Long Spry Poems
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Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
From the moment we became grandparents we have felt conflicted
at the way, in books and media, grandparents are depicted.
But we’ve been grandparents for a while now
(one grandchild just graduated college)
So we believe it is time to share some grand-parental knowledge…
When a cartoonist draws a grandma her hair is invariably in a bun
If she’s not wearing a sweater…chances are she’s knitting one.
When she walks it’s with a cane and we will forever take offense
how she’s always wearing glasses and has no fashion sense
When a cartoonist draws a grandpa he is never very tall
His hair is a vibrant shade of gray or white…if he has any hair at all.
His plaid pants never match his shirt…his glasses are as thick as a window pane
He could be in a wheel chair or like Grandma…walking with a cane.
If you look around at grandparents today, you’ll find us agile and nimble and spry
In fact you’ll discover to your amazement those old stereotypes don’t apply.
Deborah doesn’t wear a muumuu…her hair is never in a bun,
If you ask our grandchildren what they think, they’ll say their Nana’s fun.
She’s creative, she’s compassionate, she’s patient and I can verify
She’s great with babies, loves to bake and sings a soothing lullaby.
As for me, though I am a little bald, I don’t wear plaid pants, never would.
snd if I do say so myself, I make the clothes I wear look good.
I do not fish, don’t watch much TV, I don’t read the Farmer’s Almanac
When my grandchildren ask to play football…guess who’s the quarterback?
Deborah and I will try jumping rope, playing soccer and climbing trees too
because in this day and age, in our generation, that’s what grandparents do!
We are a mix of old and new, we are much cooler and hipper than before
(Even though I’m pretty sure people don’t say cooler or hipper anymore!)
We embrace some of the traits of our grandparents, yes the good ones have survived
but speaking for Deborah and the grandparents I know, a new generation has arrived!
So cartoonists when you draw Deborah draw her with style, grace and fun
And if you’re drawing her baking cupcakes, make sure they’re funky ones.
And when you take your pencils out don’t draw me in a rocking chair
Instead…draw me climbing up a tree or in a top hat
and if you want…
you can add more hair.
I would like to talk about the coronavirus which has caused so many of us to agonize
I will stay away from politics except to say…it has made some people act unwise.
Instead I would like to stay closer to home…after all home is where I’ve had to be
and talk instead how this coronavirus has been effecting me.
This pandemic has seized many things we used to take for granted and put them out of reach…
On the plus side we have spent more time in our kayaks and on walks along the beach.
I haven’t enjoyed wearing a mask…living in this kind of artificial bubble.
but if one person is saved because I wear it…it’s totally worth the trouble.
I’ve hated social distancing…I miss hugging…for goodness sake
I even attended a Zoom birthday party where I could only see the cake!
The wear and tear on our car is better…since we only travel to the store.
and my hands as well as my jeans and shorts have been washed more than ever before.
This pandemic has stopped us from going to the movies…
something we used to do religiously…
Apparently now we’ll watch anything…even the Tiger King…that’s showing on TV.
We are exercising, doing more puzzles and reading…mysteries, novels…almanacs
anything to keep us healthy and our minds sharp as a tack.
Because this pandemic has effected our memory…
for instance…any show we watched when this pandemic began…you know…way back when.
we’ve already forgotten what happens in them and so we get to watch them again and again!
Deborah says it’s not the pandemic…we’re just getting old…but her theory I must poo-poo
I’d rather look at all my faults…and blame them on the flu.
Forget where I put my glasses…walk into a room and can’t remember why…
have difficulty getting out of a chair…feeling a little less spry…
These have nothing to do with old age..I believe it’s academic
when it comes to problems such as these…I blame them on the pandemic.
And I’ve noticed Deborah doesn’t laugh at my jokes as much as she used to…
It’ can’t be that I’m not as funny…and I hate to start another unfounded rumor
but apparently this pandemic can effect a person’s sense of humor!
In conclusion as we are experiencing something in our lifetime
we’ve never experienced before…
I know this coronavirus will win its share of battles…
but we’re determined to win the war.
Groundhog day 2021 - Tuesday, February 2nd
Coincides with astronomy's cross-quarter day,
marking the midpoint between
winter solstice and spring equinox,
which will occur at 5:37 AM on
in Northern Hemisphere
Saturday, March 20.
