Long Scrawny Poems
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Hi! My name is Joseph-Jason
But you can call me Dude
And I am here to explain to you
How I feel about drink and food.
I have this thing called ARFID
But it doesn’t make me weird
I just find most food scary
It’s something to be feared.
My Mummum calls me Scrawny Butt
Because I am so thin
But it’s not like anorexia
I can’t control it, I don’t win.
Some people just don’t understand
“If he’s hungry, he will eat”
“Don’t give in to pickyness”
“If you don’t eat, no treat”
But I would rather starve myself
Than risk a taste or lick
I won’t eat food I don’t deem safe
This is real; it’s not a trick.
Don’t slip things in my safe food
Because I’ll know, then that’s gone too
And then do you know what happens?
I’ll never trust food from you!
My safe foods are brand specific
‘New and improved’ is my worst nightmare
If the packaging or product changes
I can’t eat it and that’s not fair.
So when you see us eating
My family has a proper meal
Please don’t make rude comments
Don’t make it a big deal.
Maybe try just asking
Why I have chocolate, yoghurts, crisps
Crackers and a fruit pouch
Or mind your own business!
We want to let the world know,
To educate and teach
So take the time to learn from me
And more people we can reach.
Here I am in MY domain surrounded by obnoxious creatures;
A motley range of beings with odd and varied features!
All I want is some food, a place to snooze and a little peace,
But all I get is harassment - it never seems to cease!
I abhor that scrawny parrot and his stream of dirty words,
And the constant din of that clutch of noisy, twittering birds!
If I so much as meow or purr, I'm banished from the room
By a screeching two-legged omnivore chasing me with a broom!
That mongrel cur even gets to sleep with them in the bed,
And all in all it seems that he is better fed.
He gets away with breaking things with his swishing tail,
But if I so much as nip her plants, boy, at me she'll rail!
I'm forever getting yelled at for one thing or another:
"Get away from the baby's crib else the little dear you'll smother!"
"Quit pestering the dog!" "Get your paws outta the fishes' bowl!"
"Stop teasing the gerbils - cat, you really try my soul!"
I'm tempted to saunter to the barn and shmooze with the cattle,
And forego all this nonsense and no longer fight the battle.
But no, I take pleasure in sticking around to hear them sneeze!
Seems I create some kind of allergy wafting on the breeze!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© 2014 All Rights Reserved)
Tim looked at the strong box crafted in oaken wood saplings and reason
Inside a map of his world he had travelled with dreams gusto and passion
Far away seas crested in a whirl wind of passage collected within and
Not without a longing desire for sails full of change and direction afar
A faded cross right pointed to where the treasure must lie and to where
The chest was buried deep in the quick sand of time or was it a coffin
He was nailed boxed in wrapped up in oil paper stabbed with his anchor
A pirate had pulled the plug and Tim perched on a dry dock of thought
Cliff faces and reefs obstructed horizons and sails were glued to the mast
And the ‘must’ to end suffocation but the bilge was flooding and scuppered
The crow’s nest for outlook swung precariously from one side to other as
Jacob’s ladder had lost most of its rungs as even the transom cried treason
His torso wriggled in the trunk but the binnacle bowed not for the compass
But then the needle found headway where scrawny worms had gathered
Punctured the confinement and the boom chain snapped emotional drought
At long last and long may it last Tim found a ferry to the chest in his heart
02 March 2019
I saw a little boy, at a signal
With darting hungry eyes
He was looking for something,
Something of which I knew not
I rolled down my car window
Some more children joint him
With scrawny limbs, cracked heels
And heads full of matted hair
I asked them what had they lost
We are looking for something called
childhood, we’ve heard it’s something
precious and good
I could eat a full meal, wear nice clothes
and boots and even comb my hair
Then people would not frown at me
They just would not dare!
I could learn to read and write my name
And someday maybe use a computer too
There is so much to see in this world
Perhaps I could learn all about it, and go
there someday too
Or maybe be a doctor, an engineer, a writer,
a poet or a painter
And lead a life of respect and honor
Never hanging our heads ever in shame
As if it is a sin to be poor
tell me, are we to blame?
But I cannot find my childhood
I wonder where it’s gone
Do you know what it feels like
Please tell me all about it, Will you?
25.03.2021
A meaningful poem.
