Long Nitty gritty Poems
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I've been doin' time, sittin in this jail cell for too long.
Yea, I made mistakes because I was headstrong
when I killed Isabelle, but it's what she deserved.
She ran off with my coke and money. That was wrong.
I want outta prison. Enough years have been served.
She was sent to New Orleans just to shut me down.
I ruled like I was a king, a legend in my hometown.
But that greedy French chick stole from me and fled
to New York. Did she think I was clowning around?
I knew I'd find her there, and soon she'd end up dead.
That's where Moon Knight found me to make a deal.
He was lookin for my contact, but I wouldn't squeal.
I got the best of him and knocked him into the river
after overpowering him with my muscles of steel.
He wanted my contact information, but I didn't deliver.
I found Isabelle and kept her doped up for five days,
Shot her up with drugs until her mind was in a haze.
She told me what she'd done with my coke and money,
then I stabbed her until she was dead, her eyes agaze.
That was payback, but that woman was smooth as honey.
I dumped her body on the Westside and felt no pity.
I was in a hurry to get back home to Mardi Gras in the city.
The plan was to make raids when people were at parades.
While the cops were busy, I'd get down to the nitty-gritty
then high tail it outta town and hide out in the Everglades.
But Moon Knight and his pal Frenchie, were on my trail.
They wanted to capture me before my tracks got stale,
and found me at the Fair Grounds, betting on a horse.
Tearing up a losing ticket I'd bet on a nag of a bangtail.
I fought them off and got away using strength and force.
I took shelter in a warehouse a block from Jackson Square
but there was no escaping again when they found me there.
I wasn't gonna go down easy and had my ice pick ready.
Moon Knight broke my jaw, throwing a punch with fanfare.
It brought me to my knees when my legs became unsteady.
When I'm outta this hell hole, I swear I'm gonna get even.
Been shut up in jail too long and tired of all the grievin.'
Moon Knight hasn't seen the last of Cajun Creed. Not yet.
Vengeance has kept me sane, because it's what I believe in.
You can put a C note down on that promise. Make that bet!
11/1/2022 ~ Moon Knight Friend or Foe Contest
Sponsored by Robert James Liguori
Whar art mine fervent zeal for Marx Brothers?
While figuratively trout fishing
for ideas to write about
analogous (hook, line and sinker)
idea wormed itself into mind with clout
moment of awareness arose
without shadow of doubt.
As a long haired pencil necked teenage geek
zany Harpo, Groucho, Chico ranked as idols
mine most favorite slap stick until I reached
cusp of early adulthood, yet of lately uptick
regarding said comedic acts unexpectedly a
rose, spurring me to revisit adolescent mem
rubble entertainers overarching unstoppable
nostalgic ache for their nonpareil antics did
pang ping pong within mine corporeal esse
Scents trademarked and christened Matthew
Scott Harris, somewhat alleviated watching
courtesy Internet random You Bet Your Life
momentarily experiencing giddiness bursting
with laughter - shy kid relishing hearing quip
lightning fast barbs oft imitated sporting his
greasepaint moustache nsync with cigar size
of small walking stick renown world over an
American iconic figure (+entire motley crew)
lively bunch post World War II boys groomed
since birth begat Minnie Marx (born Miene
Schönberg, 9 November 1864 or 1865 – 13
September 1929) mother and manager of the
Marx Brothers, a family of vaudevillians,
Broadway and film actors, she dominated
band of five boisterous and hilarious brothers
who dominated silver screen more'n nearly 3
4ths century ago sired by patriarch Sam Marx.
No particular rhyme nor reason explains why
aforementioned nitty gritty personal trivia thy
actually more accurately & specifically yours
truly metaphorically unexpectedly did qualify
as teetotaling poetaster to craft poem well nigh
acknowledge inexplicable passion regarding my
heartfelt affection constituting zany wily troupe
linkedin with baker's dozen films iterated wild
3 ringed circus antics did all these years schtick
well lodged within me noggin + gamut of stars
whose career launched during quaint silent film
era albeit (Betzwood, one time, between 1912
and 1924), one of the largest film studios in the
world located in downtown Philadelphia and
their studio lot in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania,
right next to the park, I kid ye not, and... take
look see for yourself by visiting following link.
