Long Smithereens Poems
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“We have always held to the hope, the belief, the conviction
that there is a better life, a better world, beyond the horizon.”
~Franklin D. Roosevelt
Belief, Hope, Conviction sound dandy
but they’re all just a bunch of crock!
Believing that I am a bird and
jumping from atop a mountain
hoping to blissfully fly away
is simply not gonna happen.
First, I have to grow wings!
In between ‘believing’ and ‘hoping’
you have to have luck, talent, opportunity,
persistency, personality and timing.
Millions in Ukraine believed in
and hoped for a better future,
Yet, it took just one Crackpot
to blow their hopes to smithereens.
The above quote is purely cosmetic.
The fault, my dear, is in our stars!
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.
This time around, I will not scatter these grains
to land where the weeds might choke them.
This time around, I will collect these kernels
and take them to the gristmill in my head
to crack under all that weight and break free…
Turning while the other is static
Between these stones lay our thoughts—
(the bran, the germ, the endosperm)
Fibrous fertility re(de)fined.
Crushing each layer to smithereens
Grinding and grinding, round and round
Negligent space between these stones
‘til I can think no more.
I gather my bushel of milled thoughts (ground yet still whole),
add some yeast, sugar and water.
We rest and we rise,
we take the punches and fall,
but we embrace the heat and rise again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---I smile as I bite into my warm, buttered pan de sal
mesmerized by the sun, glowing in the east...
06042018
My husband got a coffee cup
Two decades plus ago,
A birthday gift from neighbors
That we didn’t really know.
It had a saying which implied
That getting older’s good.
My husband wouldn’t use it
And I knew he never would.
So it became the one I used
Though it was not my style.
I figured I’d replace it
With a new one in a while.
But years went by and every day
I used that coffee cup
Until this morning when, at last,
Its time on earth was up.
For somehow as I stretched my arm
To grab it from its hook,
I knocked it down and noticed
Smithereens with just one look.
I swept the shards and smiled,
Wond’ring why it took so long
To get rid of something in my life
Which didn’t quite belong.
Greetings from Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
today March 1st, 2021
I dashed (off the enclosed poem) yay
while safely secured within
white horse open sleigh
after reading following
pray lemme know if ye uttered oy vey.
Profound insights divulged
during our most recent family zoom
Approximately seven hundred
and fifty four months since exiting womb,
yours truly (sole son
of late Boyce Brandon -
yes she named him
after paternal grandmother
Sadie, her mom's Yiddish name
Basia Brana or Brandla)
me currently ensconced within unit B44
analogous to catacomb
amid Highland Manor Apartments
I dwell - our livingsocial hole in the wall
among grateful dead residents
facility likened to metaphorical tomb
each stone individually moved one at a time
courtesy hearty and hale archeologists
resident to *Qom
(a city in northwestern Iran -
place of pilgrimage for Shiite Muslims)
to imbibe on spiritual succor
and become comfortably numb
acquiring appropriate trailing appellation,
yes a USDA, FDA, B Corp... and
Pink Floyd approved nom de plume,
which feeble poetic brainstorm
begat within mine
sixty plus shades of gray matter,
which exhaustive mental effort
induced silent but deadly ka-boom
one Matthew Scott Harris
rent asunder vaporized to smithereens,
hence each his personal possessions
cherished as prized heirloom
no trace left behind
regarding pulverized lovely bones,
nevertheless burnt offerings
specialists did painstakingly exhume
where Ashkenazi temple will bloom.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*My humblest apology for lame rhyme
with previous word similar to crypt
yours truly deserted and he gypped
thee while crawling
across Sahara during nighttime
dehydration subsequently
found me tight lipped
I called Uber, but could not get a lyft.
Virtual trophies (wife for I)...
offered, husbanded, and collected
when winning solitaire
Nothing beats that exaltant rush of adrenaline
watching the computer generated cards
automatically routed
to their respective suite (spot)
(after they get turned face value up)
generates countenance to evince a grin.
This heart felt diamond in the rough
gamboling ace of a man
learned to call a spade a spade
soon after joining the culture club.
