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Vicki Kralapp Oct 2018
From my earliest remembrance,
to this hour I have maintained,
I've never been contented
with a life of the mundane.

I’ve sought to spend each day in life
in search of curious things,
like art and education,
and the richness that they bring.

I hope to write more poetry
and share my verse in print,
and with my use of written word,
paint art with shades and tints.

I’ve been to many distant lands,
but yet my heart implores,
I seek out farther mysteries,
our planet has in store.

But now my body slows me down,
like most as we grow old,
and though I try, oft I fall short,
of plans I can control.

So, to keep myself companion,
while I will myself to heal,
I’ve formed all my ambitions,
which one day I plan to reach.

Since I was just a little child
I dreamt of life abroad,
in Kenya with the Maasai tribe,
I’ve always been enthralled.

I've fancied a safari,
where the famous five are found,
a land where great giraffes stand tall,
against the setting sun.

But, it is the Land Down Under,
that is first among my plans,
and one day soon I’ll see the coast,
of Sydney once again.

My friends will come to greet me,
though a lifetime I’ve been gone,
and united we’ll share memories,
for the present and beyond.

I’ll go for walks amidst the bush,
and hear the magpie’s tunes,
I’ll stroll beside the ghostly gums;
with nature grow attuned.

I’ll tour along the Southern Coast,
drive past Apostles tall,
and see the sites of Melbourne fair,
with all its cultured draw.

Then off to Kiwi’s northern isle,
with nature’s beauty rare,
fulfilling dreams so long desired,
to glimpse the Mauri’s there.

Waitomo, with its glow worm caves,
and Rotorua’s pools,
with geysers, Eco thermal parks,
and Bay of Islands too.

As I make my way back to the states,
I’ll stop along the way,
to visit Fiji’s turquoise coast,
and snorkel time away.

I’ll learn about the culture,
and partake of Fiji’s fare,
and when I go, I hope to leave,
a part of my heart there.

The coast of California,
on my list of sites to see;
from the Wharf in San Francisco,
to the vineyards by the sea.

I dream of redwoods sure and tall:
the parks and smell of pines,
and stand amid the ancient firs,
lest they pass for all of time.

I plan to visit Florence,
where master artists roamed;
the heart of Tuscan Renaissance,
where da Vinci made his home.

I hope to cruise Amalfi’s coast,
with others at the helm,
to view the brilliance of the sights,
and others in the realm.

While in the South of Italy,
I’ll cross the briny foam,
and walk the hills in Athens,
where ancient Grecians roamed.

I dream of Amazonia,
where man has not destroyed,
and natives live within the wild,
with harmony employed.

The last one on my bucket list,
is one I’d left undone,
when first I made my maiden trip,
and I was twenty-one.

I’d hoped to see the Emerald Isle,
and England’s castles old,
Duke’s palaces and British Tate,
are marvels to behold.

I’ll drive the ring of Kerry,
and the magic Isle of Skye,
to see its Fairy Pools of hues,
and Highland’s brilliance sights.

The lush green grass of Glen Coe,
the Scottish hills await,
would be a lifelong dream fulfilled
when all my trials abate.

With this, my final dream fulfilled,
I see my list complete,
full circle with this Commonwealth,
my restless feet at peace.

But ‘til that time when I am healed,
and I can travel far,
I’ll dream of lands beyond my reach,
and one day touch the stars.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
[Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]

Have pity ! show no pity !
Those eyes that send such shivers
Into my brain and spine : oh let them
Flame like the ancient city
Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers
When men let angels fret them !

Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !

I know thee who thou art,
The inmost fiend that curlest
Thy vampire tounge about
Earth's corybantic heart,
Hell's warrior that whirlest
The darts of horror and doubt !

Thou knowest me who I am
The inmost soul and saviour
Of man ; what hieroglyph
Of the dragon and the lamb
Shall thou and I engrave here
On Time's inscandescable cliff ?

Look ! in the plished granite,
Black as thy cartouche is with sins,
I read the searing sentence
That blasts the eyes that scan it :
"**** and SET be TWINS."
A fico for repentance !

Ay ! O Son of my mother
That snarled and clawed in her womb
As now we rave in our rapture,
I know thee, I love thee, brother !
Incestuous males that consumes
The light and the life that we capture.

Starve thou the soul of the world,
Brother, as I the body !
Shall we not glut our lust
On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled
To a hell of jesus and shoddy,
Dung and ethics and dust ?

Thou as I art Fate.
Coe then, conquer and kiss me !
Come ! what hinders? Believe me :
This is the thought we await.
The mark is fair ; can you miss me ?

See, how subtly I writhe !
Strange runes and unknown sigils
I trace in the trance that thrills us.
Death ! how lithe, how blithe
Are these male incestuous vigils !
Ah ! this is the spasm that kills us !

