Long Wads Poems
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The final call of the last male of a species ,
Sounds a bit like a broken record,
Or maybe it sounds like choking blood,
Red, breathing and hollow.
It isn’t poetic
It’s just red
When we look at a wheezing forest we try to call it living,
We like to call the sick things full of color nowadays,
But they are all just factories
or houses
or broken down skeletons
The final call of the last male of a species sounds like
a lack of forgiveness to our bodies that dwell in the soil.
It forgets about how many iPhones we swallowed down our throats.
We choke on the wads of money that we spend on living Instagram empty lives.
Yet we forget how to breath through our souls.
The final call of the last male of a species sounds like the world crumble like weak concrete blocks
We like to stack them into towers to look like we have reached for the stars but we haven’t.
We have forgotten how to build structures that aren’t for the distraction of the broken bodies that sleep below.
The world is changing.
There is no more water in the flee in front of my house.
The last Sudanese rhino died 2 weeks ago.
We are losing more trees by the minute what has happened to the children?
We are choking on out lungs.
Someone asked me two weeks ago where the green had gone.
One day I’ll have to tell them that it was there but we burned all of it down.
And we will have a moment of silence,
For all the beauty that we have lost.
We have lost our trees, and the fynbos that used to bloom outside my house
We have lost the rhinos
And the tropical blooms of endless color
We lost or dignity
And the beauty of growing within or hearts
For what?
For some factories?
For some stone cold towers of corporal enterprise?
Maybe we sacrificed it for nests made of flammable money.
We only Know we have done once that burns too.
The final call of the last male of the species sounds like,
Like this,
This moment right here,
The destruction on the news,
The silence in the darkness.
The final call of the last male of the species is caused by us.
We have swallowed harmony
And coughed extinction numbers.
It won’t be long till everything we have will burn too.
- Here is my reading of the poem :
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsMXUh7OCPo&t=7s
Mister money bags no more
Ah..., how I idolize the days of yore
before June twentieth, and twenty first
two thousand twenty three
when utter senselessness wore,
a trail of woe brutally
ravaging and savaging mine psyche,
yours truly attests gullibility tore
and rent asunder
leaving cumulative finances
decimated, pulverized, and frankly zapped
rendering me poor
as a Unitarian church mouse named Kishore
dirty deed done dirt cheap extempore
courtesy yours oblivious to "red flags."
I still bitterly lament how
the computer/scammer
who called himself "Harvey Specter"
exhibited exceptional faux zeal
and blame myself,
whereby figurative cog and wheel
within sixty plus shades
housing mine gray matter
did not properly turn
ordinarily (when perspicacity,
sensitivity, and acuity optimally function)
setting off an ear splitting squeal
loud enough to rouse
a sleeping Leviathan
when upon awakening would bellow
now cue the giant
from Jack and the beanstalk
Fee-fi-fo-fum!
I smell the blood
of an Englishman:
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.
Nevertheless significant loss
viz medium of exchange
(enriching the coffers of another -
particularly him that scoundrel
née fraudster foisting financial fiasco
frazzling father most definitely nonideal
modus operandi I envisioned,
hence the gofundme page
(ofttimes sited with
gentility, honesty, integrity...
when crafting previous poems),
yet passage of time did not heal
severe financial hemorrhage,
keeping checking and savings accounts
analogously under critical care
(think intensive care),
whereby heroic measures undertaken
wads of cold cash linkedin
to many intravenous tubes
but ideally capitol offense
aired once again toward remuneration
imposed upon ganef
who bled me dry
courtesy convincingly, glibly, liberally...
sweet talking his way,
and I swallowed hook, line and sinker
(fabrication that Citizens bank employees
scheming to siphon investments)
yielded zilch (the big goose egg),
absolute zero positive result,
i.e. even partial remittance of lost monies,
when yours truly did make an appeal.
Or Woman, Or Child, Or...
