Long Scrimmage Poems
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If he had boarded the frail proud lady,
My ancestor would have been a hysteric.
It would have been nothing new to him, though —
Boarding such a mighty vessel
With an unsinkable testimonial.
He had been on board Noah’s ark
For more than 40 days and 40 nights —
The first-ever lockdown in the first-ever
Flood pandemic.
He would have consulted an oracle before boarding
Lady Titanic,
To ascertain the position of the sinking stars,
And of course the position of the damned iceberg —
That monstrously frigid, vengeful, whitish monster,
Sitting like a proud humongous harlot on
The wavy vestibule of the docile North Atlantic.
He would have winced loudly from the cruel cold of
A bland and unforgiving April.
The Atlantic would have seemed so small to him,
Having floated on many oceans-in-one during
Uncle Noah’s wayward flood.
Things would have been different.
He would have sent off a dove and a raven
Before The Titanic set sail, to survey the grottos of the Atlantic.
The birds would have returned with news of the ocean,
Bringing tales wrapped in olive leaves, of any old
Scrimmage between the waves
And the iron foot of the jealous iceberg.
That would have been BREAKING NEWS,
Written BOLDLY in RED,
The colour of sea-danger, sea-terror . . . .
Things would have been different!
Perhaps The Titanic would have plied the reverse side of
The Atlantic . . . You know! . . . The less slippery side.
Less frenetic and less troublesome, and with no icebergs,
No matter how frigid the weather, in that flustered April,
Which my ancestor would have primarily called The Fourth Moon.
Yes! . . .
Sailing stealthily behind the Atlantic; the other side of it less travelled,
Cautious of the envy of the destroyer known euphemistically as Iceberg.
True . . . !
Like visiting the moon via the reverse side . . . ! Where the craters are
Perpetually on night shift . . . .
And things would have been different.
Lest I forget: a Greek ancestor would have brewed coffee with seawater.
And if greenish bubbles bobbed about, he would rather have hailed a barque.
Axis of my mind, body, thoughts, feelings,
Fears, emotions, passions, friendly dealings;
My spirit incorporates each feature,
Of my being as an earthly creature...!
Thinks, feels, motivates, manipulates,
It stands above all predetermined fates;
Life, resolve, awareness and thought pattern,
All preserved in its purview for certain...!
Created in God's likeness and image,
Within undergoes awful scrimmage;
The atman enlivening the body,
Are you in my lungs? Or in heart noddy...?
Whatever it might be; or however;
The times resurrect sometimes or never;
Spirit lives on; will live; like sap in leaves;
Joy fills the heart of anyone believes...!
17 September 2022
The Human Spirit Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
With peals of laughter rushing from
The basement of my writing soul,
I penned that letter.
With the warmth of early August, I summoned
The joy to welcome restless fingers that write,
That scribble —oh, that empowering flame of youth
That rages within us young tendrils who hide
In fragile, lily-livered shades
From the scorching heat of reality!
Hmm!
I wrote all day and all seasons, cramming words
Extirpated from the gardens of the four seasons together
Into the walls of serrated sheets of paper, just to prove a point.
And I had begun with the word Dear, like all
Who had written before me, including Shakespeare —observing all
Protocols under the spell of the eavesdropping sun.
But the letter got astray in the post.
Vanished in the naked air, with the enormous weight of its
Titillating message.
Hiding between pillar and post, and with
A postage stamp licked with spittle of expensive love,
It strayed forever and ever.
Gone.
The post office swears allegiance to its innocence
Posts run free when callused hands rough-handle them,
Leaking swarming, pillaging sweats underneath.
“But this is serious. Seriously different,” the postman insists
“It’s lost indeed. But have you searched your soul?
Did the words ever leave the confines of your soul?”
I battle the scrimmage within me —of people and letters —
Scattered and rearranged . . .
Written or unwritten, did the letters form one imaginary line
Like the Equator, which divides the writer and the receiver,
North and South?
Or did I write in haste and afterwards posted through the anus of
A hurricane?
Not every Christmas card arrives during the Yuletide;
Some arise and shine through the line of birth of the New Year,
Equal to the crowned-initiation of a reformed destiny.
I console myself.
But how long shall I wait for the response from a missing letter —
In my case, a lost letter?
Missing within me.
Lost in the vaults of my consciousness.
I’ll always feel this way. Love can’t be love
which alters where it alteration finds:
my driver, she – no matter how she grinds
my gears. I’d hardly term it, hand-and-glove:
it’s much more like a scrimmage, push-and-shove.
Relationships there are, of many kinds:
but whether pigs-with-lipstick, Golden Hinds,
one party is below, and one above:
one partner is the hawk, and one the dove.
If she’s the cheese, I am the humble rinds.
No matter where this crazy freeway winds,
there’s one thing that I’m always certain of:
a meeting (or collision?) of the minds:
a bedroom where we never draw the blinds.
Creation…brings aggravation,
what I’m plinking…can’t match what I’m thinking.
It’s this way…since our early days,
sad to say; but I’ll keep going.
What I see…lives only in me,
can’t come out…wants to, but not allowed,
hear it plain…what I make to play,
ain’t the same; but I’ll keep going.
The details…I try to no avail,
share what’s clear…make it all appear,
always fails…what I write down seems pale,
gnash and wail; but I’ll keep going.
His image…our work just a scrimmage,
not the game…that’s well beyond our brains,
has to be…full force we can’t see,
beyond me; but I’ll keep going.
And I bet…most folks will forget,
roll their eyes…he thinks he’s worth our time,
or they blast…it seems a thankless task,
makes you crash; but I’ll keep going.