Wherefore I solemnly affirm
This twofold Oneness at the term.
Asar on Asi did beget
Horus twin brother unto Set.
Now Set and Horus kiss, to call
The Soul of the Unnatural
Forth from the dusk ; then nature slain
Lets the Beyond be born again.

This weird is of the tongue of Khem,
The Conjuration used of them.
Whoso shall speak it, let him die,
His bowels rotting inwardly,
Save he uncover and caress
The God that lighteth his liesse.
Michael R Burch May 2020
Mayan Poetry Translations

The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******.

Why?

Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!

###

The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—

virgins!

###

Prelude to *******
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!

Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...

Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!

###

The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...

Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,

virgins, maidens!

These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, ***, marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ******, nakedness
Bobby Copeland Oct 2018
Come see black night.  Black night proposes
                                                      mo­re
Than madness in a prophet's dream, sets free
A lean uncertainty, sweet taste of all
We dare not see.

My sweet Kathryn, you were older than me,
Knew all the black mountains--Olson, Creely, Duncan, Morley, Dorn... While I
                                           was learning
Levertov.  Your dark, unshaven armpits
Drove me wild.  I understood the honor
Of that crazy night--how could feather leave you--
               our dance at the outlaw bar,
Your sapphic gaze bemused by coal miners,
In cowboy boots, as the band played Haggard,
Coe, Willie, Waylon, Johnny Cash, Kristofferson
& Emmy Lou.  I wouldn't trade it for a date
With Miss Brazil, or Russia as it were--
Some people say you made that up,
Changed heritage and grew the hair to seem more European.  I couldn't care
Less. A great dark mystery I loved
Now thirty-seven years ago with me
Just old enough to drink and you come down
From Bingington, I loved the way you said
That frozen town, where your husband lingered,
Teaching English to native speakers.
I know you still loved him. I think you loved
Me, but needed a woman's touch the same
As I.  Strange how a night can be recalled
More than years, one drunken naked sunrise,
Pillow talk instead of class.  I ditched the speech
At PBK, can't remember what they
Fed us, coming for you in a straight shift
Chevy pickup, red as the night was black.
BILLYtheKidster Jul 2010
"He was a brave, resourceful and honest boy. He would have been a successful man under other circumstances. I loved the youngster in the old days and can say now after the passing fifty years that I still love his memory. He has gained an unfair and undeserved reputation. Most of the stories told about him are simply not true at all. He was born into poor circumstances and did what he did to get by. He was a thousand times better and braver than any man hunting him, including Pat Garrett." - Frank Coe, close friend

"He stayed with me at my home for most of one winter, during which time we became staunch friends. I never enjoyed better company. He was humorous and told me many amusing stories. He always found a touch of humor in everything. He never seemed to care much for money. He never drank. He would go to the bar with anyone, but I never saw him drink a drop, and he never used tobacco in any form. Always in a good humor and ready to do a kind act for some one." - George Coe, close friend.

"I liked him very much. He had his share of good qualities and was very pleasant. He had a reputation for being considerate of the old, the young and the poor. He was loyal to his friends and above all loved his mother devotedly. He was unfortunate in starting life and became a victim of circumstances. In looking back to my first meeting with him my impressions of him were most favorable and I can honestly say that he was a man more sinned against than sinner." - Miguel Otero Jr, friendly aquaintence

"Today he is featured as a mean man, as dark as a Mexican. He wasn't. He was a light complexioned boy who was always smiling. He was very brave and loyal to his friends. He's gone now, but many Spanish girls mourned for him." - Carlota Baca Brent, resident

"He was a remarkable boy. Far above the average of the young men of those times and he undoubtedly had the making of a fine man in him." - Susan McSween, close friend

"He had a great personality and could ingratiate himself in people's good graces very quickly. He had laughing blue eyes, always smiling or laughing, very accommodating and good hearted. He had an innocent timid look and all of this took with the girls at once."
- Lily Casey Klasner, resident
Personal Note: Ms Klasner was Bob Ollinger's girlfriend when Billy killed Ollinger during his great escape, and apparently even she had kind words for The Kid. Furthermore, when news of Bob Ollinger's death reached his mother, his mother was quoted to say the following. "Bob was a murderer from the cradle. If there's a hell, he is surely there."