The following elucidated
conjecture actually can
(reed best) be taken with a grain
of salt, and no re ban
nah nah split 'ope ya 'ere me
cloud and lear, cuz (Oh my...
heavens to Betsy), ennui
got pulled by Evan -
Jewel Lean, who handed this long fellow
(wads worth to you)
speculation with fan
see prestidigitation legerdemain - tan
ta mount to cheap tricks
re: out of thin air
by this half
fast hue man,
Hill Billy Willy Wonka Nilly,
who blithely doth asseverate
apothegm (poem title) equally applicable
Century21 today Aswan
damn maxim initially
bespoke, when collective
primates begat enfant terrible
foo fighting predetermining anon
metastasizing debacle Yeti
bedeviling civilization
a bajillion years in the future with
Matthew Scott Harris deadpan
words worth less his way
before even an odd iota
of dire straight sultan
of swing didst merely span
spottily scattered amidst
pristine Earth, where
unchanging arboreal
beastie boys to oman,
and flock of sea gulls
continuity elapsed – Ivan
hunch, albeit un
recorded disc contented sow
sow hogtied pan
dum mo' nee ham, or
blessed historical events,
kept (stay'n) alive,
courtesy"FAKE" Trump
petting Dapper Dan,
where he knit pattern,
qua oral tradition, sans clan
destine scattered hot pockets
of sparse *****sapiens,
i.e. humanity LESS preponderant,
primary, and/or prolific,
where superstitions parlayed
(voodoo with no Fran Schwa),
and whirling dervishes fed elan,
which earliest recorded (doctored,
digitized, and demented
oh yea), not
tomb mitt to dimly mentioned
asper "time and tide
wait for no man"
purportedly by one
Saint Marher, circa:
1225 anno domini.
outside the picture window
which provided pleasure to the
aging couple
whose days of raising their own
children
were long gone in the past,
a mother blue jay had two babies &
the couple watched the whole thing
emerge,
for the nest had been built
in the lilac tree
which had been planted years ago
right beneath the window.
one day, the red squirrel,
whom the family dog had been
chasing for such a long time,
the two had become something of
a morning novelty,
had climbed up the tree &
killed one of the babies while
its mother wasn’t home.
when the couple discovered that the
baby had been killed,
as some remnants were left which could
be seen from the window,
they were quite distraught to say the least
&
the death of the little bird kept them up
late at night for the next few nights.
while the old woman pleaded with “god,”
proclaiming “why! why! why!” when
she got up in the middle of the night,
as if one of her own children had died,
the old man told her that it had been
evolution which dealt with the matter---
mother bird had not built the nest
high enough, and so the red squirrel
had been able to get at the new babies.
the old woman pleaded with her husband,
saying that red squirrels didn’t even eat meat!
&
the old man said that they did,
she just hadn’t seen them, or perhaps the
squirrel just never got so lucky---
“they got to get their protein somewhere,”
he said,
then she went on saying that the squirrel
could get that from nuts &
so it went on & on.
after a few days went by
the large rat traps in the garage coupled with
the large wads of peanut butter used by the
old man
to lure in the squirrel,
did in fact succeed in killing it &
the old woman then felt justified.
‘“god” wanted him dead,” she said &
the old man, carrying the trap with the squirrel’s
neck broken & bloody, ready to hurl the whole
thing in the woods remarked with a smile,
“no---
evolution dealt with the matter.”
I went to the Heart Center today for my annual echocardiogram
scheduled for 2 pm. Not my favorite place to go, but necessary.
So I take it all in stride because it's important. After all, the heart
is the super most important part of us to keep healthy!
I arrive fifteen minutes early as requested
get comfortable in the waiting room
see lots of elderly people waiting for tests
remember that I just turned eighty
I remind myself that I am not old
they call my name after twenty minutes
more paperwork to fill out
same insurance, same meds, same everything
nothing has changed in a year
I follow the orders and do it
more waiting- check my cell phone
at 3 pm they call me in to the test room
the technician presents me with cute clothing
a bolero-type paper jacket- with instructions
put it on and keep it open in the front
more waiting for her to come back
she returns and tells me to lay on the table
warns me that the gel is very warm
applies it all over my chest and it feels good
she tells me to turn on my left side
her instrument starts searching for my heart
minutes go by and she turns on the sound
thump thump, swish swish, thump thump
swish swish, thump thump- I feel alive
surprised how much noise the heart makes
the sound is quite eerie but comforting
next step, I need to lay flat
more searching with her instrument
I look at the monitor- pictures of my heart
it is 3:40 pm and she is all done
she hands me wads of paper towels
I wipe off the gel and then get dressed
still sticky everywhere
all done now and out the door I go
will return in two weeks for the results
pray my old ticker performed well
hope there's nothing to worry about-
that my leaky valve did not get worse
thank heavens for modern medicine!