Small consolation old man winter
spans fewest days
of all four seasons,
especially when massive nor'easter
predicted today January 31st, 2021
including within neck of woods
named Perkiomen Valley Pennsylvania.
Yours truly remembers
when spry Jack (hoar) Frost
(just yea high -
both arms stretched to sky)
came early, left late and bossed
vernal equinox
rattling barenaked branches
obviously inapropos
to budding friendship.
Now (courtesy global warming/ climate change)
mother nature experiences feeling strange
within valleys and atop many mountain range,
wherein goods traded away on stock exchange.
Fortunate concerning yours truly
versus daring to brave
inclement weather
getting stranded in the process
(possibly becoming gratefully dead)
risking life and limb venturing forth
amidst near whiteout conditions
creating debacle perilous and grave
shoveling snow lest he get buried
he can remain holed up
(in tandem with the missus)
snug as a bug in his mancave.
While nestled inside warm abode for awhile
(at least until temperature upwards doth dial
safely ensconced against elements (of style),
I stopped at metaphoric woods edge
trekking until... for no rhyme nor reason
the poetic metered equivalent,
viz another mile
then stopped for coffee break
burst of energy gave me cause to smile
fording imponderable stream of consciousness
impossible (airy) mission to dodge regarding
aforesaid daunting task to craft worthwhile
poetic endeavor to entertain anonymous readers
gleaning how one bard (with his shaky spear)
evokes fiction being snowbound
as if cast adrift within Siberian exile.
Straightaway I continue writing askew
aware how literary trademark modality
characteristic of Matthew
unwittingly indelibly embedded
analous to mine Caucasian
versus swarthy melanin hue
man automatically confers eligibility granting
innumerable known mighty opportunities
(privileged skin color - how unfair)
bigoted prejudices shade those,
either hashtagged as black, brown
naturally copper toned gentile and/or Jew.
Management here at
Highland Manor Apartments sent out word
that tomorrow, January twenty third,
two thousand and twenty one,
we (all residents) will receive the first (of two)
inoculations to stave off getting COVID-19,
hence mine poetic title might seem absurd.
Aforementioned stance toward death
obviously antithetical
regarding desire to stay alive
and most oppressive
when mine mental, physical
and/or spiritual yours truly
takes a (swan) dive
analogous where bajillion bees
swarm from their hive.
Linkedin with well known poem by and by
penned by Emily Dickinson, I didst decry
expressed her relief to die
"Because I could not stop for Death,"
she aptly crafted verses to comply
reverently, merrily, and gloriously accepting
cessation of existence well nigh
as does one garden variety generic goofy guy.
All natural catastrophes aside,
plus excluding thermonuclear war,
where civilization would get fried
nullifying idea viz,
let conscience be your guide,
nor no place to run and hide
left to grapple with dystopian quandary
shuttering fright housed inside
in one poof annihilating prejudice
(white privilege included) and pride
reducing to ashes trumpeting
self importance, where snide
persona grata becomes irrelevant
as does living social
or vacationing in Telluride.
Interestingly enough,
I do not entertain notions
inflicting self harm nor suicide,
but expect longevity (to ride
one after another orbitz around the sun)
maximum total (represented courtesy
value units and tens place)
at minimum exceeds double digits
in plain English aged
to perfection groom and bride
attains at least ninety nine years.
Despite skittering within hair's breadth or blink
looming over the edge no time to think,
cuz no matter being knight in shining armor
I can scrunch and squint thru visored chink,
and espy and the title
of a storied book by Tom Wolfe I think
Old Rotten Gotham sliding into behavioral sink,
amidst so much flotsam and jetsam
while singing Skidamarink
surrender unavoidable fate
cuz destiny dis rapper doth not shrink
and recognizes that whatever does not kill
will only make me stronger
(money back guarantee)
I attain a spry five score birthdays
and while away hours
playing solitary game of tiddlywink.
VIEW THROUGH as I DREW, my darling HUE: color BLUE
TRY to FLY HIGH! HIGH! then greet HI to fluffy SKIES;
Don't SPRY, don't be SHY! Be SLY pass BY with one SIGH;
My darling HUE: color BLUE; VIEW THROUGH as I DREW.