"All the wrongs have been charged to him, yet we who really knew him know that he was good and had fine qualities. We have not put our impressions of him into print and our silence has been the cause of great injustice to him." -  Martin Chavez, close friend

"He (Garrett) was afraid to go back into the room to make sure of whom he had shot. I went in and was the first to discover that they had killed my little boy. I hated those men and I'm glad I've lived long enough to see them all dead and buried."
- Deluvina Maxwell, very close friend

"He has gained an undeserved and unfair reputation to this very day,
and so his truest to life story written poetically is my mission to set the record straight."
- BILLYtheKidster, Me

*******************­*

I hope what you've read will put some falsehoods to bed
regarding all of the untrue things that Billy allegedly did.
This concludes my truest to life story of William H Bonney,
The Forever Legendary BILLY the Kid
Jordan Kit Feb 2010
Walking, alone, down cold, uneven sidewalks.
Beech St. crosses with Bagley, then East Grand.
After three, only the unsavory, the lost, and the tormented roam these paths;
Forever seeking peace of mind where only delusion resides.
Not knowing entirely what lay ahead,
Walked to Coe Lake.
One spot in this little place that seems almost untouched, unadulterated.
No street signs,
No cars.
Just the gentle silence that is discontent with just being;
It affects, it liberates, it call into question all that is certain.
Get lost in your thoughts on the gravel path,
And take a seat by the water.
Just as Mother Moon gazes into the face of the glassy lake surface,
So must I look inwards,
Is this the right path?
I sigh, the nights sighs back.
My pitch through sow
and debt trouble superfluous
with wealth in Coe
where thrift a hoax now
but tread yuan nigh
there my dear and die in relief
that join forces by tomorrow's spring.
Sebastian Coe-Parliamentarian noted for Paralympics
Larry B Jun 2010
I learned to write poetry
From those bathroom walls
I even learned about life
From them ***** old stalls

I think one was even written
By Mr Edgar Allan Poe
Wait!, that might have said
David Allan Coe

One poem that I found
Was scribbled in red
Of course I can't really repeat
What that poem said

Some were so funny
They made me laugh real hard
I laughed til I cried
And my lungs were scarred

Here I sit so broken hearted
Was a poem that we made famous
But we never signed our names
In case they ever tried to blame us

Now some say that bathroom poetry
Just isn't very well known
But you just can't help but read some
While you're sitting on the throne

To *** or not to ***
I haven't made up my mind
But you have to admit, bathroom poetry
Is simply one of a kind
My sister Susan had disappeared
At the age of twenty four,
She’d gone on up to the attic room
And she’d locked and barred the door,
We beat, cajoled, and entreated her,
But she never would come out,
I said, ‘We shouldn’t have argued Sue,
I didn’t need to shout.’

My father came with his gravel voice
And demanded ‘Open up!’
He thumped and kicked on the cedar door,
And beat with a metal cup,
But there wasn’t even a whimper
As of somebody inside,
It was like she’d suffered a broken heart
Had crawled in there, and died.

We left her there till the morning,
Thought a night would calm her down,
‘She’ll come out once she is hungry,’
Said my brother, (he’s a clown).
But as the clock struck for dinner time
With not the slightest stir,
My father carried a battering ram
And ran right up the stair.

He stood and battered the cedar door,
He said it gave him pain,
‘I can’t afford to replace it, but,’
Then belted it again,
The door had splintered, the lock fell off
And he burst into the room,
But all that he saw were cobwebs, dust
And an air of deepest gloom.

‘Susan, where can you be,’ he cried,
‘There’s nowhere you can hide,
There isn’t even a window here
So you can’t have got outside,’
His voice rang out through the house and sent
An echo down the stair,
My mother burst into tears to hear
That Susan wasn’t there.

The police came over and climbed the roof,
Dropped into the attic space,
They hunted among the rafters there,
Looked almost every place,
There wasn’t a sign of Susan though
She’d simply disappeared,
‘The same thing happened to Grandma Coe,’
My mother cried, ‘It’s weird!’

‘She locked herself in the attic there
In the fall of forty-eight,
‘They thought that they heard her on the stair
When the hour was getting late,
But never a sign of her came back,
Then her husband, Grandpa died,
We always thought that she must be here
But somehow locked inside.’

We called the local clairvoyant in
And he brought his Tarot pack,
He stared long into his crystal ball
Till we had to call him back,
He chanted into the midnight hour
In a voice both loud and slow,
Till shuffling out of the Attic came
Not Sue, but Grandma Coe!

David Lewis Paget
dan hinton May 2012
Don’t waste your life on *****
Don’t waste your life on drugs
Don’t waste your life on women
Don’t waste your time learning a language you will never use
I did because I couldn’t be loved
Not when I wanted to
Not when I was young.
And I really needed to be loved
And as I grew up
I never stuck around
For people
I just kept riding off
Into the sunset
Trying to shake of a broken heart
They say forget the past
But the past has become so convincing
And the wound so pronounced
That its something I cannot overlook.
More like it creeps up on me
When I am alone with this mind
This mind that achieved alot
But achieved so little
Kissed so few women
Was loved so little
Had so few experiences in love.
It’s best to be stupid when you are young
And not have this pessimism hardening in your soul.
Like a dry bit of flesh
Protecting the tender wound
I’ve tried *****
I’ve tried laughing
I’ve tried staring at the ceiling
I’ve tried not caring
But this mother dies hard.
I can only survive
By listening to Waylon
And Willie
And Alan
And Merle
And David Allan Coe.
I'm going down
to the local bar
to see one of
the toilets.
I'm goin' to
try and be
a star..
see if the shoe fits.

