Long Swaggering Poems
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Whispered words from behind a wall
to cronies gathered hale and tall.
“Go on ahead.” He said. “Let me see.”
“If I can turn her sweet, on me.”
From within, she heard the tale,
the rye snickers, the wolves’ wails.
Yet, so like the doe in lantern light,
the wail entranced, did not cause fright.
Wide-eyed, stunned, the morsel stood,
in frozen stance within the wood
within his reach and steady glance,
the wolf approached, as if to dance.
With swaggering grace, he set fast pace,
a honeyed tongued Knight on the chase.
He spoke of honor of valorous deeds,
of his manly virtues, and she took heed.
“No, no, no,” said the Maid, she was shy.
“I’m afraid.” She said. “Do I hear a lie?”
He turned up her chin, and eye to eye,
he stroked her cheek and heard her sigh.
He offered her cake, this starving waif
with trembling hands, she took the bait
for upon his full lips , tongue and skin,
she could taste the sugar deep within.
He sought the warmth of blood and bone,
he thought the conquest all his own.
Yet, she held a hope buried deep within,
to bring forth the goodness, she saw in him.
Oh, she could well feel his aching need,
'twas his seedling soul, she sought to feed,
the prey, prayed, long to touch his heart
to give the wolf a brand-new start.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many’s the times, his teeth came near
to the blue-red vein in her throat,
and many’s the time the Universe stopped
like a dandelion seed afloat....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wolf in him balked for a short time,
tasted the joy of goodness’s wine;
loving, and feeling, and drinking anew,
what God has offered to each of you.
Could he extinguish this pure light?
Could he bring death to this delight?
Sorry, for the prey was the wolf within.
He was sore sorry; she’d let him begin.
Sorry, he could not grow in her arms.
Sorry, he could not succumb to her charms.
“Sorry,” was on the tip of his tongue
as he left, the prey on a run.
“Sorry.” said she, as her soul rose higher,
made stronger, though bathed in desire
like the fabled Phoenix so, she rose,
on the white wings of angels in repose.
A prayer floated back, as she drifted above
a prayer, she sent with her heart, to her love.
It echoed his sentiment of so many days.
“Sorry Love…” She said.
“May the Wolf find his Way.”
True add verse situation,
whereat me mission
trans send dint state didst ache
after yours truly nearly
did nearly break
chassis 'pon took drastic
over corrective measure,
not quite August,
nor jejune piece of cake,
while rounding raised
curbed contra corner
suddenly felt wrath of wife quake,
viz passenger rear tire
gone flat as a pancake
impresario found myself
hearing Thus Spake,
Zarathustra, when in truth...
twas ma constricted trach.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some weeks back
acting so cool and chic - bank
king all bravado, machismo
self importance, and frank
lee babbling like a cripple creek
off by a black key with Hank
Williams tune imagining
myself swaggering like a lank
key trump petting Don
(feigning faw being "Beefy") plank
walking lampoon able
laughingstock Freaky, thank
less as a lapsed worn eraser head
pencil necked Geek yank
key doodle dandy hood be
forced to do penance as cap
pit dull leotarded asinine
arthouse flop, where nary any words
(worth their weight in gold)
described my benign
behavior, NOT even
smattering of unflattering deign
nig grating hammock colorful expletives,
that would find an ensign
sailor to blush at my inept
shameless travesty over the line
utter in apropos totally tubularly
moronic juvenile mine
ness zero car raze zee antics,
didst drive my doppelganger nine
tee bajillion miles away in search
of another auto body – pine
ning for newer model
then a 2009 Hyundai Sonata sign
ning off contract with this
stunt driver wannabe
unimpressively try'n
to act the blithe dare devil,
while thee spouse didst wine
and scream more'n bloody Mary
as the gunned axle nearly broke
trying my damn nest to
"FAKE" dagger a type cloak
his husband resembled a fool,
where angels fear to tread didst evoke
unsuccessful, unstinting, and unsparing
unstrung epithets of colorful expletives
unsuitable for poetic folk
boot urgent prayer went out
to incredible Hulk
Hogan, and/or even the ghost
of Andre The Giant, this haint no joke!