https://americasbesthistory.com/
spotlight2017-11.html
whether you like it or not, your priest, your pastor, your minister,
your clergyman
of whom you hold the utmost regard,
whose very advice
you secretly tell yourself has been inspired by
the lord your god &
maybe even “jesus” himself,
may in fact hold a very
deep
dark
secret---
your clergyman or woman may have come to the
rational
conclusion,
a long time ago,
that what it was that they went to seminary for,
that what it was that they themselves thought in the deepest reservoir of their hearts,
that the pure unadulterated faith
which they once held onto like a child does their mother’s hand
when walking in the city,
which they once thought was so obvious &
real,
is nothing but a cheap hoax of the most serious kind,
&
that it is all a
lie---
at best, this lie which they are still taking part in,
is one which they think brings comfort to their
flock,
it pays their bills,
above all, they have no idea what they would do
if they turned their back on the whole sham now,
after
wasting
half
their
life
peddling religious smut like a pimp on a street corner.
huddled in their corner at home,
locked up in the closet,
they bite their nails and bear upon their backs the weight
of the lie growing like a cancerous tumor---
they may have friends who are clergy,
with whom they can speak of losing faith in a roundabout
manner,
by which both parties are made to feel more comfortable
when the ambiguous nature of a conversation finally gets down to the
nitty-gritty,
that this sham
this character was NOT born of a virgin
that this character did NOT walk on water
never cured a leper
never turned water to wine
never turned a few fish & a loaf of bread to a feast for
thousands &
was never crucified, dead & buried only to
rise again.
inside their minds is an explosion ready to awaken
millions
that finally, even the prime liars in this campaign of
deception that has lasted a few thousand years
is
breaking---
it is all a matter of time before the technology that we
have produced as a species cures our very fear of
death &
without the fear of death,
you will no longer need to be a slave to these
charlatans
that continue to beat you senseless with their
poorly written fiction.
get ahead of the curve &
scrap it all before your shepherds do,
making you look like the sap that you presently
are.
Electroconvulsive therapy,
a last ditch avail
able effort optioned, aye bewail
as desperation if standard
psychological measures peter
out leave ving paul tree
(paltry) choice, and blackmail
ling Doctor Frankenstein
out of the question, cuz
accidental discover re:
visa vis could yield (ahem) grave
zero APR, hence bad
(bon jovian) medicine
sought as precautionary
measure to countervail
undesirable repercussions
hoop fully curtail
ling any unexpected derail
ment, thus every nitty gritty detail,
asper my treatment plan
made purposely intractable
courtesy Matthew Scott Harris,
to flummox decrypting
this daunting task, whose
hair brained scheme didst entail
hatching with Sam I am
(of Doctor Zeus fame)...Oh...My...G___
egg gads no fail-
safe recourse, should shell shock
Electroconvulsive – formerly electric shock
therapy even slip an infinitesimal jot
offsetting requisite
exactly predicted results
yes, even if precision errs
by a mere clipped fingernail...
the sought after outcome
(devised on the fly - by night
Reddit writer above named author)
must absolutely dovetail
with The Elements of Style
or very close
facsimile thereof, anyway
strict requirements quality controlled
with results tubby
sent as email
to Strunk and White,
who will flail
like some GMO gone awry
(if patient accidentally electrocuted)
finding them to become
instantaneously petrified and frail
looking analogous to
witnessing the Holy Grail
shattering into a bajillion pieces,
whereby the heavens,
would reign hail
scaring every last man,
woman, and child to hightail
donned in heavy duty boots
studded with many a hobnail
with duff feet, sans long arm of
law and order on their heels,
and if any scapegoats nabbed
definitely consigned to jail
without chance of parole to prevail
no matter guilty might sail
to some tropical island awash
with countless carbon copies
of Euell Gibbons doppelganger,
and Swiss Alpine like mountains to scale.
