Long Wild oats Poems
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Ahab needed shore leave,
And obsessed so on his dream,
Harpooning some sweet harlot
Had become his major theme.
He was just a novice mariner,
His first time far from home.
He’d made his maiden voyage
With his wild oats yet unsown.
Jezebel liked scrimshaw,
Always wore it like a queen.
She loved to dress in style
And had a taste for French cuisine.
She was just another working girl,
Young sailors were her game.
She didn’t dig Jehovah,
But she’d do Him just the same.
Ahab went on liberty
With fifty bucks in cash.
He laid down ten on his first tattoo
And a shot of sour mash.
Jezi smiled coquettishly,
Cooed, Hey there, cherry boy,
For forty shekels I’ll show you the ropes.
I shag like the real McCoy.
Jezebel naughtily lowered her veil
And shimmied her best Bette Davis.
Ahab said, "Baby, lead me astray
Where Elijah’s conceit can’t betray us."
Ahab followed Jezi
To her boudoir’s upper floor,
Singing gayly of Nantucket
Like some salty troubadour.
Ahab put his hand inside
Her open cookie jar.
The moment seemed electric,
Like Saint Elmo lit his spar.
Just then the temple cops burst in
And ruined his crescendo.
Ahab ran; they clipped his leg.
Jezebel jumped out the window.
This story and its moral
Speak of tragic dialogues:
Ahab deflowered a virgin prosthesis,
And Jezebel went to the dogs.
~ Corny Narrative ~
Go west, young man, he was told, so he did
He was only eighteen, a big raw-boned kid
His girl still back east, a lump in his throat
A high price to pay to sow his wild oats
So, he plunked down in Kansas, Prairie Land
Just a spade, a horse, and his two strong hands
He carved him a dug-out under the ground
He'd laugh at the wind and coyote sounds
He tilled that soil, and he planted his crops
Corn for millet, then potatoes for hops
For himself, he'd whip up some rabbit stew
He was gonna be fine, gonna make do
Now you're all waiting for that 'shoe to drop'
But there's no 'but;' his good luck didn't stop
Corn sprung up high, potatoes a-plenty
New settlers came, around about twenty
So he sent for his girl the love of his life
They'd marry, have kids, she'd be a fine wife
Well, she took one look, went back to New York
Said, "There ain't any pigs, I only eat pork!"
In halcyon olden days of yore,
When box TVs were far from smart,
The youngest in house used to bore,
If lovingly, the chore TVs to start.
Then came remotes— a political mace
At home they have tended to be,
And if I may, no less a menace—
When needed, always remote from me—
Perhaps, why we call them remote!
Which, a moment a sub’s ordered online,
Back in view from nowhere float,
Oh to make you look asinine!
Oft a cause of bedroom uproars
And keen to start marital wars,
When, with fuzzy warmth of winter
The two-some quietly saunter.
Yet, who’d the remote bring?
Well, not before things thaw in spring!
I’m now waiting for a remote—
Universal that’d get no one’s goat,
And one with fewer buttons than my age,
That also is easier to engage,
Ideally one, user friendly,
For an old sort not so friendly.
Today’s remotes, it appears,
Have buttons like my wasted years,
And pointless as I can see
With coloured ones, I feel lost at sea.
Even TV deft hands advise me
Not to worry, unnecessarily!
Let today’s smart TVs feel that remote
Really turns them on,
As for me, they often trigger my horn,
To me they feel like a crop of wild oats,
Perhaps, both because grapes are sour,
And too tall be the vine bower.
______________________________________
Free verse | 06.11.2022| humour
When the kids were young it was all about fun.
How could we make it?
How could we take it?
What if we break it?
What if it's done?
Now the kids have some of their own.
There's a new crop of wild oats to be sown.
A new bunch of balloons that are soon to be blown.
And we're looking for fun, now that we're on our own.
They say that the difference between men and boys
Is the size and the cost and the noise of their toys.
And, truth to the tell, goes for girls just as well.
But I think the best of the rest of the joys
Isn't entailed in the celebrant's noise.
It's remembering the time we loved when we loved it,
Not the age of the celebrants dwelling in rhyme.
I believe we are lost
We were carried away
Rebels without cause
In our own unique ways
We took different roads
But both ended here
Sewing wild oats
Til our paths disappeared
The surroundings are strange
In this current cul-de-sac
Years of switching lanes
Somehow brought us right back
All the way back home
But we cannot get inside
The destination, all along
Was the beginning of our ride
But now it’s upside down
Inside out and jumbled up
Like robots, we walk around
And pretend to feel enough
Enough passion and intensity
Enough misery and joy
And we’re sure to feel them properly
While making, little noise
We know we don’t belong
Well aware that something’s wrong
But home, as we remember
Will, forever, be long gone
No rhyme nor reason why
with yours truly ejaculating
(not prematurely), I utter yippee,
nope no intercourse induced whoopie
upon this... - day three
January two thousand and twenty one
perhaps consummation,
regarding aforesaid euphoric mood
indicative I will become philanthropy
recipient i.e. anonymous lucky payee
before anniversary of this monkey
exhibiting fits and starts
orbitz nearest star
while linkedin to planet Earth
as (mush ado about nothing)
spasmodically thrashing
as garden variety generic
*****sapien protoplasmic beef jerky.
Courtesy guilty conscience,
I verily, timidly, readily... admit
no criminal mind nor hanky panky
whereby unfettered naughty bit
no way no how frolicked courtesy dalliance
though trespassing, plucking,
and nibbling verboten fruit
this average Joe didst commit,
which extramarital trysts
cost hefty penalty fee (think debit)
to checking account exhibit
head by mine absence one night
years ago, when we lived
at 724 West Railroad Avenue
thee missus exploded livid fit
of rage found me stony faced with true grit
feeling proudly unrepentant
what an ingrate hypocrite
pledging troth after rubbing noses
analogous as flirtatious custom to Inuit.