Sponsor Name Constance La France
Come by the Sword, Die by the Sword
They stood in ranks a thousand long
High upon the hill
The Roman legion, fierce and strong
With sword and lance and bill
The Briton hoards below them stare
With wild fanatic eyes
They jeer the foe and beg them dare
With anger and despise
Come and fight you cowardly foe
Come and meet your fate
We’ll cut you down, row by row
Send you to heavens gate
With scoff and scorn the Romans yawn
What empty threats you speak
We’ll rip you limb from limb this morn
You’re scrawny, thin and weak
Down below, laughter roars
Your bellies, we will slice
We’ll lay you dead, in your scores
Come prove your men not mice
We will arrive and make you pay
For indolence and taunt
You will eat every word you say
When they come back to haunt
It’s easy up on high to gloat
But everybody knows
It’s our intent to cut each throat
And leave you for the crows
But when we make our move towards
There’ll be no shy nor rests
We’ll plunge our sharp and bloody swords
Deep in those ragbag chests
Think of your girlfriends, mothers, wives
For them there’ll be no gains
Will be, as we, cut short their lives
When we spill out your brains
For one last time you’ll see the sky
Cause you’re not leaving whole
When heathen head is raised up high
On legion victory pole
Gasp deep upon your final breath
Invader of our land
Your destiny this day is death
By rude and brutish hand
With sword and lance and bill
All break into their stride
With voices booming still
Blood fills the wide divide
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March forward to today
Though forces re-arranged
And ask them in what way
Anything has changed
I should have done this years ago,
after all this time he would have apologized
I felt sure.
The séance went well,
I had formed a circle of one,
just me and my sleepy cat.
I simply sat there
conjuring up left over images
on a far away dirt road.
His baseball hat squashed flat
at the back of his head,
the hole in his neck where he was
slowly bleeding out,
eyes not looking at anything now.
He took a long time to die.
I was hopeful his spirit would appear,
I felt I was being led to a wall mirror
where, ever so faintly,
and from within the glass itself
a scrawny man appeared.
He was still holding that old rifle,
still pointing it at me,
still trying to kill.
To that vague apparition I shouted:
"murderer!"
His grin was dark and devoid of regret,
his empty eyes held no compassion.
Cold words uttered
from that bullet hole in his throat"
"Apology accepted."
He spat out venomously
blood spraying from his wound.
After a while,
I loaded up a 9mm finger and just stood there
pointing it at the killer
until at last I was able to forgive the trigger
that had killed him.
However, now I often wonder
who shot who,
and for what?
[- with 2-4-6-8-2 syllables in a stanza]
Calm sea
curves in white frill,
as gentle, lazy waves
dash against each other, playing
catch me.
---------------------------------------------
Scrawny
cats gather close.
A bevy of them meet
on the gravel sand discussing
conquests.
---------------------------------------------
I learned
to watch the sands
of shifting friendships sink
like tides that ebb and flow with wind
pushing
----------------------------------------------
Her voice
a cruel thrust
plunged deep into his mind.
cold shivers made a ladder of
his spine
-------------------------------------------------
Light spills
breaking shadows
weaves a patchwork of hues
painter’s dreamscape etched into his
palette
-----------------------------------------------
Mountains
with crests of snow
look somber and sleepy
as distant mists of dawn start to
creep slow
---------------------------------------------
After papa succumbed
to congestive heart failure
October 7th, 2020 yours truly
neglected fulfilling promised score.
I did shirk maintaining bond
with youngest sister
who when a boy especially fond
regarding said sibling
whereat myself and and Shari Todd
played cat and mouse
chasing each other to pond
necessitating both of us to traverse
wooded thicket simultaneously
waving our magic wand.
Boyhood of mine chock full of memories
framing me and most favorite playmate
requiring keen eye to distinguish
one scrawny little lad no one would debate
impossible mission to discern
thirty three month age difference,
cuz we appeared to naked eye
as identical twins.
Flickering images of yesteryear
pepper memory faculty where
froze frieze in time
trigger an errant tear
trickling down cheek,
when impish gonif nsync
with me comprised pair
of inseparable Harris offspring
in sum re: portrayed analogy
likened to everyday idyllically kleer
pitch perfect courtesy
weatherman/woman maker engineer.