When I joined and wore my khaki uniform girls lined the streets, they kissed and hugged me,
I was six inches taller and so very proud, my dearest wish was to be in France at the front,
Swaggering, I walked in my hob nailed boots they sparked as they noisily scraped the ground,
All the boys from my village joined we were treated with pride we enjoyed our new adventure.
We were all teenagers with fresh faces as we marched to the trenches we had second thoughts,
Men wounded carried away from the carnage, bandaged, covered in filth, limbs missing oh God,
Exhausted faces some one shouting, 'march this way! march this way', towards the heavy guns,
Marching with hearts beating fast with mingled rapture, butterfly's a new dread of tomorrow.
The truth was here, did we ever dream that so dark a day would come, the swaggering stopped,
The harsh sounds of a thousand boots in unison crashing to the ground gave me goose pimples,
We marched by rivers and marshes past oak trees budding and birds sang in the early morning,
A thrush stood on an overturned blasted lorry singing a rhapsody, an ecstasy, we marched on.
Plum-bloom falling in showers on gentle breezes, blowing white carpets over the muddy ground,
Villages, left behind will have maypoles on the green, girls with ribbons in their soft hair,
Wild cherries in flower, rockets purple and white in full bloom, kissing sweethearts in woods,
Wallflowers in cottage gardens, rich masses of gold and delicious deep spicy country smells.
What have we left behind, what are we going to, now so near the cannons whump the rifles spit,
Single file along mud corridors then onto the front line stepping over men finding our places,
Watching the rats, smelling the stench, corpses rotting, unreal faces and gut wrenching wounds,
Looking along the line, every thirty yards a non commissioned office reeled off the many rules,
This will be my last place on scorched earth, people laying dead, rotting just a few feet away,
I will ever see my loved ones, my home or the colours of a fresh spring day, my time is written,
My dad will mow the corn, and pick apples from a orchard by a meadow, the meadow by the stream,
A premonition, I know will be true, will leave me and my friends lost in a foreign brutal land,
Sassy sobriquets schooled sissy spindleshanks...
studious sexagenarian skinny scruffy scribe
My utmost humblest apology
for inducing the following
cerebral calisthenics upon your cranium,
but the cost of friendship
with yours truly
(me – a foo fighting,
eagle eyed, beatle browed, beastie boy
christened Matthew Scott Harris)
doth newt come
like some hootie and the blowfish
super tramping
cheap trick linkedin to
wings at the reo speed wagon
spinning zz top soundcloud.
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sing,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning smartass,
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
A pro-active journalist
is like a research-committed teacher
teaching and listening to cooperative research designs
and presentations.
The opposite of the journalist's deconstruction
of events
is reconstruction through predictive narrative.
Just as the opposite of permaculture's green activist
regeneration
is pathological degeneration
emerging from past too-monoculturing memory
Back toward too much red-meat butchering
and ballistic slaughter
swimming in pathogens
about health-resilient DNA-RNA solidarity genes
for future regenerative reconstructions.
Recently
the local writer of Permaculture Opera
invited me to his and her place,
I'm still not sure s/he has chosen
Either/Or gender,
for a co-author interview.
But I need to arrive
just before dawn
and not drive in
or even toward
EarthSoul's healthy address,
if at all possible.
So, I'm riding my bike
and arrive just as pre-dawn light
could reveal river homefront terrain.
There s/he is
atop a barren maple tree,
facing East
across a valley,
rocking back and forth
from north to south
and back again...
S/he calls "Good Morning!"
as if this emerging light
has already made Earth's best day invitation
convocation
to and for those less grumpy
and feeling old-knees and hips frumpy.
S/he welcomes me up
and so I go
with all my Senior Citizen climbing years
behind me
to rest just below Earth's swaggering
Operatic sway.
Before I can ask
what s/he is doing
S/he tells me
This is Earth's centering sit spot
from which s/he greets our vibrant Sun
when clouds do not grey stand
in dark swaying way.
Here s/he waves back
as Earth's trees thank FatherSun
for waving forth
paid-forward
toward this WuWei Day
West for Ego Win
and East of EcoRooting Yin
discerning through and after dualdark night.
Like a Permaculture Opera
opening each morning,
each life,
this ego/eco centric
Western swaying
dusk-fading glory.