Within an alternate universe
another Matthew Scott Harris
destiny manifested beckoned uber lyft,
his militant doppelganger
(created entirely of antimatter
since birth of universe)
decked out in camouflage fatigues,
dead set on collision course
to annihilate each other
if and/or when we inevitably meet.
No place exists for yours truly
to run and hide
especially hermetically sealing
(while waxing poetic) himself
with booking selfsame mortal
within a read (reed) out hideaway,
hence impossible mission
to ward off sealed fate
lest (markedly) both of us
(even if reaching out
to bridge reconciliation)
blown to smithereens
methinks I and mine nemesis
would be wiped out
(cue the Surfaris song titled wipe out)
as if Thanos snapped.
The aforementioned scenario
far more horrifying than
livingsocial within human zoo
where *****sapiens primates,
an aggregate of many
a cruel genealogical yahoo
outliers rowdy unlearned without xue,
an essential constituent
of the body electric kool aid acid test
smartass who spout colorful retorts
analogous to up the wazoo,
but much more explicit,
therefore audiological
viewer discretion advised
unless one feels confident
to cast a magic spell using voodoo
ideally invoking debilitating, horrifying,
lustrating newt trill eye zing
permanent state of danger
or threat accursed
trumpeting lout can never undo
especially when joker is wild
whereat apparatus tricked out
fastening pollexes courtesy thumbscrews
perchance re-evaluating my person
when crafting image
conveying torturous schlock
after ye did pleasantly review
other writings of mine that did skews
toward humanitarian connectedness
painstakingly minding my peas and queues
wracking my brain
regarding creativity to peruse.
Ukraine has got chemical weapons, the Russians claim
That are being used against their soldiers to kill and maim
And those apartments you see blown to smithereens
Are only illusions that we see, on our TV screens.
Russia claims actors are used and are pretending to be dead
Evil Putin is using propaganda to get inside your head
Russia called a ceasefire so that non combatants could flee
Then his army opened fire on them, how ruthless can they be
Those images you see of the old and infirm, trying to get away
Are just old folks enjoying the sunshine out for the day
With their worldy possessions in a supermarket bag
Doesn't make any difference that they're waving a white flag.
And those generous Russian soldiers handing out food
Is just lies and propaganda they're trying to delude
A false flag is another ploy that the Russians use
To distort and hide the truth then carry out abuse.
A Russian jet has now carried out a devious strategy
Firing at a small town in Belarus called Kopani
This is the perfect excuse, that Belarus has been looking for
They'll blame the Ukrainian airforce and enter the war.
The besieged Ukrainian cities, need food and medical aid
But supplies are stuck in Poland, is the west really afraid?
Nobody likes violent war but sometimes it's the only way
And those carrying out atrocities. must be made to pay.
Written on 11th March 2022
Come one and all, IT'S HALLOWEEN
WHOOP!
I sent Freddy to invite you to a bash
I see he's told you of it, sight unseen.
With a wicked dream and a bloody gash
You've been sliced to smithereens!
AHHH!
So stumble down to Elm Street for a little more gore
It seems you have a little blood on your slacks
There's a secret password to get in the door
It's: yell, "HERE'S JOHNNY!" and *Chop down with an axe*
SMASH!
Mr Voorhees will happily take your coat
Don't mind the expression, it never alters
Start to run now or he'll slit your throat
That machete there, he NEVER falters
EEEEK!
Oh what fun, up from the sewer and out on the town!
Keep on your mask so your skin stays in place
Before my next guest, a cannabalistic clown,
Makes a mask out of you! (for his friend Leatherface)
NOOOO!
I love party tricks! So I invited Jigsaw
The ones who get picked are always so lucky
Now show us how to get that contraption off your jaw
Hurry now, times almost up, says Chucky
TICK TICK TICK…
I think perhaps there is a party crasher here
A nasty little leprechaun, wrong holiday
It looks as though he's slashed you ear to ear
I guess he's in the spirit so.... he can stay
GULP!
You've met the oogie boogie man?
He ain't goin' nowhere, he's singing underground
No one can boogie woogie like he can
He dances around while you hang upside down
MWAHAHA!
