Long Swatting Poems
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Twelve rounds of excitement
Two rivals smiling in the middle of enchantment
The bell rang...
Both fighters were wild
Two rough hands still mild
The bell rang again -- end of first round.
Second round...
Gaiting horses, eluding kicks and punches
Baiting bodies, protruding hunches
Third round...
Fighters in merry-go-round
Hide and seek on square ground
Fourth round...
Faces smearing, eyes rolling
Bodies perspiring, allies chanting
Fifth round...
Feet hovering, foot work disintegrated
Temperature rising, hard punches connected
Sixth round...
Audience clapping; boxers hitting
Attacks jabbing, gloves slugging
Seventh round...
Whacking arm follows, gloves batting
Ulnar bone gallows, heads swatting
Eighth round...
The champ fighter grinning, nailing one hard scour
Second fighter fainting, flailing above the litted floor
Ninth round...
Stronger fighter grinning again with right hook
Left hook thrashing, down the second fighter of blind look
Tenth round...
Challenger flogging, kept on rising
Challenger pelting, the champ fell on floor gasping
Eleventh round...
Both warriors pummeling, whipping, jostling
Switching, clubbing, lashing, drubbing
Both fighters fell on adulated white floor
Before the ninth count both warriors stood tall
on wrestled floor
Twelfth round...
Last two minutes of peppering round
Both fighters staggering until the challenger dropped first and gaunts.
Champ still standing, waiting for the ten counts...
Last twenty five seconds of the final round,
First fallen fighter with a bigger heart stands
Champ dropped on his knees --
Laid flat on aproned, famed canvass
Ten counts numbered as confetti lands...
The winner and challenger standing in the corner, beaten and bruised
Bleeding profusely after winning a dream never cruised.
I know you don't want to hurt
or even disappoint
me
And I know you don't want to hurt
yourself.
Yet still your shame
and self-blame hurt
Your self-judging
punishing closet frame
suffocates our transparent life
my caring curiosity craves,
and mutual vulnerability
our sharing courage braves.
Addiction to feeling happy
is not free
and connected to sensory satisfaction
nor to ego significant gratification
and certainly does not feed natural
and water spiritual
bilateral wealth
of healthy feeling transubstantiation,
Which, as you know,
I also recognize as body and mind healthy
choice transformation voices.
Before you even small ego-voice object,
I also recognize you may feel natural
v spiritual choice
has nothing to do with driving off
without "goodbye,
see you safely soon."
If no physically tolerable choice
of resources to feed serotonin
and water dopamine,
I know, from years of isolated,
neglected depressive experience,
how frightening loss of lonely
yet sufficient ego-powered control
can feel chronic lack of thrival.
Speaking not of win/win choice,
but inside swatting interminable win/lose Voice
never still
until you self-shame
and blame
hiding hurts
and unfree frames
us both,
unhappy you,
not Here,
And me
loving EarthNatured
EgoSpirited enough for Us,
not yet togathered Now
Still worrying
what will voiceless nonchoice happen
disempowered There
and unenlightened Then
'til suddenly Amen
Our silently uninvited
apartheid End.
(A COLLABORATION BY NATASHA L SCRAGG AND ROBERT JAMES LIGUORI)
The luscious, long, green grass
Sways and sweeps and flows.
How far, how fast will this wind travel?
No one really knows!
This same wind could stir up
Whirls and waves in all seas.
This powerful force makes nature dance.
Our senses this does please.
Though it can be disruptive
On a minor or major scale,
It can uproot trees, tear roofs off houses,
It can delay or prevent sails...
It still has its boundaries.
This can be assuring to all, to me and you.
We can't see the wind
But its effects are in plain view.
Sometimes the wind teases us,
Playing with our hair,
Or has us swatting at thistles and leaves
Flying through the air.
The wind can be kind,
Tell to us our coffee's hot.
Or to move our rude cigar,
From its blowing spot.
Wind can be a gentle reminder,
To put on our kid's jacket
Or to lower our voice,
During a downwind racket.
It is always there soft or strong
And never with a hue, that is...
