Another Marvin O'Hannigan Fillimigroo Write
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Marvin O'Hannigan Fillimigroo
Did not like the color blue.
It was far too blue,
To suit his taste.
He would have preferred
To unblue blue
Post-haste.
He did not care for the color red,
Or the shade it made
Inside his head.
For it was far too red
To suit him, so
The red, he said,
Would have to go.
Every subtle hue of purple he
Disliked with such intensity
Both his eyebrows would curl tight
And he'd grit his teeth with all
His might,
Insisting, as young
Marvin would,
That the color purple
Was of no good.
And in his own clever
Point of view,
Marvin O'Hannigan Fillimigroo
Believed that orange filled no purpose.
And that pink was nothing but a circus.
Both dreadful colors,
With shades and hues
No eight year old
Would ever choose.
He was, of course,
So very clear
He did not want a yellow near.
That color racked inside his head
Of things his Uncle Phil had said,
That yellow comes from garden slugs,
And oozes from the ears of bugs,
That yellow is what's left behind
When a katydid sneezes on the window blind.
It is the shade of yuck, as Marvin would say,
And he planned to keep that yuck away.
But on Sunday, May the twenty-third,
Marvin was certain he had heard
A greenish sound from way outside,
Beyond the neighbors subdivide.
He took the stair steps three by three
And ran out back under the tree
And looked as high as he could see,
When he noticed first a honey bee.
It buzzled up and through the dew
That glistened off the young bamboo.
Then disappeared into the light
That made the morning seem so bright.
He closed his eyes and listened more,
Which gave him ample reason to explore
The ups, the downs, the highs, the lows,
And wherever the greenest green-thing grows.
The sound he heard within the breeze
Made its way through the sycamore trees,
And he hunted low, then hunted high
This green-green sound that whispered by.
It harbored near the kettledrum,
Which was now the haunt of old chewing gum,
And he crept upon it from the side,
Without a sound, his brown eyes wide.
There was a charribbit, then a snizz,
Followed by a brumping, breathing whizz,
And he followed that collumping sound
To the kettledrum, and looked around.
There it was,
His green-green thing.
'Twas the greenest green
He'd ever seen.
With eyes that watched him watch it back,
As clever as a yellow jack.
It had four green slimy feet
Hidden in the loaming peat,
And plops for toes that plopped to here,
Nothing an eight year old should ever fear.
Marvin O'Hannigan Fillimigroo
Nodded primly deep inside,
Stared down at the green-green thing
With an inkling of real pride.
"Now that's a color," he said at last,
"The very best I've ever seen!"
And from then on the only color he liked
Was the green-green-green of green.
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Copyright © 2010 Richard D. Remler
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“It always looks darkest just
before it gets totally black.”
-Charlie Brown
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If you like a poem, like it. If you hate it, hate it.
It's ok.
Takes like a moment to press that button.
I'm sure no rifts in time will spawn the apocalypse.
What Harry says I dont have a clue..
I do not understand its point of view..
Hungry perhaps? but haven’t I just fed you?
Tell me Harry ... I really don’t know what to do
All you do is play and sleep
You MEOWS till its time for you to eat
One day you scarred my tender back
No peace at all when I watch T V
I walk to the kitchen you follows me around..
On the dining table you walk round and round..
I am mad, Throw you to the ground..
you keep coming back and your eyes .. your eyes are so wide and round..
Oh Harry come around...
And fight again for a position upon my head...
………………………………..
Marvin O’Hannigan Fillimigroo
Crossed his arms and frowned.
The thought of eating
Black-Eyed-Peas
Did not at all seem sound.
The entire Black-Eyed-Pea idea
Seemed rather frivolous
And odd.
Why, he would never eat
A Black-Eyed Pea,
Not even in its pod.
He’d stare at them
And they’d stare right back.
Their eyes narrowed
To shades of black.
He’d see their fangs,
Their glare, their claws,
And he doubted even
Santa Clause
Would approve of finding,
As of late,
A Black-Eyed-Pea
Upon his plate.