To feel THRILL be STILL as you SAIL; TRAIL the TALE of blue WHALES
In blue OCEAN, see WOVEN MOTION, CHOSEN shots a GOLDEN TOKEN
A NUMBER SHUTTER of the HUNTER is a THUNDER WONDER for LOVERS
TRAIL the TALE of blue WHALES to feel THRILL be STILL as you SAIL.
THREE SHE AGREE as EMCEES to SEE the deep blue SEA.
Feelings so GLEE 'cause it's FREE, excited together they FLEA!
With their KNIGHTS, the HEARTY gals PARTY all NIGHT long
To SEE the deep blue SEA THREE SHE AGREE as EMCEES.
One and TWO but time FLEW; many CLUES I KNEW I GREW
OOH! There are FEW BLUES I want to STREW and BOO.
OUGHT for TAUT FOUGHT, DROP SHOT NOT to be DISTRAUGHT.
Many CLUES I KNEW I GREW, One and TWO but time FLEW.
HIDDEN in ZEN's GARDEN DEN, There TEN blue butterflies beauty GEN.
DANCING while playing then TEASING and KISSING all roseBUDS.
No blue DRUGS but BLOODS afire with some BUGS all did RUB.
There TEN blue butterflies beauty GEN, HIDDEN in ZEN's GARDEN DEN.
Despite RAINY DAYS, SHAKY KATIE delivered her blue BABY SAFELY.
God, she PLEASED as after SURGERY, LADY KATIE'S AMY join the NAVY.
Her DISEASE neither FREEZE nor CEASE her KNEES;
SHAKY KATIE delivered her blue BABY SAFELY despite RAINY DAYS.
VIEW THROUGH as I DREW, my darling HUE: color BLUE
My darling HUE: color BLUE; VIEW THROUGH as I DREW.
(c) Olive Eloisa
5:49pm
July 02, 2014
List of rhymes used:
View, through, drew, hue,blue
Try,fly,high,hi,skies
Spry,shy,sly,sigh
Flew,clues,two,knew,grew
Ooh,few,blues,strew,boo,
Ought; taut, fought, shot, not,distraught
Three,agree,she, emcee,sea
Glee,free. Flea,Hearty party knight, night
Hidden, Zen, garden, den, ten, gen
Dancing, playing, teasing, kissing
Drugs, blood,bugs,rosebuds,rub
Rainy, days, shaky,Katie, baby, safely
Lady, Amy, surgery, navy
Disease, freeze, cease, knees, pleased
Feel, thrill, still, sail, trail, tale, whales
Ocean, woven, motion, chosen, golden, token
Number, shutter, hunter, thunder, wonder, lover
Rhyme Schema
Enter Poetry Contest
placed 5th .. to God be the highest glory.. :)
Written: February 11, 2024
______________________________________
Features: fugacious fascinating beat
I saw smoke, but no flames in sight
I caught a cynosure of elusive heed
Fourteen redolent rifts were recorded
Oddly scripted, akin to grain ears
or stalks of rhubarbs in diaphanous vibes
Love came, wrapped in dulcet skin
Upon palms with comely lines, ceased.
A seraglio within a flesh
Where a vase holds a full moon
And a drape of hues: tan, blue, and gray.
Pink echoes linger in the same vase
As drove of doves drifting down an abyss
I hit a home run with white silk rope wings
And forefeel fountains flowing freely
where my dreams are the hue of spring
In a diamond outfit, I'll reach paradise
Slowly, I caress the lavish swirl of phloxes
Adopt time to hear your dizzy murmurs.
Why is it love-shaped if it's not mine? You query
A vast stretch of soil shrouded in mist
Dawn rises from its decor of the virgin sky.
My love for you remains unwavering
Love is trapped on a limb, suspended in the air
Whether stored with mustard or soy
or fragments of an unfinished haiku
The heart of love calls for a spry stir
by milk-stained palms and sour cream
A heart so grand, burdened by weariness.
Today dawns with a pristine sky
For the scenery and the stream
slashing across ropes of sapphire
A blend of cyan and white.
I discovered this to be accurate
To love is to shatter the gates of heaven
Stripping a night star from its vastness
Only to put it in a desolate roof garden
even if it blossoms for a single night
Only to perish the following dawn
My shears sprang to life, ready to trim
I may have loved the size of the cosmos,
In a fleeting point, unguarded and sublime.
