Long Scythe Poems
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I Celebration in the Year 2000
Cultures combine with cornucopia chalices
Spinning with starry spices steaming dreams
All together with pollination of feather flowers
Flowing with global glowing hope harvests
We capture watercolor waterfalls words
From freedom chests echoing expressions
With experiences exalting joyful gemstones
Teaching circulation of time's dancing chapters
We interlock internally with orchestra grace
Where world's writers inscribe soul scrolls
II Desolation in the Year 2001
Insane airplanes fire and flame wanton wars
From unknown blistering hate death's fate
Buildings burn with smoky skeletons
Tomb's teeth bleed scythe seeds upon
aghast eyesight halting worldwide scarred souls
Ghosts of time's crimson crimes question peace
From horror history halls that crumble with calls
Ringing culture's forever communication chairs
Within time's decorative trusting chambers only
exist with sweating escorts to eagle engine exits
T’was a bone-chilling night, the stars twinkled high,
Echoing the sorrow that swelled in mine eye.
The high queen, suspended on her frigid throne,
Judging me harshly as I stand alone.
The night mist descends like a funeral pall,
Cascading down and consuming all.
Upon this hill, in sepulchral embrace,
Lies the cold stillness of thy pallid face.
“Despicable Death—thou wicked, cunning knave,
Hast haunted me and stolen my love away.
Unveil thy vault and open thy pitiless lid,
Reveal my jewel thou has so hastily hid.
Take me! Take me! Into thy dark keep,
Let her rise, while in silence I sleep.
Spare her the grave, O’ merciless scythe,
And rest me where the death worms writhe.”
“Merciless Moon, she was taken too soon,
Our love was severed, our life to never bloom.
Now seeds of sorrow are sown,
A deep despair carved in every bone.
Sinister Sphere—with thy ghastly gleam,
Wake me! Wake me! O’ Moon, from this dreadful dream.
Thy pale glow—so somber, so low,
Mocking my mournful tears as they flow.
‘Tis that?—Tis that I see?
Dost thou deceive, or do I dream?
Is it she glimmering in thy ghostly beam?
Or but a shadow of what has been?”
“Grievous Grave, thou art vile, vicious, and vain,
The thief of joy and thy herald of pain.
Thy maw devours all that is divine,
My love, my life—forever confined.
Pondering, peering o’er thy pit so searing,
Hearing thy serpent’s sibilant sneering.
Forsooth, O Grave, soon I shall fall,
Trapped in thy thrall, death’s final call.
Hold me. Hold me, O’ Grave so cold,
Cradle my bones beneath thy stone.
There shall I rest in thy silent space,
By the side of my bride, in eternal embrace.”
-Edward
Rockwell) framed palette,
(sans dystopian
picture) outright
and despite whatever hardship,
with curtain call on this
November 11th, 2018 night,
a flickr ring, instagram, and
kickstarter motive might
be fulfilling tummy,
that ever so quickly
the dimming light
(when the scythe lint
covered grim reaper)
perhaps attired as
21st century LGBT knight,
the latter once
sip pawn a time...,
now he iz a
messenger simply bear
ring pleasant tidings,
and also an effort
to express, how
ye didst (aunt still do) care
(uncle Andy as well)
for Shana Punim,
who on a do able dare
to be doted upon, and offered
to go here, there,
and everywhere
experiencing a gamut of
eye opening globe trotting
(Watch out Harlem
basketball Boyz to men) hair
reed tailored, and swiftly styled
educational adventures
adding learning and zest
to life, liberty, and purrs
suit of feline doth wrest
good development
of character to in vest
patterning herself after
exemplary guardians
sometimes you might
be feeling beat,
when embarking upon
latest electric kool aid acid test,
nonetheless, this
missive of gratitude,
where thee darling daughter
doth conquer one quest
after another (principally attributed
to thee, who NEVER protest
obligations, but
launch with confidence,
whether feathering
the Gadshill nest,
or...furthering education keeping
body, mind, and spirit
sharpened as best
Yukon Mount attain.