August 5, 2019
~2nd Place~
Contest: Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Judged: 08/07/2019
like visitors from outer space
they came with tears, and lined the sidewalk
long in face, and arms embracing
some (I have no inkling) who
they were or why they felt compelled to come
dozens came with casseroles
a few with flowers, wads of tissues
tender words of helpless mutterings
many acts of generous offerings
don't get me wrong, I watched the suffering
expressed in words or acts of kindness
I watched it all, and felt the love
did not dismiss the warm compassion
returned it all, with pure compliance
a thankful heart, a swollen throat
I hugged these strangers at the door
to comfort them, who shed their tears
upon my shoulder, offered them
a place to share their sympathies
a place to spend their mercy, pure
but, this was my child who loved and lost
impossible........I can't express it
protected from the very start, by
loving hands, her dad's and mine,
we watched her grow, and let her go
she grew from the vine ....into a rose
but life composed a tragedy, with goals
beyond our reach...beyond belief
beyond our wildest dreams
and left her with a loss beyond control
like visitors from outer space, we watch
as others come, and others go
they blow into their tissue wads
and empty the boxes one by one
and cry with us, and then they all go home...
do we cry........? Oh no, not yet...
instead we smile a grateful smile
and thank them kindly for the while
and for the ways they share their love
but we can't cry into our own clenched wad
of tissue from the tissue box
she needs us to be strong, somehow
and so that is the way it is, we vow...to hold back all the tears for now
for, this was my child who loved and lost
impossible........I can't express it
__________________________________________
4/12/13
Annette Arnold had recently left college
And was thrust into flimsy dating realms;
She grabbed pen and paper to describe
Top-choice dude of her fanciest dreams.
Dashingly handsome and of complexion nice,
And gallant gait akin to quaint legends' knight;
Sainted for inventive hare's monstrous brains,
Whose vast wit tales eternalize in folios white.
Certainly wielding humongous fiscal sway
At glance to dwarf mythology’s Midas' turn;
Brandishing glitzy wads as any moguls may,
Ever copiously donating all yet lacking none.
Life tenant within fame's flashiest abodes
Where prince and duke sure habitat have,
And king and princess choicest liquids sip;
Where queen and gods fine victuals serve.
Never must such his hallowed mistress
With betrayal's faithless mischiefs afflict,
Defiling indelible vows in his loyal troths,
He’ll steadily love whatever woes persist.
And so first to hit her with resistless lines
Was one William Watts imbiber of wines;
Neither that dashing handsome nor wise;
Faring far from afore-hinted pigment nice.
After wee-witted Williams’ charming vibes
Popped Ronald Riveter from politest tribes,
Known for most arresting manly physique;
Sorry stranger to Midas’ coin-clinking trick.
When Bernard Belmont's pics were seen
He looked plain and of disposition mean;
Unacquainted with idolized royalty’s fame,
Unadorned with duke's resplendent name.
And last Jason Jay did his mistresses vex
If records past might reveal lovers' specks;
His faint affections as whims rose and fell;
Sundering divinest troths as irate exes tell.
Searing decades of pen-and-paper wait
Nabbed no Knight of heaven-hewn trait;
And so did choice-wiser Annette Arnold
Award meek Martin Monks her aisle nod.
Methinks Mine Earlier Rhyme Came Across Desperate...
