of yesteryear
when hedonistic gardens slipped quietly from paradise
Eye-sight vanished hearing demised turgor spent and forces
only a distant reminder of battles fought for the human
condition he reads ‘ARGAIV’ on the blister pack he holds
with arthritic hands his heart attacks soft memories when
the nurse wipes him clean and he slobbers his tablets
It is a downside up world and time has tattooed Eve’s apple
upside down on his loins and the growing pain of a promise
once held of a better world with kindness love and compassion
Eros with Freud in his thoughts has again mixed up his drugs
as moaning angina takes over when he swallows his swan song
He should not have kept that one VIAGRA capsule maybe and
only his world in last rites is a much better place
I almost dare not to tell you a story this silly,
This crazy, this weird, this hilarious absolute willy.
But I have to do it, for my darling friend Big Tillie.
She is gone now, in heaven, fixing her chili.
Big Tillie was a simple woman, married to Hilly.
It gets worse. His full name was Hilly Billy McGilly.
So, when they got married she became truly silly,
Mrs. Hilly McGilly, a bonafide hillbilly.
This story started out pretty sweet for this filly.
She met him in a diner when she was fixing her chili.
He came in all sassy, and soon turned upright blue-silly.
For his heart did palpitations when he caught sight of Tillie.
She was petite back in the old days, small, a real dilly.
And she carried herself like a proud mountain filly.
Hilly McGilly was smitten at her looks before he tasted her chili.
To which she had added tomatoes and onions and a white tiger lily.
They got married in Arkansas, a good place for those McGillies.
And they lived a sweet life, her making him all kind of chili’s.
They had sixteen little children, all named McGilly.
And they lived and they laughed, bringing in all kinds of silly.
At the funeral of Big generous ninety-six-year-old Tilly McGilly
There were rumors that a secret would be given and it would be a dilly.
So they came from as far away as Queenstown, those fond-of-her hillbillies.
And they were glad, as recipes were handed out for ten of her favorite chili’s.
the bannisters were cold, house dark and dreary, I was alone
no surprise because I have been in solitude since my death
ninety-six years of stark, staid, stillness, hearing no voices
I am tired of ghosting this mansion; it is not interesting
When I was alive I had friends, they were witty and charming
We used to laugh about our silly stories, stay up late and play cards
Because I was nineteen and excited about life back in the day
I never expected to die, and certainly not alone
There were others in the car, and they all three survived
I hate to be like this, but jealousy has wormed my empathy into anger
When the electricity was on, I could light the corners with my irritation
this gloomy doomy dank mausoleum has not been electrified for awhile
I hear footsteps; another ridiculous realtor with potential buyers?
We have not had one here since 1986; and this is two thousand something
Who knows? It’s not like I have a newspaper or radio any more.
I hear footsteps on the porch. I feel anticipatory hope.
The realtor is not a man; it’s a woman? Does this make sense?
Maybe this happens in modern day. I listen to her realtor talk.
She is using all the right terms “flexible, eager to sell, snapped up quickly.”
Snapped up quickly! I start to snicker.
The young bride looks up where I am sitting, eavesdropping.
“What was that?” she asks.
“What was what?” replies her husband.
A person who can hear me? I am delighted from my toes to my torso.
“Buy the house!” I yell.
She turns and runs out.
Followed closely by the others.
They never buy; I hate this.