An infinitesimal slight speck tickled
nostril follicle – activated via an itty
bitty, nitty gritty dirt band noah bigger
than a mole luck yule set in motion a
chain reaction, whence mine sensitive
proboscis honker (wheeze - hilly little
bridged fine tuned pug nose aroma
sensor), got unexpectedly in gauged
(in holy matt trim mo’ knee) to achew,
and eschew pledging troth (in favor of
hanky-panky) found this chap feeling
phlegmatic because an endless string
of faux allergic emanations, which
upon subsiding left me throat rather
raspy and voice some octaves deeper
akin to a coterie of celebrated jumping
frogs from Calaveras County, California
took residence and refused leaving
stranglehold upon math rote upon
awakening from a hard day’s journey
into night across the outer limits
of thine twilight zone resurrected
during slumber, yet upon awakening
felt much refreshed and hungry enough
to eat a horse – nee – make that forced
whore – gulped down within a hoof
n hour and now recount how back in
the day when zooming thru the Lilies
of the Valley (whooshing mass elf tubby
an aeroplane) frequent bouts with uber
twittering snapchatting sinus attacks
besieged crinkled, doppelganger expeller
for germs hunting with his clean X
instantaneously for nasal passages
to enter surreptitiously the fecund
effluvia dripping, oozing, and seeping
clear liquid as wintry cold air looses
droplets from out a near frozen nose,
which bloke knows not why frigid blast
stimulates gallimaufry of sniffling
to spurt into a volume of one after
another gesundheit donning, snorting
trumpeting unwittingly confusing
Canadian geese, who misconstrue
the honking from midway centered
facial organ, which angry birds
in tandem with flock of Seagulls
quite perturbed to espy one curmudgeon
chap clapping hands over (what feels
like Smashing Pumpkins on face)
in an effort to stifle subsequent gummy
emissions, which residue expectorated
with heave hoe shove
schnoz el tov blowing into snot-rag.
A season – Ages ago
Ages ago, many a seed had been planted.
Their blossoming brings, being taken for granted,
never seen, acknowledged or appreciated.
As gardeners, sowers of, we are fated
to pay an intolerable, unbearable price
for all, all we experience that is not nice
for a parent to see, to feel, believe to be,
that has come to be a part of you and me.
------------------------------------
I – like the south pole of, a magnet pushes - away ?
I – like a distant planet without gravity – ejects ?
Is it that I repel ?, instead of attract.
Is reality ?, for me, anything beyond abstract
and truly above contact ?, - such a pity
to get down and dirty, get to the nitty-gritty.
------------------------------------
A beam of energy, a wave of light, a speck of dust
in the vacuum cleaner bag of space, brought to light
within the vast womb of our universe, have I been.
My life’s impression being, being that speck of dust,
which, speck, upon speck, upon speck, upon speck
of dust gathers, accumulating upon my soul.
Dust to dust, atom to atom, gas to gas, a planet to create
until all is to heavy, I no longer am able to carry the weight.
The weight become so unbearable, these shoulders
begin to droop, drop off – back to dust, to atom, to energy,
to that vacuum cleaner bag, to the universes womb, there ,
once again to start it all over, back on the merry-go-round.
Maybe ?, a lighter load ?, a brighter road ?,
a much better story that could be told ?
What will carry us to the next time ?
What path will we walk next time ?
What journeys will be ours next time ?
Maybe ?, when it becomes next time,
and we gather, are carried into ?,
I might impart something of value,
a new start to help carry them through,
after they have been dropped off
- blown away by the winds of times passing –
to create their own planets, live their own lives,
their own experiences without influencing
the gardener with a world of negative forces,
what has seemed a lifetime of negative energy.
B. J. “A” 2
January 19th 2003
they say (whoever the **** “they”
are) that “honesty is the best policy” &
presumably, one assumes (though
we should never assume, so sayeth
the 7th grade math teachers of the world
---because “assuming makes an ass out
of you & me”) that when speaking in
such a manner, the talk is of personal
relationships---something we value,
something we feel we take part in on a
daily basis, something in which we feel
we have some sort of control over
&
hell, that big ol’ work of fiction proclaims
emphatically “thou shall not lie,”
presumably casting a negative light on any
lil’ fib or any embellishment which may seem
a bit too extravagant to hold any
truth at all---thus making the greatest
storytellers of all time, liars & for that fact,
depending on how down-to-the-nitty-gritty
you get, this makes each & every one of us
with out 100% recall when it comes to the
memory dept., liars as well,
pure & simple.
with that in mind, one not need to listen to
Billy Joel drone on, instead we all live as
hypocrites, saying one thing & doing another,
expecting the one we shown the most
compassion to, to return the favor,
while hoping that the more powerful entities
of the world will do the same---
but before the monstrous piles upon piles of
libel manufactured in the world over
can come to a hilt, that first little web is
spun.
it comes when one convinces themselves that
to reveal a certain truth to said loved one
would actually do more harm than “good” &
the convincing may take hours, it may take
days, but in the end, the outcome is the same---
a lie is made.
and every time a lie is made, it gets easier---
though the lies all get filed under the same
heading,
“things that would have done more harm than
‘good’,”
it is the ease of the lying which develops like a
cancer,
slowly metastasizing until it has spread
throughout the body,
laying the groundwork for the
eventual
certain
death
of said relationship.
