Long Sitters Poems
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In a clash of burgers and biryani,
Manchurian with Russian fares so many,
All else that watch the fun
From fence with just bread-bun…
To guess who’ll lose, who’ll win,
It’s too early a scene,
Seems, burgers might lose their ‘reserved’ penny.
______________________________
Happenings |04.09.2025| humour, world, war
Note: A proxy war is going on in the world, the western developed countries versus the so-called south, call it a global power and the pretender hopeful, or NATO, QUAD and BRICS, SCO. Obviously in this ditty, burgers, biryani…., represent their countries. And then there are some fence-sitters. It seems, USA today has to contend with its President more than anyone else.
So much effort
goes into feeling well...Man,
I’m exhausted! There’s nausea
from supplements, the squeak
and throb, Just One More Rep!~ exercising…
Man, I’m exhausted!
As much effort
going into relaxation – rush to get
things done (always a backup of
things); shuffle schedules, get sitters
for the animals – Man, I’m exhausted!
Even love, the chores, the cards,
the gifts, the emotional lifts...honey-does
seeming to have endless reserves,
never running short on pantries of
exhaustion.
Someday, probably, I’ll
wake-up, unpleasantly surprised
and find myself either stoking furnaces,
fluffing angel wings while polishing
the backside of clouds – Man, give me
a break!
Ouch!~ finally something I asked for….
I admit tubby distracted by a modeling
female physique when attempting to write,
an aching agony rips thru this son,
gripping with hard on – tight -
by Dickens constricting sensation,
who orbited the sun LX times
coon sitters himself heterosexual male,
where slumbering testosterone forces unite,
no matter my libido feels
deadened, this despite
the above mentioned
asthma ordinary devoid sexual drive,
when these eyes (brown and myopic) sight
even just a picture
oven an attractive gal fanciful flight
evokes dormant longings
crashing thru concentration
without any invite
sparring dueling animal urge,
I know ain't right
since being married,
and all (witches nothing to celibate)
boot even if aye hapt tubby
dim witted with cerebral blight
prurient predilections, would
nonetheless prevail causing affright,
whereby the photographed lovely lady
dashes out like shuttered image,
though only so few inches in height,
would make a bee line into an
unreachable cubbyhole,
not totally airtight
just enough breathing room
to await darkening hour of night
than with lightspeed akin to meteorite
off into the farther reaches with a blink quite
invisible this quasi
holographic like pseudo sprite
leaves yours truly in the lurch ignite
ting a supposed sexual propensity gone cold
nay, no can do, cuz
untethered high as a kite
electrifying animal desire forced to bite
the dust, though thankfully concupiscent pang
ordinarily not the least bit aroused, aye attest
nope, not lascivious provocative
Barenaked Ladies can NOT excite
an older fellow, whose adolescent body
seethed with hormonal secretion,
and any pretty young thang did alight
a stick up between still skinny legs,
hence people watching
(particularly gals), a birthright
even migrant and/or
teenage mutant ninja turtle doth delight
tool hook, but NOT touch
most times an effortless fight,
yet every once in a while atavistic
pulsations, asper call
of the wild bobwhite
overrides instagramming, snapchatting,
and twittering uber with such might
even erupting sexless interludes of eunuch
or "FAKE" shining knight
chess moonlighting also as “FAKE” playwright,
hence if perchance a beauty catches me sight
lack of youth in your favor
from my penitent penile plight!
What later will be filled with squeals
And peals of childish laughter,
In desolation thus reveals
What comes before and after.
The vacant swings, with chains unclasped,
Hang waiting, so forlorn.
The silver slide, unoccupied,
Gleams dully in the morn.
The jungle gyms or monkey bars
Seem bare and incomplete.
They’ll only come alive when tamped
By scores of tiny feet.
The benches, ever patient,
Bide their time, unsatisfied,
‘Til that moment when some sitters
Will enjoy what they provide.
The meat of day will change it all –
The park will thrum with *****;
But in the empty hours
It’s as silent as a monk.
Before, when I was afraid to be me,
I looked at others and tried to be a copy.
Mimic all their motions,
repeat the same moves...
Maybe then I can follow all their rules?
I tried to not be so different, so lame,
but being a replica just wasn't the same!
No matter how hard I would try,
all my hellos looked like goodbyes!
My left was a little too right,
my dark had too much light.
All my stands were full of sitters,
my all alones had visitors!
I learned following where others lead,
will never let your YOU be free!
So I'll be the ‘You’ who was made exactly.
I won't let others additions subtract me.
I'll allow my no mores to be agains,
I'll be just exactly who I am!