Our late father though cremated
would if alive furrow ashen brow
aware how Matthew Scott remiss
and no longer doth bother
(essentially incommunicado between
himself and kid sister
ever since she left home
at age seventeen)
for greener pastures,
which meadow (for success -
defined as transcending
her inherent limitations)
sowed the seeds
of her life reaped with utmost
plentitude of hardihood.
Her sixty first birthday
arrives six days from today
(October eleventh two thousand
and twenty two) - decades spanned
with nary acknowledgement
expressed courtesy sole brother manned
existence floundering like a fish
in treacherous waters
barely gasping breath
as he felt afflicted with chronic anxiety
emotionally whipsawed hither and yon
to and fro across
unwritten pages of his life.
Yours truly attests feeling aghast
once upon a time resorting
to self starvation initially omitting breakfast
subsequently forgoing every meal
prepubescence witnessed absent enthusiast
for livingsocial hence,
my death I chose to forecast
fortunately no coroner
called to perform autopsy inquest
about which severe
psychological suicidal ambition I jest.
Growing my hair down below my knees...
stimulated courtesy follicles,
where Coconut, Olive, Grapeseed,
Jojoba, Amla and Vitamin E oils
allowed, enabled,
and provided head start
germinating peach fuzz into brown strands
after Flaxseeds, Pumpkin seeds and Fenugreek
being sprinkled on my scalp
yielded a bumper crop of hirsute weeds
occasionally tripping me up
analogous to hallucinogen
causing a public health hazard
warranting, necessitating, and goading me
to give shout out for stylist
to tender mine lovely brunette locks,
which might be repurposed into a wig
for patients undergoing chemotherapy,
or afflicted with alopecia,
(the partial or complete absence
of hair from areas of the body
where it normally grows; baldness).
As a knobby kneed, puny,
scrawny, wimpy kid whose,
(back in the nineteen sixties),
his parents decreed their singular
(painfully shy dorky, geeky and nerdy)
old school boy who sported a buzz cut,
which found him reacting and responding
(in short order rebelling)
passive aggressively by
refusing to bathe
until mommy dearest demanded
(well nigh upon
the bewitching hour of midnight)
to witness her son soaked
and essentially marinated
(until my skin shriveled like a prune)
in the (clawfoot) tub
lest he stink to high heavens,
and given a serious dressing down
by the timely principal Mister Clock.
Far back as I can remember,
the significance of hair
assumed an outsize role,
whether enviously eying other lads
their thick straight hank,
or nowadays bristling
with self reproach
cursed with thinning
greasy limp strands
(interspersed with gray)
experiencing shame being seen in public,
a disgrace to our family name of Wagstaff
and an embarrassment
to the human race
ofttimes associating
myself with Samson,
whereat emotional, physical,
and spiritual strength
rooted (pun intended)
within each hair shaft
(the visible part of the hair
that sticks out of the skin),
and rooted in the skin and extends
down to the deeper layers of the skin
surrounded by the hair follicle
(a sheath of skin
and connective tissue),
which is also connected
to a sebaceous gland.
CLOUDY SKY
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
For acrid are your lies,
And by your rhetoric speech
No more are we enthralled.
For, this perennial drought,
On pages, in archives lies.
For rain to come,
In vain revelry the farmers wait.
For no wages, like a serf in the
Corn field they toil.
Your oath of fealty you scorned
And in the belly of sectarianism
It erodes.
Cloudy sky.
Say no more us
About rain to come
For the seedlings from drought’s
Heat wilt and by the arbor of your
Cloud eclipsed are the dreams of
The saplings, etiolated in gloom
For sunlight they grope.
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
Cloudy sky
Say no more to us
About rain to come.
For horrid are your lies.
See,
The fettle faces that cheered
You to the pinnacle now shrink
From dearth. Wane, once glaring
Eyes in their hollow socket cringe.
Languid now are those sprightly
Hands that lifted you from the craddle
To your apogee.
From your wanton revelry the thunder
Claps and into the serenity of the famished
It cuts as with parched throat for the opening
Of the sky’s door for even a trickle they wait.
Gnarled children from famine on the scrawny
Backs of their mothers berth,
And with baleful eyes for them
The scavengers wait.
Cloudy sky.
Say no more to us,
About rain to come.
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