Oh dear Mike, you’re looking a bit rough
I doubt behind that mask there sits a grin
Is it possible tonight you’ve had enough
Or that you tasted your own medicine?
BOO!
Conquistadors in Vera Cruz
found themselves a radical ruse.
If pillaging was muy, muy lento,
they just whipped out Requerimiento.
Composed in fifteen seventeen,
this document was ultra-mean.
It won more scraps than Robert E. Lee,
was deadlier than DDT.
Suppose you met an Aztec mob
that wasn’t happy to be robbed,
and far from handing on a platter
its gold and silver, wives and daughters,
was minded to contest the matter,
Requerimiento got unrolled.
In legal Latin, gooks were told
with lots of quid and quod and quaem,
exactly what was sought of them.
The royal writ was read aloud
to help the puzzled Aztec crowd.
So none may later look askance,
the dinks got every sporting chance.
All the Aztecs had to do
(clause forty-nine of section two)
was pay the pope an agent's fee,
accept infallibility,
and send some gold to line his coffers.
Who could baulk at such an offer?
Clause fifty-eight – the Spanish king
must get his cut of Aztec bling.
They’re hazy over “king” and “Spain”?
We’ll have long decades to explain.
They don’t respond? It simply means
we blow them all to smithereens.
The finer points can wait till later.
Non-compliance means they’re traitors.
We read the thing, so now we’re free
of all responsibility
for theft or damage, flood or fire,
and if perchance it should transpire
that they don’t dig what’s going down,
why, take it up with Cross and Crown.
Thank God it’s not like that today.
Before we step into the fray,
we tell them they’re a “conflict zone”,
and send in laser-guided drones.
If they accept their crude religion
is now a dead and pointless pigeon,
and take divorce and teenage moms,
then we won’t use our cluster bombs.
There’s other stuff here, on our list –
like Coca-Cola, lobbyists,
The Dukes of Hazzard, John McCain,
obesity and acid rain …
at least we don’t do like before,
and sell them, as we wade ashore
to occupy their ancient land
some junk they’ll never understand.
Vladimir Putin itching
to loose nuclear bomb
end of the world scenario ofttimes
iterated throughout history
though an atheist (actually Unitarian),
no doubt this, that or another psalm
countless times the Bible
references Armageddon and doomsday
impossible mission to remain
cool, collected and calm.
Whether affiliated with donkey or elephant
Democrat or Republican viz
blue war red respectively
political hot issues don't amount
to a (Sam) hill of beans
when Sword of Damocles count
approaches zero hour
as global tensions mount
signaling increased chance
trigger finger will free
avast nuclear winter
(across world wide web) re:
leasing plethora, pyrocumulus
mushroom clouds tree
mend us planetary explosions
annihilating webbed wide
world, an irrevocable
indeed earthlinked debacle
spelling widespread species
multitudinous extinction
ex post de facto after super
bowling powers (wannabe) vied
to wrest empowerment spanning
entire realm sans third rock
from the father, sun and holy ghost,
who turned substantial pock
kits of flora and fauna
once populating oblate spheroid ad hoc
significant swaths of life forms
pulverized and/or turned to ash
transformed into radioactive wasteland
after war mongers brash
lee usurped hegemony
(ruling inhabitants
of Gaia with an iron fist
with a smidgen of flavoring
courtesy of Missus Dash
superfluous taste enhancer,
when sibling burnt offering views
between Venus and Mars incendiary
tolled mourning news
smithereens sole remnant
poisoned every square inch
from weapon of mass destruction
that did cruise
engendering thick noxious fog
disabling fox but not cockroach
while smoldering seas and continents
skull and crossbones didst poach
amidst the gasified, liquified, pureed
where holographic ghoulish super bowl coach
rendering lifelessness home for menagerie
where virtue trounced vice as organisms
(particularly one primate) didst try
(predominant 21st century simians)
tool heave with amity, comity, and empathy
animals and plants an experiment
that went awry
presaging a nuclear winter with nary a winner
implicating mankind as the absolute sinner
instantaneously after Doomsday Clock
signaled point of no return
where grim reaper the sole grinner.