When I was sick and in my reclining chair
With the remote tucked in my _curve
Box of Kleenex in reserve
How I longed for the freedom of the out of doors
To run across the meadow of spring
Blow, sniff, only dreams
To touch on the Japanese Magnolia's buds _blooms
Enjoy the aroma of the wafting scent of the Narcissus
Feel the delicate softness of the Daffodils golden flowers
Grandmas, baby sitters, and pastors' wives don't have __noses
All red from blowing the crud that has accumalated
They are a joy to be around almost float on air
That wonderful angelic expression on their faces
Oh! Where is that box of Kleenex
Blow sniff exhaustion
I need some sleep and rest from the hacking
Maybe one more nap and I will be cured
There was some orange juice but my sick husband drank it all up
Oh well!....Maybe
Aye haint gonna mention anyone by name,
and git myself poisoned
with deadly tocsin, a most wick
kid demise act of vengeance cheap trick
boot Mayan tent to write this poem,
a message came tummy mind rather quick,
and fuel a contrived rumor hoop fully
spreading like wild fire
from this nada so sainted Nick
juiced for pure sport and to kick
start and spellbind denunciatory, deprecatory,
and derogatory unfounded slander
toward one country bumpkin,
who lives in the sticks of Hick
ville, and unfortunately
shares the same body as me,
an old curmudgeon full of (lix) spittle,
with lovely bones that crick,
thus, while spur of the moment whim arose
(take bull by the horns
asthma late grammar used to say), aye chose
to hash out matter of fact playful verse,
while ma doppelganger doth doze
and trump scathing "FAKE" news expose
zing ambivalent (nee loathsome)
punishing sentiments
ach'n ma heart
with daggers of icy sin tax
directed as rhetorical linguistic floes
vicariously experiencing euphoria,
red hot poker glows
within the scabrous, tenebrous,
and villainous haughty yahoo
an unprepossessing, quite,
and nattering kooky human
immune to voodoo
he coon sitters himself smug,
throughout every single sinew
of his (and mine) corporeal essence
directly descended
from storied Machu Picchu of Peru
yet his (ah, and mine)
suppressed genealogy branch
also includes, an a meow
zing small percentage of Neanderthal Jew
evidenced by genetic test 23andme,
which helps explain primate characteristic
dragging (sic) hairy knuckles,
where thick callouses grew
thus aye conclude
(just in the nick of time
as he who must not be mention) drew
a breath upon awakening
from a nap bright tailed,
and bushy eyed anew.
Neither here nor there I be
uncomfortably stuck in quandary's
minefield of no man's land.
There is so much pressure on you
when you lie betwixt and between.
Pressure to go forward or back,
go one way or other at the fork in the road
especially today when binary holds the sway.
Now there are only two states,
or position you can be in,
1 or 0, tick or tock, clip or clop
flip or flop, on or off, in or out
up or down, for or against,
If you're nor for us, your against us.
Your back is against the wall to comply or not.
Fence sitters are banned and must topple off the wall.
Is it any wonder we're all seen as biased?
Yea of Neigh, 1 or 0, for or against what's your call?
For betwixt and between,
there's nothing but vacuum.
Our drive started out like any typical summer trip into Philadelphia. Both buses rolling down the highway loaded with screaming teens, eager to reach their destination in a hurry. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, the white lines hidden beneath watery mirages that lifted only briefly beneath underpasses. The skyscrapers were barely visible through the thick haze of summer's heat. The skyline had the appearance of night and day clashing off in the distance. You could smell the rain approaching.
along city streets
slight breeze carries aroma
food and wet pavement
Once the children were safely inside, the buses continued to 30th street station, the only place the city allows buses to park free. The windows were all still down and the roof hatches open as the skyline grew darker. A light show was off in the distance and approaching quickly. The homeless people were now entering the train station in hopes to stay dry and earn a meal or some quick cash.
almost homeless
young girl wears a sign
on the corner
Inside the train station a young family sits on a bench awaiting the arrival of a family member. The benches line the hallway with vendors tucked in the center isle. We sit across from the young family, facing them as an elderly gentleman approaches them. In his arms he carries a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. The little boy, probably about 10 years old, has grown tired of sitting by now, and his teenage sitters seem agitated by his silly games, the mother in frustration hands him money for a sketch.
with quick hands
he carefully sketches
to perfection
The oldest sister now amazed asks for her's as well. The man sketches her picture to a beautiful black and white replica. The mother refuses to spend another dime and sends him away without paying. Behind us sits another elderly man. He seems to be carrying on a very intelligent conversation with himself. This amazes the children for their final hour and fills them with much knowledge as they slide in to listen.
an old man speaks
as he looks to his right
just his cane sits
The last train has now entered the station and the crowds of people are disappearing outside. The storm has now passed and the sky left a permanent black with the coming of night. We headed outside to the buses to begun our return trip home.
on the street
two yellow buses
filled with rain
Worrisome male pattern baldness
never recedes from forefront of mine noggin.
Though loss of hair
NOT characteristic within genes,
nor hearty chromosomes,
nevertheless, anxiety prevails,
that yours truly will witness bald pate.
Additionally his mood directly
linkedin with plethora of irrational notions,
whereby such groundless, mindless, rootless...
senseless thoughts underlie and sway moody blues
of super tramping fo fighting beastie boy.
After richly lathering and
thoroughly massaging aging scalp
constituting head property one very familiar
long haired pencil necked geek,
I subsequently rinse out shampoo
and proceed to shake out matted hair
back and forth to and fro
(think whiplash) goes sodden crown
even thee missus coon sitters me a freak.
In the mane, I seek to emulate a puff (fee) daddy,
(albeit with spindleshanks for legs),
the laughing stock of mankind,
no more muscular since being a wee little laddie.
Euphoria and joie de vivre harkened
likened to when angels sing
nsync with me, a yankee doodle dandy
IF freshly washed golden locks
fluff up like cotton candy
other disgruntlement arises
spurring yours truly to drown sorrows
courtesy one hundred proof brandy.