We can't see the wind
But its effects are in plain view.
The luscious, long, green grass
Sways and sweeps and flows.
How far, how fast this wind will travel,
No one really knows!
This same wind could stir up
Whirls and waves in all seas.
This powerful force makes nature dance.
Our senses this does please.
Though it can be disruptive
On a minor or major scale,
It can uproot trees, tear roofs off houses,
It can delay or prevent sails...
It still has its boundaries.
This can be assuring to all, to me and you.
We can't see the wind,
But it's effects are in plain view.
Sometimes this wind teases us,
Playing with our hair,
Or has us swatting at thistles and leaves,
Flying through the air.
The wind can also be so kind,
To tell us our coffee's hot.
Or to move our rude cigar,
From it's blowing spot.
Wind can be a gentle reminder,
To put on our kid's jacket,
Or to lower our voice,
During a downwind racket.
It is always there soft or strong,
And never with a hue, that is...
We can't see the wind,
But it's effects are in plain view.
19-September-2021
How small can a beetle get?
A minuscule black dot of a predator
Plodding (as beetles do
when not chewing up other insects)
around the lip of a bowl,
clapping together stubby mandibles
swatting the steam.
Beetles are tanks
they are built to withstand
all in-coming, except maybe birds
and the birds don’t eat them
because they taste like baby goo
dipped in crispy aspic.
Again, how small can a natural born killer get?
The beetle tentatively, gingerly,
marches around the edge of a bowl
as if hunting its own scent trail.
Can it only hunt itself,
and will it find enough of itself
to make a decent beetle meal?
These and other questions of size,
capacity and predatory prowess
must wait
for it has fallen into the tomato soup,
and it seems this particular size beetle
cannot swim,
perhaps its mini motor was out of gas
or its tank too heavy to float?
Oh gather round the diamond on the grass,
Where the heroes spit out chewed baccy balls,
And scratch nine innings of baseball jackass,
With three strikes "Yer out!” the umpire calls.
The batter steps up, then steps aways,
Taps the plate, and struts with flair.
He wiggles the bat in twelve different ways,
Like he's swatting flies, here and there.
The pitcher rubs the ball in greasy palms,
Then stares to one side into the void.
A full-grown man in a pinstripes suit,
Throws a curve ball- the crowd's overjoyed.
The catcher flashes his secret signs,
Send it up, down, faster or looping slow,
Gotta catch them all unawares,
Avoid the walk balls if you cares.
The base men wear enormous gloves,
Like oven mittens made of rawhide.
The catch is more a bucket plop
With free hand poised to fall on top.
With bases loaded, the pitcher throws—
WHACK! It's a home run outta the ground
The show becomes a royal parade.
A slow-motion lap in the glade.
Swing low, sweet baseball sluggers,
Swing high to miss the walk 'n foul.
Four hours watching the pluggers
Scowl and growl, then throw in the towel.
As they miss a hundred pitches
For one single hit into the crowd.
Oh hail the glorious game of baseball—
Four hours of waiting for fun
Waiting for one home run!
Waiting for one home run!
`
Hovering like a gnat that finds a face irresistible
Swatting frantically does no good as
insects will be insects and annoying is part of their plan
As it seems each day you find a new offering unfolding its wings,
buzzing about with your dirty laundry in tow,
as if poetry has become merely a tool to harass
Finding little folders to slide into…highlighting
each word of bin fodder, old but new
hoping for accolades in lemonade fashion
Funny how that works as hatred becomes the norm,
never letting go of that scent that attracts you…
whatever it is about the human aroma you find so pleasing
Perhaps it is that it will never be you,
oh little gnat of negative words seeking only attention,
lost within the deep confines of a posers petals
To ruin our summer fair, our poetic picnic in the sun
cannot happen for you see we are happy
in our own skin, with its wondrous fragrance…unlike you
`
Don't you just hate little pests that just fly around annoying people?
A stolen life. A split-second decision.
Disorganised thoughts, jumbled—
Tangled around an anaesthetised cortex.