My Opera piece will begin
There's no such health-listening thing
as a non-teachable moment.
A local pro-active journalist
sways like a research-committed teacher
teaching cooperative research design
through re-presentational invitations...
More Horn Humdrum KISS Poems
Will have total, complete trust in my security
Once I know it does not have a single impurity.
When with God I want to increase my appeal
More to Him should pray while I will kneel.
Harder and harder have tried and tried
More and more pride will feel inside.
When sips starts turning to bottles of wine
Will end up in a position that is supine.
Supine to many is laying low and down
Having been funny is like being a clown.
Some who suffer from foot in mouth disease
They never learned how to say pretty please.
People to me who are the most provoking
Are fools who around I find to be joking.
What if I were to provoke a thought
Most politicians would say I better not.
Might be able to get down to more specifics
If handwriting didn't look like hieroglyphics.
The more your ego is swaggering and strutting,
Final conclusion could cause much head butting.
If all of my great opinions it weren't for
We'd be miles apart on a distant shore.
Of all to me that would be God's greatest gift
Would be thought of not having another RIF.
(Reduction In Force.)
God's commandments must be kept in force
And make sure that nature can take her course.
With nature should always stay out of her way
And around with her Mother we better not play.
When we found that her body was a la natural
Everything sure seemed to be so satisactual.
Nose around in people's business like rhinoceros
And bills you surely propose will be preposterous.
When you have hurt many people's feelings instead
Will cause more tears to be shed while lying in bed.
If you should start steeling away into the night
Back home you will end and probably might.
By not giving, God's rule surely have broken
Which He told me was His one and only golden.
If I ironically were to horde and illegally exempt
In which court could I ever be held in contempt.
Why would God allow a fighting duel,
Between two politicians with a loose tool.
Enough is enough and need I write more
Especially if I know you are keeping score.
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Government (show) Shut Down December 2018
Messianic Don found tarnished appeal
trumpeted bluster thwarted
with muted (hip hip hooray) Democratic zeal
played (on microscale) like quashed
ill fated braggadocio big deal
bombast, sans General George Armstrong
Custer's last stand,
viz Little Bighorn, achilles heel,
where Native Americans
showed deadly steel
against cocksure doodling
haughtiness didst conceal
Yankee sited in cross hairs,
who got comeuppance,
whence his notorious
reputation did never heal,
thus markedly high light
ting (albeit in deadly fashion) might
whooped, undermined, and
served just desserts,
when forces of the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne,
and Arapaho tribes did unite
defending their turf against
7th Cavalry Regiment of the
United States, mauled as bloody sight,
which justified comeuppance,
and whipped up white
settlers fury like an inferno doth ignite
combustible material showing
no mercy toward "red men"
unleashing brutal, short
and nasty genocidal spite
long a tragic footnote in history
proves tummy at hefty price
that present swaggering presidential chieftain
more'n halfway thru administration thrice
occasions brought third "shut down"
(the first time in more than 40 years)
during his opprobrious term,
now got meted "no dice"
cuz commander in chief usurped, provoked,
and kickstarted retaliatory actions, I.C.E.
suspect, where staunch stonewalling tactics
unexpectedly found paunchy big boy lice
sensed to shame, name and blame Congress
i.e. as he thrust forward power,
and hood did launch
bully tactics doth evince,
how he does not play "nice"
demanding five billion dollars for
pet project wall barring Mexicans
(and other asylum seekers south
of the border) did not entice
unanimous concurrence thus sets device
sieve ness roundly shows
Trump doth need strong cussed hard advice!
Who am I to know that
the existence of heaven lives
in the pause between breaths
or that the story of creation is
a searing scar in the side of Jesus?
I have collected my pleasures,
like monsoons collect the dead,
have collected my memories,
the raw force of vitality,
the swift silk of a spider’s web,
the emptiness of being, all of this:
a country of vibrant emotions.
I have touched the sea with my hands,
bringing them together, feeling the abrupt
salt between my fingers, torrid like
the stinging whip of a lover:
Her tongue burns me alive with
its naked wine; her eyes dig
into the depths of mine.