Now,
Marvin O’Hannigan Fillimigroo,
Never did anything
He did not plan to.
And on the list he’d compiled
Of things never to try
The Black-Eyed-Pea ranked
Considerably high.
Just the name of the pea
Caused his stomach to churn,
His right eye to twitch,
And his nostrils to burn.
The hair on his arms
Would all stand on end,
Something young Marvin
Could not comprehend.
So he waited, and waited,
Then waited some more,
Just to clarify things,
And perhaps underscore
The fact that
Marvin O’Hannigan Fillimigroo
Had no intention of ever eating
This Black-Eyed-Pea stew.
Eating them was probably
Like eating pasty pumpkin eyes,
Without the benefit or joy
Of old fashioned pumpkin pies.
To hide their taste with butter sauce,
Or drown them in a stew,
Seemed impractical, illogical.
No! Black-Eyed Peas
Would never do
The taste they'd leave upon his lips
Would numb his very fingertips,
And make his ear lobes prick and twitch,
And the tip-top of his nose would itch.
But since Marvin was but
Only seven years old,
He usually had to do
As he was told
“You’re not leaving this table, ”
Said his Father, displeased,
“Until you’ve eaten every one
Of those Black-Eyed-Peas.”
But Marvin was stern,
And he had no intention
Of ever eating a recipe
Of this concocted invention.
“If it’s as good as you say, ”
He stared up at his Dad,
“Why don’t you eat it
If it isn’t that bad? ”
And his Dad crossed his arms,
Looking down at his son.
“I’ve eaten my Black-Eyed-Peas,
The whole lot. Every one.”
“The big ones, the round ones,
The flat ones, the tall ones.
The brown ones, the black ones
The fat as a ball ones.”
“I have eaten a rather
Impressive amount
Of Black-Eyed-Peas
To ever take count.”
So Marvin thought, and he thought,
And he considered a plan.
After all, Marvin was special,
He was his own man.
He looked up at his Dad,
And he let his eyes shine.
“Dad, if you’re still hungry,
You can always have mine.”
Copyright © 2010 Richard D. Remler
Marvin O'Hannigan Fillimigroo 101014/4
**If you like a poem, like it. If you hate it, hate it.
Nothing wrong with that. Click something colorful and see what happens
Please let me have several weeks
So that my anxiety can decompress
Several weeks
That I might feel comfort again
With you
Give me several weeks
So the furniture is gone
And we can properly pretend
That there is no history
Past or future
Only the present
Cause you don't need this
And this is just practice
For your epic
If you don't
Stop for a month of Sundays
And really think about
What it is you're writing
Who you're antagonizing
I guarantee that you'll never
Ever
Have time to formulate it all
Type for a month
And you'll never get far enough
To encourage bindings
NO more
Fix that
All that bullshit
That makes you RAMBLE
Yeah I said it
You run on at the mouth
Just kiss me
Tell me how you feel
With the mustached upper lip
And your fat bottom lip
Leave me mouth insides
That I have to wipe off
Several weeks before you leave me a poem like this
Don't do it.
I'll leave something that like this
Raucous. On blast. Larger than life.
Don't fuck this up.
I JUST got you a job.
The rope to the anchor of my heart is frayed.
I saw the world spin
Within my black cup of coffee
Stirring it
I heard the clinking
Of my metal spoon
Like it was the radical
And desperate voice
Of a dying generation
It was only Sunday
When night set in
As I sat in the outskirts
Of my own conscience
Tonight I will write
I will write until I create
The best poem I have ever written
Those are the words
That will destroy my insides
As I endlessly repeat it
I am nothing
This ink is my blood
I mutter over and over
Looking at the world
In a coffee cup
Hopelessly spinning
Around
Around
Around
youth–
someday soon we’ll sit in silent solitude
content and cautiously counting hours
until mid-august’s arrival;
and on that day i’ll wonder to myself:
is this the best that i can do?
– your dearest beauty
Themes of time, regret, love, and mediation
matter little
in this world.
The poems we write
aren't aimed to make us famous
or even
known.
It's the mapping of the mind
through the expression of words
and the knowing
that I can write anything
I feel
and get away with it.
