Long Smugly Poems
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My identical twin sister came to school with me once
Many moons ago.
We wore the same clothes, and the same socks and the same shoes.
Only our underwear was different.
I had her walk through the cafeteria, then I joined her.
This made quite a stir.
One hundred and eighty-four wound up screaming children.
Almost as loud as the school secretary when she met my sister
Not knowing I had an IDENTICAL twin.
One of my favorite children jumped out of his seat, an absolute no-no at lunch
And ran right to us. The principal who had come out to try and tamp them down glared a bit,
It stopped him not a whit.
“Two Mrs. Krutsingers!” he yelled, clapping his hands.
I laughed.
My sister did not.
Uh-oh. A clue.
“Which one is which?” I asked him.
“Easy,” he replied, pointing to me. “You are the REAL Mrs. Krutsinger.”
This pleased me greatly.
Was it my shining personality? My terrific rapport? My exuding kindnesses?
“How do you know?” I asked him.
“Caps on your teeth,” he said smugly.
And he was right.
I smiled too.
Never underestimate a second grader’s ability to
Truth you to reality.
I have been a sieve bucket
Of shiny plastic parts,
Containing reasonable sands of logic, time and place-
Drastically mixed with the fluidity of natural human race,
And oddly and inconveniently, a subspace
For an awkwardly large heart.
Why has its energy, connective and warm,
Imploded my zone of comfort?
Its vibrations teemed my walls, exploited my woes
Which till now have composed me quite conveniently
In perfect shell form?
I have molded realities into peaks and castles,
Beautiful for a brief moment as life’s own art,
Yet crumbling too soon into shackles-
The sand’s plans (though well intentioned)
Never seem to properly span across
This aforementioned large heart?
I have ignored its pulsing cries of recognition,
Smashed its value to the depths of nothingness
To breach partitions of Universal fate’s recipe
For flow and season in forced perfection;
Yet muddied and worn, wretched and torn,
It still giggles and glows-
Defying all logical reason.
In anguish I have begged, dear heart, for disintegration!
Why do you lay idle in seeming nonchalance?
Why have you not flooded these holes of my soul
And flowed out to which creation compels me?
Will Love and light ever overflow my muddy plastic half?
I smugly wait and listen in demand of a response!
A few beats, a laugh.
You shine upon me for a quiet moment, wretchedly glistening.
Have I dared to set aside my fear and gain the courage to finally listen?
The message you have needed to convey
Resonates to me quietly,
In recognition of my soul’s ambition:
“Why don’t you merely give me away?”
A simple response, I answer in action (in giving to you, my true):
For I begin building my fate only from today;
Creating with purpose and satisfaction,
Eternally anew.
I would give an arm and a leg to see him, she said.
She was going to meet a new guy by name of Ted.
Only time will tell if things will turn out okay.
I am weak as a kitten, I heard my friend say.
At the end of the date she had the time of her life.
She expected this guy Ted to make her his wife.
I said, I hope you did not speak of your crazy short leg.
No, she nodded. I avoided that like the plague.
I took the tiger by the tail, she told me smugly.
Thought outside the box, called myself May Puggly.
There are plenty of fish in the sea, I reminded her.
Just in case the expected outcome did not occur.
It is as plain as the nose on my face she said later.
He was not much of a man, a notorious dater.
He is now as dead as a doornail me, that hack!
Was she actually the pot calling the kettle black?
Time sure did fly when I was having fun.
But now that he has stood me up, this creep had better run!
'Twas in London town (as I recall).
I was just a boy so small.
An egg sat smugly on a wall,
by the name of Mr. Dumpty.
Perhaps, it was Spring or early Fall,
that he held me in his thrall,
the gentleman, I soon would call
(fondly), my friend, Humpty.
Oh, how we would pontificate,
those arms would wildly gesticulate
Perhaps, I could anticipate,
he would be kaput.
But my oval friend with roundish butt,
my warning, he would then rebut,
saying, "fiddle dee dee and tut, tut, tut".
Trouble was afoot.
Perhaps, as he swayed in the breeze,
with spindly legs and knobby knees,
if he'd have listened to my pleas,
I'd have a different story.
Can one depend upon a horse,
with feet, but with no hands, of course,
to mend the consequence of force,
unquestionably gory?
It was so many years ago,
years of counseling, I'd undergo -
perhaps, I threw just a little low
to my friend Humpty.
'Twas in London town (as I recall).
I was just a boy so small.
when I tossed him that ball,
saying "Catch it, Mr. Dumpty"
Incorrigible Recalcitrant - Doppelganger (mine)
Ala Goofus and Gallant
highlights my diametrically
divergent alter egos
always the reserved
obedient docile boy
afeared to stray outside narrow
circumscribed comfort zone
figuratively tethered
extremely short leash
choked me like yoked oxen,
albeit non red dually bullish
under bated breath
otherwise submissive
internalizing fury and rage
relentlessly lambasted
daily school bus ride
analogous highway to hell,
thus envisioned monstrous physique
linkedin to superpowers...
whereby giant beastie boy
within scrawny nerd
visiting jocular comeuppance
bopping "jocks" on their beanies
with rotten tangerines
(Tom Lehrer would be proud)
knocking senseless nasty brutes
gleefully pummeling rapscallions
casually, heroically avenging
purging immediate threat
while smugly jauntily
relishing carefree blessed awesome
fistpumping air joyous ride
duplicating bad ass daring
do dexterously doubling
(wishful) dream come true
one prior pipsqueak - yours truly
punishing pestiferous classmates,
who sadistically doled
out daily dose,
non USDA approved
cavalier fierce injustice
taken aback when mine knuckles
compress hoodlums opprobrious
wicked yakking (actually silenced)
fountainhead spewing toxins
exuberantly effusively ebulliently
cleaning principle ringleader's clocks
at long last
traumatizing measure for measure
antagonistic arch nemesis
inflicting insufferable torment
once passively quaffed ruffians threats,
now all's well that ends well,
no matter yours truly expelled
forever pleasantly humming
merrily merrily, merrily,
merrily, imagined life
tis but a dream.