Who am I to know that the Kingdom of God
lives in the stones, the fire, the water, the mud,
or that twilight is a sudden sadness like
gray blood clots caused by black thorns?
Still, my excitement is like a tower
of energy or a vigorous burst of sperm
or the moonlight’s mysteries fitting its key
into my soul where a secret stillness
wallows in its swaggering bliss.
I have tasted the meat of the universe,
its heart, its lungs, its liver, tasting it
with my gentleness, a gentleness like
soft lips, or a feather, or a lover’s whisper:
Her mouth burns me alive with its
raw juice; her heart feeds from mine.
Who am I to know that the Supreme Spirit
lives in the flies, the lice, the grub, or that
death’s bitter sorrow lives in the dust, the bones,
the ash, or in the agony of a broken heart?
—once, Jesus summoned me. He undid
his wounds with the jagged blades of
my tears. I held him, embracing him, saying:
My brother, my brother, my peaceful brother...
who am I... to know... who I am?
——————————————————————————
From my first book: 'In Forbidden Language'
http://www.amazon.com/In-Forbidden-Language-Dah/dp/0982874707
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2010
all rights reserved
With an introduction by Eve Hogard
Sassy sobriquets schooled sissy spindleshanks...
studious skinny scruffy scribe
Scathing, scolding, screaming,
scorning, searing, sing,
sociopathic sarin soaked skewed
squirt, sputtering, squawking, sleepily
staggering, stabbing, swaggering
sweltering sadistic, sarcastic,
savage, systemically systematically
stigmatized, supersized saber sharp
schick shaving, shunned, sabotaged,
scarred, scorched, smote, sanguine,
stippled, speckled schizophrenic
sensibility, spurring, seething,
somewhat stultified, sophisticated,
spellbound spirited scabrous
schlemiel schlemazel, stenciled,
sundered sniveling sanguine storied
snakebitten sojourning smartass,
skeptical shoddy sophomoric
screwball, subtly sagacious,
stunted, sclerotic, scrappily
shuffling short, Shylock
styled sideburns Semite,
sainted Shasta sipping
shriveled sad sack,
sullenly syncopated, synthesized,
slobbering sybaritic, scruffy
sheepish sketchy scalawag,
Socratically scrutinizing, seizure
stricken, stoically sneezing,
shamed Skidrow skeezer, shifty,
sweaty, sham shaman,
supremely spidery, schmaltzy,
sylan seeking subsidized succor,
self shuttered, sequestered,
sidelined, shiftless, shabby,
semantically snazzy, soldiering,
shrieking, skulking, somber,
stooping, Segway scootering,
schmart spendthrift, Swahili
speaking, straitlaced, streamlined,
spongebobbing, sandal shod
sealegs, squarepants sporting
spectacles, sedate, sensate,
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned,
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer.
The things which make my blood rise
surge and boil, bringing a witches cauldron’s
of hell fire, to the for…are not the natural things like sunrise
or the beauty of a pasture green, or golden
No, for me it is all, the daily injustices that men promote
as women implore…
Beauty soothes my heart and calms my ragged breath.
But, a man who thinks he’s better than another
bringing his ‘truth’ to bear, with the force of power,
stepping on the crowns of those, seen as lesser,
now that…causes blood to pink the whites of my eyes
as a woman, I explore..
In a universal culture where men hold sway
with swaggering strides and violent threats,
the smaller, finer, delicate things like diatoms*
in water are crushed, destroyed, forgotten, in the roil*
of war…
Man who must focus worship on themselves
denying the wet, warm, womb of the Mother,
men who mouth protection, as the reason for their gore,
men who would have more than their fair share
and tout* dominion* as their just deserts*…
men such as these..these men, encourage war..
and return to us our dead children
wrapped in the flags of nationalism..
for with the self granted pride of man
they bring war..
Bring us back to the days before,
before we saw ourselves as separate
to the interlocked and laced days,
when each form was blessed.
Let my heart ease, let my blood calm,
take the taint of pride from me and mankind
and let each and everyone see the value
of peace through unity..
*untoward / causing misfortune *diatoms/ one-celled alga *roil /make somebody angry
*tout / praise somebody or something *dominion / ruling control
*deserts / something somebody deserves