I'm goin' to find
a beat whether
it's crap or rap.
I'm goin' to
put my hands
in my armpits
and hope to hell
I don't got the clap,
and shout it out
'cause it'll be about
something,
even if it's the *****.

Every time
I hear the phrase
'Hip Hop'
I think of Easter
being on its way.
I'm going to call me
Vanilla not so nice,
the whitey who rolls them dice,
don't get caught in no trap
like all those other mice.

Hell, now I'm flippin' house's,
what a way to land on your feet..
and I still hear my songs on the radio..
...not often mind you.

Lot's of people make mistakes
while others get some breaks,
Now I may have said some things
to get yourtail feathers up..
but don't you worry about me,
I can take the blow-by-blow.
It could be a lot worse don't you know.
I could be some numb nuts like David Allan Coe.

I could leave this one to rest
because it's most clearly
not one of my best,
but it woke me up one morning
and I had to right it down..


© 2012
(alternately titled: ah me go march'n home on derange)

I'll play the devil's advocate, yet
prepare a stance with pitchfork
     against misinterpreted faux attempt
     to describe, how whet
d'ya column re: immigration officials coe vet

patrol, police, and poison tranquil casa blanca
     where killer attack dogs fiendishly pin set
     ting sharp fangs at jugular vein of respectful,
     dutiful, and blissful (or at least

     prior to being sniffed out) innocent
     long time laborer on American soil now get
     ting Das Boot to their unfamiliar Motherland
     (despite living social
     as law abiding righteous folks) fret

full, cuz unfairly punished, and
     cruelly deported, dispirited, doomed
     pained visage non verbally articulates
     at un war rented deportation you bet!

with just a flick of the wrist
and alien hated, pigheaded,
     and xenophobic ventriloquist
bring back the Alien and Sedition Acts 

     with a Trumpeting Latina, Hispanic,
     and for good measure Mulatto twist,  
     where original writ (signed into law 
     by President John Adams in 1798), 
     historical footnote, aye cannot resist

spooking (like a ghost), those *** pill 
     born south of the border pooped and ******
in potties of this proud country, sans free and brave 
     now frightfully get flushed out 

glad to feign dis guise 
     as one among select Geronimo cadre 
     we henchman lubricate 
     wheels of injustice myst
     tuff hie hiding dark shadows 
     (along the edge of night) 

     thence paddy wagon comes 
     to screeching halt nabbing 
     an "illegal alien" name on hit list 
code word "bag dad" (biggest quarry)
     and score a win
     for Barren Trump Tah Mahal Incorporated

impossible mission special ops sentry slithers as trained
     fearless to shackle ******* ranked big hest
catch also including ***** prize,
     as you correctly guessed.
The Fire Burns Nov 2016
Crank the truck
Radios up loud
David Allen Coe
Sings out proud

Put it in gear
Head down the road
Willie sings
And lightens my load

If that ain't country
And whiskey river Take my mind
Send me down the road
New places I can find

Clint blacks next
At the stop sign
I sing along
Just killing time

Commercials now
Never stop I think
Then merle screams
Think I'll just stay here and drink

Country music gold
Radio clear and true
Hank Williams wails
***** tonk blues

Miles go bye
Thoughts of love inspire
Big john cash tells me
About a ring of fire

My ride is long
Where too?
The oaks chime in
With Bobbie sue

Singing and riding
Let the music ring
Waylon tells me
Bob wills is still the king

That may be true
But not what I say
Now George straits
Marina del rey

Circling back to home
And the end of my ride
Kiss an angel good morning
With Mr.. Charlie  Pride
Larry B Apr 2010
Well, I was gonna write a poem
But I can't remember how
I know words are involved
You know, like "thee" and "thou"

And I was gonna be famous
You know, like Edgar Allan Poe
Wait!, I think that was his name
Or was it David Allan Coe?

Yep, I was gonna be rich and famous
Til a friend of mine said
"You can't be rich and famous,
Til long after you're dead"

I knew right then I didn't wanna die
So a mediocre poet, I'd be
And if anybody ever said I was good
I'd say, "Huh?"... "Who me?"