Enamel strings and skeins entwined
In love, everything seems ostentatious
Words extravagantly rhymed, flowing lyrics
Crafted in vibrant shades of captivating art.
Run, Girl, Run
She was just eleven, small and spry,
Her father said, “You’re due, oh my…”
A spanking, harsh, the kind she knew,
But this time she thought, “Not today, not you.”
He called her brothers, big and loud,
“Go catch your sister—make me proud!”
She took off running, barefoot and wild,
With twenty meters head start, a desperate child.
The boys gave chase, they huffed, they cried,
But with every step, she multiplied
The space between, she flew like wind—
The girl they thought was small and pinned.
Her father stood and scratched his head,
Watching the blur of her legs as she fled.
The next day came, he had a plan,
Took her to school, proud as a man.
“Test her,” he said, “not with her age.
Put her with girls two years ahead on the stage.
She’ll outrun them all, I swear she might—
But if she doesn’t, she’ll get it tonight.”
They marked the track, a 1200-meter race,
She stepped on the line, fear in her face.
Not fear of losing or shoes that pinched—
But of that spanking if she flinched.
They said, “You’ll get tired, slow it down.”
But she didn’t hear them, not a sound.
All she saw was a belt and a chair,
So she ran like her life depended on air.
She broke every record, flew past the pack,
Not once did she stumble, not once look back.
The coaches screamed, “She’s one of a kind!
This girl’s got fire, this girl can fly!”
Districts called, and her name was known,
For once, she felt like she’d found a home.
Her father smiled, stood proud in the sun,
For that whole season, she was someone.
He talked to her, coached her like gold,
Like all her worth was speed to behold.
Her mother frowned, her siblings hissed,
Jealous of the praise that she had missed.
The mother drove, but her smile was tight,
She kept the times but burned with spite.
Couldn’t stand how the girl had shone,
Or how her father clapped her on.
Then the season ended—just like that—
No more tracks, no starting mats.
And just as quick, the warmth withdrew,
The house turned cold, and silence grew.
She was a ghost again in her own home,
A record-breaker left alone.
But deep inside, she still held tight
The memory of that run, that flight.
Neath shimmered strings of starlight’s breeze, crepuscular in night
on trodden soil he lay with slumbered eyes.
Lashed to oak, his chestnut mare in dream just out of sight
snaps free as lightning flashes; flares the skies.
Bounds to foot with double stride; yet late his capture earns
a feeble grip on equine hoof afoot,
his trusty steed, as mist might drift through juvenile sown ferns,
has vanished like dark ebbing motes of soot.
Miles from home, no transit back, bewildered by events
considers how to forge his journey home,
perplexing state, a quandary, unravels and presents
the only choice he has, which is to roam.
Through thicket thick, forest green, cross arid plains of dust
unto the homestead poised for his return,
discordant thunder stills his heart; wriggles in as thrust
compels him, for he knows they too do yearn.
For passage spry and safe, and quiescent nights on swag
now rolls his bed with reins onto his back;
through sheathes of rain, in startled fright, a lonely Sambar stag
hoof striking ground, preparing to attack.
Muzzles drawn, the beast is felled yet antlers gore both arms
as motion peters awkwardly apace,
bandages his wounded wings as parent-like alarms
resound upon the visage of a face.
Hidden by the brush, the physiognomy not seen
now trundles to its father’s fallen side,
its death is beyond doubt, lest his hand does intervene
to raise the fawn the way the buck had tried.
A careful snouted nudge from the fawn as sunup blooms
arises him from sleep, but only just,
passes over arid plains then through the vista looms
the iron gates of home bedimmed by dust.
Collapses through the gates on the soiree of her birth
returning home disheveled and delayed,
bent on being present so she’d never know a dearth
of every night, his whispered serenade.
Strength, in time, would vivify, recouping over weeks
the erred reason for his sullied trip,
remains on blocks, left un-repaired, despoiled by the leaks
and placed the fawn forever by her hip.
Eyes well up recalling, every year from that day on
his little girl’s elated monkeyshines,
when the gown was given her, how happiness had shone
into his heart his journey’s worth entwines.
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.