It shouted to him from the rooftops and he was prepared to jump
‘Go out with a deafening bang’ for the bell had told crashing demise
Sadness and bitter oblivion pointed the way from screaming nowhere
Yet deadening cacophony arrested his mind in utter procrastination
A once melodious mind in waiting struck in a terminal station
The oncoming train roared ‘Mind the Gap’ crescendo and coda
Head splitting clatter on destiny’s track voiced harmony’s void
Morose and moribund Tim listened to his shattering epitaph
Yet he was ahead of his time as agonising apathy saved him
A once razor-sharp compassionate soul turned from incision
He was dispossessed by devilish applause and a three-pronged fork
Of garish Past mute Present and the poison of silenced Future’s voice
He did not own a gun but a scalpel would surely sound the final note
Yet ice water in his veins froze hell of clamorous festering heat
A once rapturous Self in retreat composed nothingness’ chimes
The oven blasted ‘I am your fervent friend and companion’
One strike from his lighter would ignite endmost explosion
His thumb on the spark wheel in limbo only messaged the rafter
Yet he writhed his creaking neck and switched of gas’ soothing
A once euphonious life snapped mistuned detonation and creaked
The rafters engulfed by inhibited silence noted the stand off
Wood wormed instruments wound misaligned imagination
One more loop while crescendo joined fortissimos’ claim
Yet the rope snapped and weeping guitar strings whimpered
Once upon a time Tim surged again and danced to his drums
Birds started chirping
Flowers erupted
A rainbow appeared
Violins bowed
Chanting bowls rang
Play mates gathered
The moon turned the tide
The solar eclipse had passed
The sound of earth span again
Tim would not change his depression for any sweet lullaby
It taught him everything he needs to know about life’s balance
Love Kindness Compassion set to temperate omniscient Peace
The drama nestles in rapped poems wrapped in experience
And the scythe of the hangman can croak his own blades
(Poem inspired by Dorothy Parker’s ‘Resume’)
How wicked the tricks of your serpent’s lair
a lingual place of wild mango magic behind caliente lips
where a supple sensualist lies in seductive ambush—
rum on the rocks spices the red bed of your taste buds
libation temptation whets my wish like a knife on stone
medieval my want to stir my tongue in your firewater
my fingers a captivated trellis
jealous and zealous carefree and careless
find their way to getting lost in your midnight curls
S curves wind from devil depths to bind
aroused fingers— coiled accomplices hold me captive
as I’m pulled in with potion-puncture fangs
piercing my heart deep piercing my soul sweet
eyes of winter blue skies belie your stealth
l i p s heat-seek as you place your face to mine
tongue flicks for a taste ah flirts with lust-basted taste
yes y e s s s press your whispering mouth on mine
my mouth blooms like a dusk-loving moonflower
throat white against night my breath your honeysuckle
unholy hunger unleashed a famished desperation
my desperation so full of babydoll flame and ash
your jaw unhinges to swallow whole my fire and ire
oh bend me like a willow in the tongue-tie of your kiss
break me take me make me buy the bliss in your hiss
feed me fantasies I need to cede lace without chains
as hush-winged-talons scythe bloodstreams of dreams
bleed me in the weed greed of your sidewinding river
‘til you shed my love the way a constrictor sheds skin
I crave to tame you claim you
make you my burlesque feather boa—
your lightning I’d capture
and wear your glamour with rapture
instead of being your convenience pet kept
analogous to expending precious Air Supply
embellishing, modifying, revising, et cetera
a poem crafted about fourteen months ago.
I take stock and revisit good ole days of yore
quite conscious undeclared state of war
prevails within body (Electric
Light Orchestra) of troubadour,
whereby creative juices did perforce pour
forth as if sung by one man koor;
now he haply seated at his Macbook Pro
today April 29th, 2022
accompanied with Christopher Robin,
Winnie the Pooh, and Eeyore.
Since January thirteenth of this year
(two thousand and twenty two),
yours truly suddenly feels
long in the tooth, i.e. auld,
he whose decrepit body and
gnarled hands ice cold
senility and senescence doled
rigor mortis virtuous vice grip extolled
coronavirus (COVID-19) motherlode
courtesy geomorphology dynamism fold
analogous to discovered vein of mined gold
grim reaper with scythe doth silently infold
(in Old English, scythe spelled siðe)
ore yonder church bell knolled
anonymous beat nickles less,
dime a dozen, day late
and dollar short sexagenarian
dropped out of Culture Club
(any strong resemblance between said poet
whose Grateful Dead head lolled,
and once living person purely coincidental)
death and decay, I lichen to mold
meself finally nill and void nolde
of unwanted excessive fleshy flab
scant personal possessions outsold
to highest bidder polled.
Dead weatherbeaten and fatigued soul
with absolute zero regret
no longer being alive,
immortality impossible mission to connive,
especially when endurance and stamina
took kamikaze nose dive
formerly earthlinked buzzfeeding
desiccated honeycomb hive
in tandem with former anxiety riddled psyche
need no longer worry
his existence perfect example
how hardship did misthrive
death be not proud penultimate quest
since adolescence (think anorexia nervosa)
he did (unsuccessfully) strive.
Sunny, sultry afternoon; a playing breeze tosses my hair.
Eyes...I feel eyes and glance upwards;
By the water well, the Grim Reaper and he is filling the well from a large vessel with,
his eyes on me.
Setting down the vessel, a bony protrusion waving towards me, slowly, ever so slowly…come, it beckons.
NO! I won’t; I know you.
Come, white digit waving…ever waving but,
I couldn’t move; felt glued to those porch steps.
One step closer, no face, black hooded cowl opening
Is blocked by that blasted scythe he’s picked up.
What is he going to do?
My God! I can’t move!
White digit wave and another step closer…
I’m frozen in place;
helpless to escape him.
Digit growing larger as silence closes in;
He cannot, will not take me today,
I resolve to escape.
I won’t go, he’s stopped.
Digit grows into five, a wave and I shake, no.
Digit points to the well…
he wants me to go and look…
he’ll shove me in or slice off my head with that scythe…
NO!
I struggle frantically to stand and run…
I can’t…keep struggling…keep on struggling…
I’ve got to get away!
He comes closer…NO!
Another step, NO!
Too close now, RUN!
Awakening, cold sweat as bony digit touches my arm…
My God…
Jerk to a white-sheet, sit up…
Whew, it was only a dream.
Revised 2-29-19
Entered contest:"Dance of Death Poetry Contest”;
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
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!
LIKE FALLEN LEAVES…
I
Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead,
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.
Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams.
Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.
II
And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of love, faith and hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.
LIKE FALLEN LEAVES…
Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead,
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.
Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes---
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams.
Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.
And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of love, faith and hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.