Now words come easy to one like me
Course, I don't really know how to spell
But that just keeps me down to earth
We wouldn't want my head to swell

So if I write a poem that's really good
Don't say, "Great" say, "It's okay" instead
Cause I don't wanna be rich and famous
And I don't wanna turn up dead
Chalsey Wilder Mar 2014
I read all of our old messages
They make a bitter smile come to my face
They make a bitter laugh come out my mouth
I am glad you at least told me the truth

However,
The truth you told me makes me feel worst
And for some reason it makes me smile

How does that make me smile?
It made me laugh too

I really must be as pitiful and as messed up as you said I was

And Ne'coe said it too

I still find it amusing

He had a girlfriend who was a harlot
And he was a church boy
She cheated on him loads of times
He knew it, but was blinded and deaf by his love for her

Mirruh,
I don't know much about you
Maybe that's one of the reasons why we weren't ever friends
Sometimes I catch myself regretting not being good enough for you
But you knew me well
You told me how you felt about me
It almost crushed my heart at the time
But I reread those messages and laugh at how I want to cry
How I want to make you feel what I felt that day
I'm still holding on to what was lost when it was never found
I sometimes catch myself being that same pitiful way
The way you told me I was
I hate myself even more now
I hate being this way
I keep holding on
I don't know how to let go
How do I let go what I still want?
I got one of the things I wanted
It was what I denied
That I was pitiful
And I am messed up
I got her and Ne'coe to admit it the hard way
I set myself up for it
I'm glad you said it
Cause now there's no way for me to deny it
Cause you admitted it too
Her real name isn't mirruh but that's what we called her. Her real name is chyna. Ne'coe's girlfriend did cheat on him. But I can't personally say she's a harlot (she cheated on him a lot), but he loves her. I'm still trying to let go. And the funny thing is I guess I did want them to admit it, that I'm pitiful and broken. And they did. And I hate that I did that to them. Sometimes I wish we were friends again, but other times I don't. But now that I have found out I did want them to I will have to deal with it.
i could stare at your very photogenic (albeit invisible) countenance all day, all week, the entire month, this remaining year, at least one additional decade, boot no more than a century21!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Looking for a best friend, or...a wurst (liver) re: enemy.

brief bio Matthew Scott Harris doth briefly sketch
almost two win a half score years since me being:
Born January 13th, 1959

I shake my shaggy hirsute hair
in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow
begat thine conception,
when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa

begat their second offspring and only son,
what now seems to be a stepped-up pace,
where father time doth affix another candle to blow
where the passage of life measured

in swiftly tailored decades
denoting another birthday,
when with the blink of an eye,
I vividly recall crow

wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy
leisurely playing monopoly
for make-believe dough...
--------------------------------------------
nothing ranks as the greatest gift
since being a father twenty-one years ago
then bearing witness to grow
increasing autonomy

of my two precious daughters
whereby each will become master
of their domain, and meet a loving beau
(actually thy eldest dates
a delightful young man
from Puerto Re Coe),

whom intuition discerns would be
a near perfect match –
and this papa intuits dough
nuts to dollars – that such an
em man hint gentle, humble,

intelligent lad – doth ***
pa fully become the future groom
of said firstborn, (which outcome I know
wing couched in a couple of poems

sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo'
and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish),
where love doth most obviously abound mo'
then prevailed between myself and bride o'

mine these last deuce score
plus (21+) years, but now this Poe
whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she,
whose chose thyself as a lifetime
groom cuz peaceful status quo

avoiding animosity –
as thyself and spouse gently row
merrily...merrily...merrily
our quiet quite rickety craft
which oft times in the past needed a tow
off the craggy shoals of constant woe.
bass sic cully, plucking strings iz a ja
Cane Nines Har Able
   To Out Best playing cello yo yo Ma
so stated by this fretful pa

Ode per pooch pounding ruff
   sounding sub woofer.
Whew - all done taking a leak
   behind bushes of favorite vetch
tub bull patch so now,

   arf goes me dog gone
   bark a roll and ruff sketch
shod ye be least bit interested in this retch
in this faux paused muttering mongrel,

who (despite viscous rumors to the contrary)
nada a leech nor letch
boot actually quite a "good" fetch
and a fine prairie home companion –

even if yar tail got docked
   with out anesthesia by a pretty lass see
still...Yukon feel melancholy
nonetheless juiced buffer end me
like ya know throw
   a ***** en re:coe Fermi can catch.

Me - iz one hippie dawg,
who sports hair reed style like a veil
longish, and minimally groomed,
asper an antagonistic,
sans brothers Grimm tale

with no intent to rant nor rail
searching fur gallivanting
   female nursery rhyme minus a quail
boot...with jack and his pail,

which known storybook
   quite old as a rusty nine-inch nail
stating dogmatic, humanistic and lyric words
once adored by this older Socratic male

offers himself as a bona fide
   potential Petsmart call soul mate hale
and hearty without any major Def Jam ***** fail
yore, beardless yet scruffy,