What is true…we can’t do it for you,
always there…can drive some to despair,
never ends…something now comes again,
cannot mend, if I don’t keep going…
First half of the month cooler, then the second half warmer
Spring clocks turned forward, daylight lasting longer
Games of gold always told, losing harassed nine-fold
Allowed homers and walked batters that would be never
Scrimmage full of big time moments given, at the end guilt-ridden,
but rainy days getting more frequent leaving fields flooded.
Rainout, rain delay, games are stopped or canceled
deep into the night as fans sit in the grandstands
Agonizing for players and fans alike going home drenched
Despite the weather or the ups and downs of the sports
games will be played and fans will always spend watching their sporting events
4/19/2017
It looks like curtains for the Jews
Since I'm Jewish, this gives me the blues
Leftist youth in England, watch TikTok and spread
and anti-Jewish theories there are coming to a head.
Muslims in western Europe, even before this Gaza war
have tortured, killed Jews, religious reasons for.
Some Jews hide their faith in New York, don't want to be harassed
They know antisemitism is not a vestige of the past
There's a Jewish State, but it can't survive alone
If the U.S. turns against it, where is the Jewish home?
Europe can't resist its immigrant tide
At Israel's end of days, who will be on its side?
Now you might think I'm confusing two attitudes
You can dislike Israel, but still befriend the Jews
But if Israel is destroyed, its Jewish inhabitants are too
And if you're Jewish in the USA, Jihad won't skip you.
China and Russia side with Iran, a country of Jihad
Iran believes the Jews are enemies of God
For in the Koran, it says that Jews are the main enemies of Islam
Not what I want a billion people to believe, some with an atom bomb.
Jews in the west have been pushed out of their profession groups
Jews can say they're anti-Israel, they can jump through hoops
But the writing is on the wall, and what it says is grim
the letters still spell "mene tekel upharsin."
Jews have been shot in the U.S. by idealists on left and right
How is this something that anyone could fight?
Especially if you're in a black coat, studying bible all day
Or a Jewish leftist who wonders where the left did stray.
So, I'll stop here, stop spreading the bad news
But it doesn't look good, for my fellow Jews.
I'm not spiritual, don't want to be in a scrimmage
Man is too dumb to have been made in God's image.
I blink my eyes and then the world is gone.
Open once again to see some peons upon the lawn.
They came to hear the Lion yawn and swipe a wife by dawn.
That's why I keep my pride and believe,
to conceive that it's respite is my reprieve.
But you yuppies be just mere pawns in the grand scheme;
placed at rank 2 file C.
I treat myself to treats I don't need to ask the priest.
I fill a lady's niche when God's dead like Friedrich Nietzsche.
I'm an autonomous man, the world needs me.
Due to greedy deeds, I lost the lot of you to petty thievery.
Now standing orthogonal to the bishop you orthodox Cis.
Tearing holes in the fabric of time while mother nature sits and knits that.
Amidst a scrimmage over minish mishaps, fisticuffs and misfired mitts with whiplash.
Hexed by wind and turbulent syntax.
As activists vehemently flail at the fascist crux; only to be met by impasse.
Making my attempt to love exclusively an outward expression;
a barrage of affection bombarding the good intentions of a meta-man’s vision.
Otherwise known as fortified Freudian defense mechanisms.
To deal with ideals in an asymmetric system.
Oh but I pray praise that I am what I be.
Hallow thy be virile amongst a creed of faulty seeds.
Yet I’m an enantiomer, a Chiral Beast;
my courage can never be superimposed upon the fear of defeat.
Finally granted with the Coupe de Gras when disagreements meet.
As if graced by chance, I advance with the apex of a Sword’s vertice.
Striking clean from the left to then evade your deceit.
I take a seat while a woman cleans my wounds with peace.
Ahh but even in victory, the warrior’s woe must be debriefed.
I Asked Myself A Rhetorical Question...
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
Alias indomitable invincible
Donald John Trump oozes wrath
inexorably plunging every species
of life toward apocalyptic warpath
mercilessly threatentens world
wide web promising bloodbath
validating ex post facto commander
in chief as nonpareil sociopath
hence... this call to arms gives run
for money challenging any psychopath
lest inevitable according to dead
reckoning prediction of
wisest sages calculated math.
Thus one poetic footsoldier doth broadcast
dire straits emergency, and inveigh
grassroots action mandatory meaning
registered voters must
cast ballot per se
else planet Earth will...
burn thermonuclear gray
rendering oblate spheroid
uninhabitable, I daresay
if bleak forecast father time doth delay
global warming would outweigh
former worst case nihilistic scenario,
nonetheless Gaia will serve
as repurposed ashtray,
whereby inextinguishable fiery storms
approximating calculus of doomsday
nsync with intolerable weather forecasts
if complacency rides roughshod field day
defying lack of immunization oy vey
against opportunistic unfamiliar organisms
viral and bacterial agent provocateurs
microscopic gangbusters
nothing could allay
winning scrimmage play
thinning overpopulation whereby
scavengers make short shrift
plethora once living flotsam and jetsam
perhaps requiring rotting, putrefying,
goods put on layaway
(type of foragers -
reference https://www.google.com/search?
client=safari&channel=mac_bm&ei=
KECaXe_UA6SO5wLh-7gY&q=list+
examples+of+scavengers&oq=list+types+
of+scavengers&gs_l=psy-ab.1.0.0i22i30.
58737.70074..70997...0.4..0.223.1875.
21j2j1......0....1..gws-wiz.......
0i71j0i273j0j0i131j0i67j33i22i29i30.
wnDI0kLrKWM).
now ye might hashtag me chicken little
synonymous to Rome burning,
while Nero did fiddle,
perhaps scaremonger i.e. Cassandra
alamist bah bing away, a realist foaming
at figurative mouth with spittle,
would you believe cautious optimist,
who presents prediction,
while this poem heed whittle.