Born in the breath of woodsmoke and fire,
I learned early to love the art of falling.
Leaves tumble like poorly kept secrets,
trees strip down without shame -
modesty’s for summer, after all.
October hums with rebellion:
bonfires blaze, sunsets bleed,
and the wind, cheeky as ever,
slips its cold fingers into every undone button.
History rattles here -
200 years since Waterloo fell quiet,
suffragette echoes stomping in boots,
a reminder that not all noise is noise.
It’s a trickster wrapped in amber light,
half beauty, half bite,
where endings feel like beginnings
and ghosts pretend they’re just passing through.
They whisper, “You’re braver than the fall.”
And with each year, I’ve learned to ask,
Will I rise, no matter how hard I fall?
Can I burn and still remain whole?
These are the quiet prayers I carry -
for strength to keep standing when the world turns cold,
for light in the darkest corners,
and for the courage to blaze,
unashamed of the fire I carry.
Stitched from October’s fabric a
half twilight, half ember -
I walk between the brittle and the burning,
the quiet and the wild,
a child of autumn,
still falling,
still smugly aflame.
My pockets cry loud for your daily presence,
To buy me fanciful cars and build me big mansions are your essence,
My shoulder aches when rubbed against those of others in your absence,
I beg to have you so as to clear evil thoughts out of my conscience.
I labour day and night so that you won't come to my home as a temporary guest,
I desire you a comfortable sit in my home so as not to put your stay to guess,
I am ready to rebuke anythìng that may provoke you to vex,
Because with your presence in my life I will even get good value for my mess.
The coolness of your friendship my heart fervently desires,
Because of you the muscles of my hand makes my face perspire,
Many times your powerful shield had been my own messiah,
Your support makes ineffective all what my enemies gather together to conspire.
Even when I know only you can't bring me all my needed peace of mind,
But you are still important in showing me the way to where joy is easier to find,
Since success and blessings and greatness are also of your kind,
That's why I beg you to come bring the glue for you all to together smugly bind.
I was working out on the elliptical machine in the gym, feeling good and watching
the "Calories Burnt" number climb higher and higher.
Then, I noticed a rather shapely and attractive woman step off of the machine two
rows in front of me. As she turns and faces me, I cannot help but notice that the
nipples on her rather large breasts are erect and pressing against her sweat
soaked, tight t-shirt.
When working out, and at other times as well, I suppose, I sometimes drift off and
just stare into space not really cognizant of what I am looking at while lost in
thought.
I must have been doing this as this young woman started walking towards me on
her way to the drinking fountain.
She stops abruptly in front of me and says, rather curtly, "Why don't you take a
picture?"
Snapping out of my temporary coma, I respond, "I'm sorry - what?"
"You seem to be staring at my breasts," she rudely insinuates.
Now, at times like this, in a confrontational moment, I like to try to immediately get
on the attack and, sometimes, in my panic to do so, I can say the stupidest things.
In this case, I come back with, "Are your nipples pointing at me!?"
"What!?"
"Your nipples. They seem to be pointing at me!"
"I assure you, I cannot control what my nipples do."
"And I," I smugly reply, "Cannot control what my eyes do."
"You could look away," she challenges.
"And you could wear a thicker sports bra or sweatshirt", I respond.
At this she just glares at me with hate in her eyes and steam emitting from her ears.
I stare back with my smug grin, alternating my look between her eyes and her
breast.
So, of course, you know, we made wild passionate love in the equipment room at
the back of the gym.
And, just before we climaxed in a frenzied, naked and sweaty embrace, ...
... I woke up from my nap on the couch.
This is when I got up, changed into my sweatpants and went to the gym for a
workout.
Somebody’s looking for me,
somebody’s here,
hot tantrums filled with fury,
Eyes wide with fear.
Somebody’s angry with me,
oh so enraged,
wants to take what I sweat for,
take it away.
You cry out that it’s ‘justice,’
and will not change your mind.
I don’t care about your theories,
you cannot take what’s mine.
There are no other options,
and you’re running out of time.
I’m ready for another round,
you will not take what’s mine.
You are so smugly arrogant,
so anger-filled,
claim you speak for downtrodden,
that I should feel ‘guilt.’
Well I don’t but the theory,
and I’m not ashamed,
will not lay down and just give up
all that I have made.
You cry out that it’s ‘justice,’
and will not change your mind.
But life is not a college course,
you cannot take what’s mine.
You’ve left no other options,
so I must hold this line,
time to put up or shut up
you will not take what’s mine.
You will never take what's mine.
So let’s do this already…
A miracle isn't just a bizarre fluke
in fact, it's present anywhere we look:
It's our enfeebled earth welcoming the sun,
although a searing touch is something to shun
It is the air awake no matter the bruises from pollution,
as well as the streams without termination
The trees smugly outstretched and unperturbed,
although their tidy canopy has been greedily disturbed
It is the impetus of time's valor to evolve,
despite conditions that seem unresolved
They are the praises and prayers we instantly utter,
and our compassion freely given while we silently suffer
They are the uninterrupted moments we're able to live,
as well as the small victories we achieve
Your miracle isn't like a craved leisure outdoors,
it can be the success in mastering your intimidating chores
Above all, it is knowing there's no limit to how we thrive,
that after being lost and barely surviving we are still found alive
-Nicola An