For Hard Cold Cash
This small medium at large
kibitzer did appear
more brash (albeit) poetically,
and insinuate with soft pedal blare
perhaps at the expense of dare
ring to losing followers, this crash
test dummies star performer
did not mean to ensnare,
perhaps hypnotically tugged
heartstrings with his flair
analogous to birds eye glare
ruffling tail feathers of
a frosty buoy hoar gull (hare
reed) loon seething with hormonal
secretion and the brink to engineer
foolproof mating elaborate fanfare,
when bytes of my obviously clear
expression to succor minted heir
to a fortune (courtesy
anonymous philanthropist), now leer
re: asper point blank plea
for wads of moolah, but mere
lee issuing agitation where
substantial outlay to repair
(passenger side rear)
brake assembly, the automotive
technician espied situation where,
abrasion and erosion clear
as day, which critical assessment
warranted me to declare
an immediate affirmative
decision, which near
broke ma stainless steel piggy bank
to tune of six hundred bucks - hair
reed, an understatement, almost near
lee six months to the day, a prior reap
pair cost similar dollar figure,
which even at present
found yours truly still in despair,
then only to experience,
sans "FAKE" foreseer
(as ordained by Oracle
of Delphi) despite prayer
for me to vouchsafe share
ring at least one daily
compliment to the missus - neh veer
being privy (during our
twenty second plus year)
of whetted bull
lust stick missile exchanges, there
came shortfall of forced favorable blare
ring of said utterenced, thus superstition
an ugly head didst rear.
Down on the farm, me as a shorty, I certainly never thought of bein in my 40s.
My Mom and Dad were usually pretty busy, so I liked to fiddle, and diddle, but I
never did riddle.
My Dad was a gardener of lots of veggies that always grew so wide and tall, and
ready to reap in the fall. The plants grew so huge, and that gave me a plan to fan
out a tiny piece of land.
I asked my mom for some seeds to plant, but I felt like an ant because I thought
of god and was scared "I can't plant"!
Marigold seeds my Dad helped me sow, down in the dirt below. Would I or my
Dad be a bad seed? Well, let's just wait and see!
I was in doubt, so I thought those little sprouts would have a fall out and I'd be
without.
Another day later I visited my Dad in the garden. I had to pull weeds in order to
save those little seeds. That job I did hate, but it did make me think! I just thought
of god and gave a nod, and grabbed lots of wads of those pesky old clogs. I saw
a frog jump over a log, and said "Wow bet he couldn't pull a plow; I wish I had a
cow."
All of a sudden my Dad he did say, "Cheryl come this way!" I was so amazed my
eyes just glazed. The flowers I planted were beautiful bushes full of wishes that
came true.
A remembrance to me was of the burning bush resemblance from the one with
the great key. Remembering my doubt as my Dad hoed and hoed to get those
Marigolds to grow, is harder than you might know. A gardner is special for they
reap through the plants to figure out which to throw out.
So to conclude this little adventure if you end up with too much doubt you just
might get thrown out.
Form:
EIGHT
A deliberate surprise
A shove from the back
while creating artwork
in my second-grade class
Perhaps an ocean scene
A distant angry memory
of my eight-year-old
consciousness
The broken waxy blue crayon
in my right hand
Before me the ripped orange
construction paper and
a scattered image
Girl bully momentarily
reigned behind me
her face encircled with
frantic spirals….
a golden mane
My neck flashed heat
and then a cold sweat
I challenged her to a fight
In the girl’s bathroom
that day
Pale turquoise tiled walls
screamed at me
as I entered the ring
Staring up I saw a field of wilting flowers….
wads of scrunched up soapy paper towels
hurled up at the ceiling where they clung and
appeared as corpses threatening to fall down
on me at any moment
The pungent thick air of girl
bodies surrounded me….
A hungry lion appeared with
open mouth ready to strike
Tightly wrapped around each other
A blur
A blow to my right side
A second to my stomach
Descending to my knees
catching my breath
Rising up I landed an efforted
blow on her left cheek
An explosion within her wild
starving eyes filled with
superpower magnetism
The pounce
The strike
My body collapsed…
the blue tiles hugging me
Sounds of silence
Distant voices of teacher adults
dispersing the crowd
Inside the small stall
crumpled body crying
on the toilet seat
head on my knees
salty tears cascading
Tasting them now
With armor and shield
bleeding …dented and broken
my heart and soul
rejoiced