   I wear spectacles rather bifocals bare
lee stay put on me snout
   to see the world more crystal clear
especially when chaste
   to impress a ***** in heat -

   like ye mud dear
whom height welcome
   letting me nibble on one or t'other ear
of yours, now trotting along on my yipping badinage
whim per with poetic trademark flair,

which doggerel seems unstoppable probably
from a malfunction milk bone shaped cerebral gear
aye attest trademark viz
   somewhat long wavy, course brown hair

might also involve well tangled follicular roots
affirming me to hear snapping jeer
ring boxer bullies, which floppy mop top in tandem
to firm undersized gluteus maximus or hmm rear
oft times incites other mongrels to stare

yet, the ability to camouflage
Ike **** sitter a bonus, akin to a camel lion
or if you prefer chameleon,
this trait stems when Aztec,
   my faux pas amidst Mayan

Runic ruins, where traipsing
   for long stretches of time
ah stopped to chat with Ryan
a local junkyard hound, which
   at human years over 100 keeps on tryin

to survive within
   dog eat horse meat world,
where canines sprang from wolverine zoo
and as a complete stranger introduced muss elf
as "man's best friend" to you

from a place in mind known as xandu
which could afford room enough for two
if ye would only stand or sit in this queue
similar to waiting in a cloistered pew

But better grab a place
   before places number few
from those who utter yabba dabba do.
I blithely admit not to be a stud
just a recent emigre hoisted himself out of the mud
from that antediluvian flood

like some garden variety muggle
   with a male member dud
but rather a regular bovine chewing his cud
and just wanna be a companionable bud.
no intent to be neither indecent nor lewd,

which rapid-fire reply
   helps my anxiety-riddled mood
unsure what level of interest exists
   toward this ordinary dude
for reasons and rhymes,
   i scratch my flea gnawed head and brood.
most people find my poetic attempts unclear

and get quite frazzled - with nostrils that flair
like some fire breathing dragon
   filled with rage and glare
all on account of human desire for friendship,

and some woman for me to care
which closeness worth
   far more than gems, jewels and trinkets
so...if a safe risk taking mood,
i would be interested for ye to share.

literary enjoyment and
   entertainment primary reason i write
from a little known wayfarer
that trawls the virtual seas this night

whereby my being pitched to and fro
which forces necessity
   to hold on with all me might.
care not for this playful male
ye seem quite desperate a guy to nail,

I could benefit from someone
to play the role of inxs bare naked lady
and super *****
   (ah bet she iz jist a cheap trick),
this jack rustle of no trades
   could enjoy a gal to hold his pale.
oh...fair and lovely princess

   in this surreal and virtual space
might thee put down the drawbridge
with mush ado of a quick pace
and no need to feign shock
   nor surround thyself
with defenses to brace
against some maliciousness on my part -

just a wandering troubadour able, eager, ready
willing to show his smart pedigreed fact sheet,
and maybe even other parts of his anatomy
with dignity and amazing grace.

Sangfroid persona makes joie de vivre
the perfect human to adopt, and more fun than a wii
ill that chased a monkey named zee
row, who aims tubby yar beau.
peak skill wafts milky aroma from ******* Eros they win
an apt pupil dial lates with a twin
thus…two orbital allies – seek carnal *** sass sin
while sunk kin their sockets, they scan yar scenic skin

drawing interest sharp as a pin
while testosterone pump kin
not cease…thus juiced hum ma gin
slicing ether of sea like an ocular shark fin
past yar eyes darting from toes ta chin

where ****** fantasies shift their shape
letting daydream let me lips braise the nape
of neck before shimmying with invisible escape
resorting to atavistic antics per great ape

within me twenty first skein of muscle and bone
especially verboten iced creamy country where
   this pal wannabe wants to drone
and in fair weather or foul would pine to hear ya moan

upon me milking tropic of cancer as ye lie supinely prone
regaling tulips and rivulet dribbling over miniature mossy stone
aware when proboscis nearing bulls eye by your purring tone
ecstatic I located an erogenous zone

mentally book marked careful not to slide nor slip
a live as one googly eyed earth linked yahoo excites
   pheromones on the outlook for purr act perch per verboten trip
could don role of aim mesh applying his little buggy whip

of ca horse heading to bird in hand
*******, paradise or some other place grand
dill a quaint as would be surmised as this animal
   a carnal, excitable, guttural one-man band
seething with hormonal secretions
   unfairly forced into a coe wide dill cell bait
   coveting to reach the integral female bad land.
Chalsey Wilder Feb 2014
I regret I wasn't good enough
I should have tried to be
I regret I didn't ask more
I should've asked more
I regret I whined too much
And I regret everything I did and didn't do
You told me everything I did wrong
I whined too much, I assume things, and I'm too attached to people and I make them uncomfortable
I don't know why I do it
I didn't really see it till you told me
I hate it
Makes me realize how messed up I am
I hated that you didn't even give me a chance to fix these things before you told me to "*******" after telling me how annoying I am
Then I realized
After what happened between me and Ne'coe I realize now that was my second chance to fix things
But
I didn't see it
I was too dumb to see it as a sign that I was the problem
That it was me
Not anyone else
I keep regretting
and I can't seem to stop
I keep over thinking everything I do or say to anyone
I hate regretting
because it makes my heart squeeze and crush under it's weight and it makes it heavy as oceans
And I'm doing it again
And again
And again
I keep reading the messages you sent me and it crushes my heart rereading it
All the reasons I was never good enough
Everything
And it makes me want to cry, but I can't
I haven't cried for anything for three years and I don't know why,
but I'm all cried out even after never crying
So I just try to fix these things you said, even though you won't want me anymore
And
I'll be a better friend for someone else
And if it helps
*I still care about you
I hate regretting. And I'll try to not make myself ever look foolish again. And I'll try to fix everything that's wrong with me.
(pronounced – u jai yah)