Clocks mockingly ticking,
Ticking down inevitability,
As a lone fly buzzes relentlessly around my head.
Swatting at it—it returns mere moments later,
Pestering, always just out of reach,
Festering like a wound reopening, oozing with persistence.
As the slant of the harvest moon traverses its way through splinters in the walls,
The crack of thunder and flash of lightning hail turbulent storms ahead.
Bending down, I roll up an inordinate rug.
Prying back marred floorboards,
Lifting out an ornately sculpted box—
Worn, weathered from the passing of time.
Removing the lid, I can still smell my mistakes.
I let bereavement overtake rationality,
Rubbing my fingers over intricately carved lines.
My former life takes shape before me.
Awake for days, I was—
Thought I could outsmart my lapse in judgement.
The clock struck two, and nothing was happening.
Breathing out, a calm washed over me,
Thinking all was safe—
At least, that’s what I tried to make myself believe.
But that silence was just the momentary tranquillity before the chaos,
As “the sharp snap of branches masked the bark of distant dogs,”
Coming to collect a soul who bargained for more time.
Banging at the door—it snaps in half.
Nowhere to hide. Teeth rip into flesh,
Sending my blood spilling.
As a bone pricks my finger, I boomerang back.
Violently, I smash the reminder,
Yet as furiously as I try to destroy it,
The omen rematerialises—
Spiritually tied together in this coiling, hellish realm,
Until not even an infinitesimal speck of dust exists,
Whilst all time and space melt into each other.
The despicable fly thinks he is tall
Because he landed so high on the wall
But I’m about to show him just how small
He truly is when I make him fall
All because of a fly on the wall.
With a paper rolled tight with a band
Held firm in my good right hand,
I’ll send that dirty fly to the promised land —
The end of said fly will be so grand.
All because of a fly on the wall.
I draw back, then let it go,
Delivering the most powerful blow.
That nasty fly just has to go —
But alas, there’s nothing to show.
All because of a fly on the wall.
The cunning beast is fiercely fast —
I’ll stop him yet with a greater blast.
Time for mercy is long past.
A swing. A miss. I am aghast.
All because of a fly on the wall.
Past my ear the fly goes buzzing —
It truly makes me want to cuss-ing.
Now his brain I’ll be concussing,
But instead, my room’s a-mussing.
All because of a fly on the wall.
The lamp is broken, the desk upturned —
The fly. The fly. My anger burned.
But it does not seem concerned;
Oh fly, your buzzing, I’ll adjourn.
All because of a fly on the wall.
My efforts redouble, I do my worst —
My head is pounding, near to burst.
Oh this fly, it must be dispersed —
I miss again. I’m cursed, accursed.
All because of a fly on the wall.
Chest heaving, not enough air —
But I’ll do for that fly, it hasn’t a prayer.
Swing and swat, but it’s never there,
The fly acts as if it hasn’t a care.
All because of a fly on the wall.
I stumble, bumble, fumble, and fall —
Pushed too hard for something so small.
Too spent to stand, too weak to crawl —
Nothing to show though I’ve given my all.
All because of a fly on the wall.
My breath grows shallow, vision goes dark —
So much effort, I’ve left not a mark.
The truth sets in; reality stark —
I meet my end with none to remark.
All because of a fly on the wall.
Cyberspace was full of visitors
the TV droned through the room.
The sun streamed in the windows
the day was full of doom.
From the corner of my eye
and the surface of my mind
Sci-fi showed action scenes
of the catastrophic kind.
Reporters shrieked a breaking story
the picture screen showed flames
my mind saw Cong or Mighty Joe
swatting down two planes.
Fearful voices filled my home
cyberspace stood still
the dogs of war had set their sites
twin towers marked their kills.
Over 20 million have died
all mothers, daughters, fathers, sons;
American interventions
causing everyone.
All were collateral damage
so the story goes
and the military minds
still orchestrate the show.
The chickens came home to roost
on that fateful fall day
our mothers, daughters, fathers, sons
with precious life did pay.
If only, if only, ALL would realize;
DEATH HAS NO BORDERS
ALL MOTHERS CRY………….