Thus smugness and/or feeling upbeat
seems heretical (in retrospect)
cuz promised covenant chaste away,
when sowing wild oats/gathering rosebuds...
like a mad ing dog in heat
one errant husband
upon wife did swing and cheat,
which wedded connubial bliss
more pronounced now after commiting
egregious sexual feat.
Figurative emasculation discovered
visa vis promiscuous escapades
redemption (no matter an atheist) proffered
hence an ideal place to enclose final word.
Going on without you
Is driving me insane
The love I still have for you
Has never been in vain
In going our separate ways
Nobody was to blame
Even with everything around us that's changed
For you I still feel the same
Love is not about winning or losing
It's not about how well you play the game
It's about your raw emotions
And your wanting them to go back from where and which they came
The ones from deep inside your soul
And they can't nor won't be restrained
You try so hard to control
But you find yourself wanting more for that special someone
Then you do for or ever have wanted for anyone before
Even if your heart forever they've stole
And the pain you endure
Well I'm the last one who needs to be told
I live it every damn day to be bold
I do what I do
Just to go on
Living in my moments
That are not my own
Time passes right on by
Tears oh yes, I've cried
Yet I believe in many ways with wisdom I've grown
Wild oats have been sewn
Realizing things perhaps a little to late
Knowing now he's always been my soul mate
Now leaving things up to fate
It's hard when your memories
Plays with your reality
You don't know if you can get through the night
Sometimes standing in the tunnel
You can see the light
It all comes together and fits again just right
For me for now only more time passing will tell
If my world will forever be a living hell
When that times comes will you be there as before
Or simply turn and quietly shut the door
Would you gently take me in your arms and hold me tenderly forever more
Or will you cut me deep to the core
Either way I just wish it would be done
So I can get things out in the open
Get on with our lives again whatever they may be
But just know that I'll forever believe
Together is where you and me
Should be
Pinocchio don’t want
to be no real boy no more
Too many strings attached
He can’t do this or that
Tic Tac Toe
Everybody telling him
what to do, where to go
He can’t go with no flow
No more wild oats to sew.
He’d rather be
that puppet without strings
Drinking with his buddies
Listen to them sing
Liar liar, pants on FIRE!
So what if there’s some burnt wood?
Things they be fun in the hood
Only real boys gotta be good.
Jiminy Cricket
He miss that little fellow
Conduit of conscience caution
Kinda entertaining, sorta?
To bad he wasn’t more mellow
He heard Jiminy fell on soft times,
tripped head first into a bowl of jello
Ironically it was lime green
He got chomped
Curtain call! Jiminy’ final scene.
Pinocchio’s mad
You see
real boys they gotta grow up
Lessons need learning
Fun? Hell no, something will always interrupt
Eyes forward
Become the teachers pet
The best it ain’t happened yet
Some decisions magical boys regret
He learns the lessons
Grows up, shuts up
Becomes the thing he once was
Just another puppet
But this time
somebody else pulls the strings.
The taste of forever
Wild oats and thistles covered the track
stinging my legs for punishments
for since forgotten
The misty Dale that makes war look
like a romantic adventure
that separated men from boys until
a wolf howled
Trespasses, are buried under flowers
keep a soldier's last secret,
his name blew away in the wind
The cottage was still there, trees around
had grown, could no longer be seen
from the main road.
the door was rotten but still locked
the window curtain
was made
of spiders web
the room was shady in the noon heat
intense silence came thundering
demanding to be heard
so many graves not visited and tears
of the betrayed ran into a lake where
trout waked
He hits his knuckles on a stone wall and
savored the pain, blood dripped onto
the floor and ants came
He threw a rope over a beam and climbed
on a table, his dog outside barked
it sensed utter peril
At ease, by now, he walked back to
the main road, and behind him in
a cabin, a noose gently swayed
Dear, you keep telling me that you’re too old,
giving me reasons we should be apart.
But all these things I’ve already been told!
Please, darling, hear me now with your heart.
You say they’ll gossip about me and you.
Just let them! I’m young, but I’ve known
so many women, but not one can do
the magic YOU do. My wild oats are sown!
Never more will I be looking around.
You fuss over wrinkles, but all I see
is our connection so sweet and profound.
Always beside me, my angel you’ll be.
Age doesn’t matter when you’re in love, so
say yes to “us” and let’s give it a go!
Dec. 15, 2017 for
Julie Leigh Rodeheaver's "Age Doesn't Matter When You're in Love" Contest