The following haphazardly cobbled together some few years past (initially as a reasonable rhyme), nevertheless sustained discipline yours truly mather of fact doth cotton metaphorical gin still spins (yarn not gonna believe poppycock) within livingsocial as outcast of poker flats pun gent, whereby I strive to meditate successfully daily upwelling groovy sensation some hours doth last balloons within me buoying airborne courtesy spiritual blast.

Approximately three plus decades ago, I became ambitious to learn Yoga Asanas blow pesky mind chatter away (postures) despite inflexible body non coe whopper rating adamantly refusing to bend doe like (no just at the knee), but essentially flow wing stretches, while uncomfortably seated go wing to floor.

Mine physique experiences non Joe veal extreme difficulty involved simply seating stiff - NO can do sitting, whence, bony **** versus slightly more addy Poe posterior padding (viz junk in trunk) at present. The status quo mutter hoof act honest to dog cross my heart ambition roe bust lee expended to do more than sit on floor. Even slow lee sliding downward muscular flexion quite, a temporary restraining order i.e. TRO figurative and literal stretch.

Nonetheless, this persevering Lake wobegon soul lowered slender body, (when eye attended class) at Yo Yo ma intentional community within Sumneytown, Pennsylvania named Kripalu Yoga Community, where residents adapt macrobiotic diet under too till edge via auspices of cherished founder (Amrit Desai, i.e. Guru Dev).

Before entering sanctified space everybody removed their shoes often (now and again) guests welcome to partake regimen at said rue **** men tree idyllic retreat offering general public an opportunity true lee worth effort to experience this alternative lifestyle.

Though “U” might already be a pro unlike me, who didst barely progress as aye re: view memories toward greater flexibility minimally made one lasting whew benefit constituted of deep breathing asper you dull lies segue-way into light trance intended meditative zooming into mindfulness away from rat race. Even to this day, an effort gets made to set space aside time to transcend cares and concerns trace sing worry lines from uncertain future, and vase a versa if conditions favorable induce lightness – erase sing major concerns of being if perchance, face shill contortion asper body doth trite hoo easy and grace full flowingly, gently, harmoniously, indubitably lace limbs one into another - joyfully, kinesthetically, at comfortable pace.

Ewe experience lambent maneuvering naturally, optimally, peacefully, quietly, surreptitiously, et cetera into deep sleep of a hilly Edenic mirage tenderly controlling inhalation, and exhalation might seem silly, sans breathing hopefully remains sustained.

As a novitiate practitioner with ***** Wonka, this magical, modality (qua zee moat *** modus operandi) regarding, striving toward ultimately vast wrestled xfinity, yielding zestful fling away global concerns all the while grappling dutifully attaining jingling mystical state of consciousness, (perhaps mental experience a king dome all to itself, similarly venerated, vis a vis basically comprehend ping pong per positive phrases analogy, asper anyone who reads and understands this ring gull ling communique) as I attempt to describe mesmerize zing, mindset mosaic explicit words seem da fish hint.

Thus analogous self induce hypnotic cerebral deep minted experience possibly more clear to envision without stinting the reeder. Nonetheless, the conscious, deliberate guided “high” kickstarted courtesy Ujjayi breathing, which tint head breath comprises breathing technique employed in different
variety of Taoist and Yoga practices.

In relational mash mich hug gun flint sparking neurons to ascend Yogic exaltation, where mindset doth glint within casting glowing countenance whispering the ocean breath.