I am the diety
of a self-proclaimed
thought
charged and released
in the form
of a
poem.
So write on!
Even in vain
if the direction of your
goals
is to become some
indication of someone
we should all respect
and know
for his or her
works.
It is
what
it is.
Mostly.
There are a few
that will be recognized
and who knows
why?
We're all poets.
What makes someone
else's work
more meaningful?
I've been told
by people I know
that it's all about
the people
you
know.
I. (The Real Poetry).
All these notions but nothing on the page.
Haven't we heard it all before?
Impetus from departed greats
wash ashore in our brains
but when confronted with an void white meadow
our hands go numb,
glued to the roof of a freezer.
This idea of mine is big, challenging,
but so far only a few thousand letters
have made dirty snow angels.
In its place, poetry.
Swifter to write, to read.
No rhymes usually,
just haphazard feelings lurching out my head
like a turquoise waterfall.
Sure I pace round the room
waiting for the next line to evolve
but who doesn't?
I write about real people,
people I speak to, people I know.
Do they know it's them when they skim my work?
Perhaps yes.
Perhaps they don't read them.
Perhaps best for all of us.
The book remains unseen, incomplete
while real poetry rushes into the world
like another superfluous boy band
playing more vapid pop.
Numb them instead.
II. (The Wind).
On a bench
in the garden
I sit with her
as she rests her frizzy Goldilocks
on my shoulder
and says I shouldn't go on Sunday.
A few years younger,
sweet and out of bounds.
Out. Of. Bounds.
So why am I holding her hand?
Doesn't mind from what I can tell.
She likes me.
No she can't.
When does 'the other side' ever like this?
I've told her about the one back home,
how she could be superseded.
I'll disclose, for a while now
I've seen photographs
and wondered what if,
what if the same way too feeling
snaked up the ladders
and throttled me?
What would her sister say?
'He's only been here four days
and look at him, cuddling
the queen of yesteryear.'
Her sister comes out, surprise, joins us.
Say no words, look at stars overhead.
The direction of the wind is altering.
Must be.
I unzip my eyes.
III. (The Sun and the Moon).
Half eight
a year or so in the distance
on a Wednesday morn.
A car.
Neither of us can drive as I write.
One of us is about to though.
London.
Why?
To meet friends.
Another reason?
A show.
A show of sun and moon.
A sporadic delight like a white Christmas.
I say to P it's one of those events
that must be attended.
I'm what, twenty-one?
She's gotta be twenty-four, five?
When will this ever come about again?
Have to acquire this chance.
He says if she'll be aware of the poem,
the one I scrawled down some time ago.
Doubt it, but you never know.
You never know.
Maybe it's true.
A young, beautiful girl
with a hat and a guitar.
There's something you don't see every day.
To the city.
Rejsen begynder.
Explanation: This collection of three short poems were written in my own time, taking much longer than normal to complete. The first of the three poems refers to my life at the moment; how I long to write prose but how I am finding poetry easier and quicker to come by. The second poem refers to a recent dream I had involving a friend of mine whom I have not seen in a long time. Upon awaking, I was quite startled at what the dream had been about. The third poem refers to a recent lengthy daydream in which me and a friend at some point in the future decide to go and see the Danish singer Soluna Samay, who is giving a rare performance in London for some reason. The final line translates from Danish as 'the journey begins.' I chose the title 'The Current' for this piece as the three separate poems above refer to current/recent thoughts and things in my life.
I don't find my poetry to be funny.
You do though.
I don't know why.
You do though.
I let you read the poem I wrote you.
You laughed.
I asked, "How's it funny?",
You made fun of how I cried for you.
I wondered how my pain made him laugh.
You just kept laughing.
It hurt me seeing my kindness go to waste.
You just didn't care.
I'm still just happy I get to hear your voice.
I'm just happy I get to see you blush when you're around me.
I'm just even lucky to have you care for me.
I'm in shock you stay near me.
I'm crazy yet you stay.
Don't know why though.
I can only guess.
Won't tell you why though.