There was a nice man from Asia,
who suffered from hip dysplasia.
He sat on his bum all the long day,
but never had anything fun to say.
So his dad took his cane away.
He knew not what to without a cane,
he thought he’d go clinically insane.
So he worked in a crossword puzzle,
and on his dog he put a muzzle.
He never liked that darn Jack Russell.
Walking hurt too much to cry,
and limping became his alibi.
He wanted to try driving to the store,
those hot Doritoes he wanted more.
Just then he fell to the floor.
His dad walked in with a dumb grin,
said, “son, remember your Aunt Lynn?”
He didn’t feel like seeing that old hag,
especially since she was sleeping with dad.
“I’m on the floor and hurt real bad!”
Aunt Lynn felt sorry for him so much,
said, “what you need is a mother’s touch.
Grab my hand and I’ll help you, dear.”
But I wanted not that old lady near!
He was quivering in pain and fear.
The divorce was bad, I know that,
but why Aunt Lynn, she’s too fat.
Mom was so graceful and pretty,
so tenderly kind and very witty.
Aunt Lynn is so dirty nitty-gritty.
He had no choice but to take her hand,
she balanced him to help him stand.
Sat back down on the chair by the table,
said he was finally ready and able.
Decided to go watch some cable.
He said, “Dad why’d you take my cane?
That was so cold and done in vain!
What you did was a great sin,
and your sleeping with old Aunt Lynn?”
Dad said, “I swear she used to be thin!”
They both laughed and dad left,
but the man from Asia was still bereft.
He ordered some Chinese Cuisine,
unlike Aunt Lynn, had to stay lean.
Saw his cane went back to his routine.
Amuse Me With Your Rhyme, Let A Man From Asia
be your guide Poetry Contest
Nick Trim
July 16, 2018
Now before we get started let me tell you this.
Twenty five years I've been out of school.
Not one single day of it do I miss.
My writing is mine & there are no rules.
My words are delivered with a lot of passion.
Every verse is straight from the heart.
I put it all together in my own fashion.
I've never considered myself to be very smart.
To get it out of my head and onto the paper,
brings me relief to say the least.
To keep it all in would be much safer,
but I'm searching hard for that inner peace.
Some of these poems may give you tears,
but some of them will make you smile.
Some are based on my biggest fears.
Some from when I was just a child.
I tend to get down to the nitty gritty.
Not really worried about what others say.
Don't want anything in return, especially pity.
Maybe someday I will actually get paid.
I'm not getting any younger, that's for sure.
One neck surgery, that's enough.
For getting older, there is no cure.
I'm finally admitting that I'm not so tough.
So a writing career is my dream.
Boy I should have paid attention in school.
I've always been a late bloomer it seems.
I have no clue about grammar rules.
In school literature was a breeze.
The semester of grammar was another story.
I read and wrote with joy and ease.
but my punctuation was downright gory.
Editors should all be millionaires.
They are special, there is no doubt.
They take your work and magically repair,
the mess you make of what you write about.
So here I go on my writing spree.
Something that i've always loved to do.
It has pretty much replaced TV,
listening to music and sleeping too.
I hope you enjoy all that I have to say.
Even though some seems a little bit dark.
Maybe I can get published someday.
Hopefully I have that special spark.
"Every secret memory, every experience in life, and every
thought can be written within the words of a poem."
Quote - by Constance
my writing is rudiments ... of planning ...
it is undeveloped ... and totally imperfect ...
in the beginning my poem is basic
needing more elements and some nitty-gritty
more guts
and a lot more heart
~ storms shake the ocean of my sleep
I dream of wings fluttering, fluttering
of eagles gliding on whispering winds ~
I must make a foundation that is strong
dig deep into my soul for the right emotions
laying the groundwork is essential
finding the right words and right poetic voice
then rewriting and rewriting my poem
~ clouds sail across the sky in my imagination
oh, my heart is a temple of withered memories
and my mind full of the gauzy feathers ~
I write without stopping
the word pouring from my pen
I do not hesitate but I do linger
and then I take a breath and read my creation
sighing, I read it again and again
checking the grammar ... the 'poetic voice' ...
and it is beautiful
~ so like a mother I cherish this poem born
I hold it to my heart ... then I send it on wings
to fly and soar ... in the world
...like an eagle gliding ~
_____________________
February 18, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/The Rudiments of Wings
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1331-105-18
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Theme chosen- The Rudiments of Wings
Written for the Standard contest This or That, Vol. 10
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 03/02/2022
Second Place