The length and speed of breathing aid did, controlled by diaphragm, strengthening braid did mental fiber which purposefulness of ujjayi without being fanatical, an effort gets made daily meditation teasing envisioned in laid within wafting warm waves (comprising grade “A” leased half hour, but no more than twenty four). If time constraints un war rented ala limited restraints disallow currying pour forth, the course fostering, inducing limned score arching relaxation merely practicing to open a door slow prolonged breathing bonjour can deliver (pizza pie) energizing feel akin to flying like Icarus above urban jungle roar.
i could stare at your very photogenic (albeit invisible) countenance all day, all week, the entire month, this remaining year, at least one additional decade, boot no more than a century21!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Looking for a best friend, or...a wurst (liver) re: enemy.

brief bio Matthew Scott Harris doth briefly sketch
almost two win a half score years since me being:
Born January 13th, 1959

I shake my shaggy hirsute hair
in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow
begat thine conception,
when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa

begat their second offspring and only son,
what now seems to be a stepped-up pace,
where father time doth affix another candle to blow
where the passage of life measured

in swiftly tailored decades
denoting another birthday,
when with the blink of an eye,
I vividly recall crow

wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy
leisurely playing monopoly
for make-believe dough...
--------------------------------------------
nothing ranks as the greatest gift
since being a father twenty-one years ago
then bearing witness to grow
increasing autonomy

of my two precious daughters
whereby each will become master
of their domain, and meet a loving beau
(actually thy eldest dates
a delightful young man
from Puerto Re Coe),

whom intuition discerns would be
a near perfect match –
and this papa intuits dough
nuts to dollars – that such an
em man hint gentle, humble,

intelligent lad – doth ***
pa fully become the future groom
of said firstborn, (which outcome I know
wing couched in a couple of poems

sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo'
and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish),
where love doth most obviously abound mo'
then prevailed between myself and bride o'

mine these last deuce score
plus (21+) years, but now this Poe
whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she,
whose chose thyself as a lifetime
groom cuz peaceful status quo

avoiding animosity –
as thyself and spouse gently row
merrily...merrily...merrily
our quiet quite rickety craft
which oft times in the past needed a tow
off the craggy shoals of constant woe.
Thank ye immensely devoted sister Shari
   for availing Shana Aubrey
an expansive plethora of blessedly
   extravagant opportunities
wherein her anatomical fist-sized noggin i.e. grey
matter sponging up - less doable from me
the biological father, who validates
   your doting, helping, kickstarting,
   et cetera I clamor to see!
--------------------------------------------

Matthew Scott Harris Born January 13th, 1959

I shake my shaggy hirsute hair
in utter disbelief, when the cocked arrow
begat thine conception,
when meal ate mum and octogenarian papa

expected their second offspring and only son,
what now seems to be a stepped-up pace,
where father time
doth affix another candle to blow
where the passage of life now measured

in swiftly tailored decades
denoting another birthday,
when in the blink of an eye,
I vividly recall crow
wing like a Lil whippersnapper of a boy
leisurely playing monopoly
for make-believe dough...
--------------------------------------------
nothing ranks as the greatest gift
since being a father twenty-one years ago
then bearing witness to grow
increasing autonomy

of my two precious daughters
whereby each will become master
of their domain, and meet a loving beau
(actually thy eldest dates
a delightful young man
from Puerto Re Coe),

whom intuition discerns would be
a near perfect match –
and this papa intuits dough
nuts to dollars – that such an
em man hint gentle, humble,

intelligent lad – doth ***
pa fully become the future groom
of said firstborn, (which outcome I know
wing couched in a couple of poems

sent his way, and no doubt his smarts lo'
and behold revealed the slightly obscure wish),
where love doth most obviously abound mo'
then prevailed between myself and bride o'

mine these last deuce score
plus (21+) years, but now this Poe
whit aspires to recognize the worthiness of she,
whose chose thyself as a lifetime
groom cuz peaceful status quo

avoiding animosity –
as thyself and spouse gently row
merrily...merrily...merrily
our once quite rickety craft
which oft times in the past needed a tow
off the craggy shoals of constant woe.
Oh flibbertigibbet
****, heil (Stuart Little) let mice
self down dagnabbit,
no matter this lactose intolerant,

conscientious, consumer and avowed kit
and caboodle - ***** vegetarian,
who lacked true grit,
cuz he craved a ham, rabbit

and cheese sandwich that hit
the bunny phone
spot (courtesy pit
tickle yule lee
     of The Daily Bread

Community Food Pantry sit
chew waited at 3938 Ridge Pike
    Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426)
aye red deli admit
to fear with some darkly knit

shadow of a doubt reddit
lee, about being a boot
being smidgen afrit
of some powerful jinn crit
ture, demon, nor banshee

     making mincemeat out of me
     (Matthew Scott Harris),
whom now wants
to make quick exit
(and if fye sprouted

wings, would flit)
cuz, yours truly did coe vit
an insatiable app pit
tight carnivorous consumption
     where a craving awoke

like an addict hood needs a hit
ma tastebuds writhed with a bit
of minor seizure to let
me dentures bite to edit
mas exclusion of meat, and savor

     mouth watering satisfaction
as if masticating an illicit
substance, and all the while
     my awareness sans unethical
treatment of animals

went out figurative window
a disc credit
tummy sympathy for
     hogtied eggs eck rubble mitt
treatment steer

     ring agri business
to the mighty dollar,
     where die hard
slaughter houses will never quit!

— The End —