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I
Through vines indeterminate
Red cherry eyes peeped,
And spied two forms,
Fleshy pink and brown
Trees, tangled at the roots,
kissing in the canopy.

II
The garden was our
Discotheque, the sullen
Moonlight reflected
On the Black Beauties,
Twisted black mirrors,
in the garden of joy.

III
O, to again be mov'd
By your heirloom lips,
I'd give it all, the earth,
the sun, and the water.
A sacrifice: my Homesteads,
for a home.

IV
Soil runs dry.
The sun scorches.
Plagues run rampant.
We burn, we are sacked
and pillaged, and destroyed.
Roma, Roma, Roma.

V.
Maybe the rain,
Or sweet shade,
Or gentle sun,
Or simply the need
To be so defiantly
alive, will bring us again,
And I will drink you up again,  
Brandywine.
will Feb 2020
the brandywine has struck
from the tops of your cheeks
right down to you feet

you heard it from the birds
and heard it from the bees
now you're hearing it from me

the brandywine has struck
you're woozy and acting floozie
but you're never going to stop

not till you drip drip drop
straight from the bottle into your maw
it burns like your cheeks in the candle light
This is actually lyrics to a song I'm writing right now. They don't really translate well into poetry and I removed a lot of lines, but I thought it would be nice to get them out there. I got really frustrated with my ukulele chords while writing, so I took a break to post this here.
Aaron Blair Feb 2013
Sitting in a bathtub full of red,
I knew I had been disowned
by the waters of my youth.
No more would I wade into
the shallow green waters of the Blue,
tiny rocks and the shells of long-dead
mollusks digging into the soles of my feet.
I drained myself into the water,
imagined my blood swimming in the Brandywine,
swirling in the dark near the bottom of the Delaware,
letting go of itself, finally, as it flowed into
the arms of the end of the world,
as it broke upon the waves of the grey Atlantic.

Once, I caught a fish in the Cumberland,
I regarded its red-eyed terror with some of my own,
and when we threw it back, I wondered if it would live,
enduring in the water, a new scar in the soft flesh of its mouth,
an amulet against future harm, a fear of hooks dangling within reach,
and black shapes silhouetted against the bright noon sun
as it skimmed across the surface of the stream.
I never threw a hook in the water again,
but I found myself, time after time, drowning
in the palm of someone else's hand,
all for want of a river that would keep me
safely ensconced in its dark secret places.
Like the fish, I dreamed of hooks.

Imagine the end of the world.
Downtown in the dark,
the filthy Ohio snaking its way through the shadows
that fall upon the river valley.
The girl stops to smell the scent on the air,
but she doesn't quite understand what it means.
She has smelled it all her life, putrid water,
but she has never stopped to contemplate the source of it.
She never thinks she will have time to get to know the river intimately,
the way it will caress her slackening skin,
all of the days they will spend together,
on her journey to join the great brown Mississippi,
the river taking as much of her as it can get,
keepsakes to remember her by. It loves, as much as it can.
It loves the fields, the fishermen, the boats.
But most of all, it loves the girls no one wanted,
the girls no one could find. It holds them in its waters,
and when the time comes, it gently lets them go.

The city of my childhood glows white in the Midwestern sun.
The river running beside it is ugly, but not,
shimmering with diamonds of light that float upon its brown surface.
This is the river that breaks a continent in half.
It could take your home if it wanted to, your town,
everything you ever loved and anything that ever meant something to you.
It could break you, like the continent, only it would be easier.
You can cross the bridge, but you can't look down.
You know the river is waiting below you, implacable and constant.
For thousands of years, it has eaten the dead,
and killed some of those it wanted before we had decided to let them go.
Its bottom is haunted by boats, its ghostwaters are dammed with the corpses of soldiers
from wars as important to the river as the dragonfly hovering above the surface.
I look upon this river in my dreams, and it knows me.
The reflection it shows me is dark but true.
All of the rivers have known me.
I whisper their names as my skin becomes saturated.
I pray to the rivers of my youth,
but, like god, they never answer.
Inspired by The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers.

"In that moment, I disowned the waters of my youth. My memories of them became a useless luxury, their names as foreign to me as any that could be found in Nineveh: the Tigris or the Chesapeake, the James or the Shatt al Arab farther to the south, all belonged to someone else, and perhaps had never really been my own. I was an intruder, at best a visitor, and would be even in my own home, in my misremembered history, until the glow of phosphorescence in the Chesapeake I had longed to swim inside again someday became a taught against my insignificance, a cruel trick of light that had always made me think of stars. No more. I gave up longing, because I was sure that anything seen at such a scale would reveal the universe as cast aside and drowned, and if I ever floated there again, out where the level of the water reached my neck, and my feet lost contact with its muddy bottom, I might realize that to understand the world, one's place in it, is to always be at the risk of drowning."
ChawzzyScript Apr 2013
We sat cozily on the couch listening to Miles Davis
She, curled up with a glass of Chardonnay, me, a warmed brandy snifter
It seemed an eternity since we made time for each other like this
We enjoyed our home in silence, absent our attention grabbing offspring at Grandma's.

I savored the scent of her lavender infused body snuggled in my arms
Her beautiful brown eyes reflected flickered light
The candles we transplanted from our earlier bath, burned slowly
And "Kind of Blue" transported us as we held each other.

"May I have a sip of your brandy?" she asked coyly with a smile on her face
"Of course," I handed her my glass
"Not from your glass," her smile turned into a mischievous grin
The vanilla and oak from the brandy permeated the air above the gulp I took into my mouth.

My heart rate increased, my eyes closed, and our smiles met pressed together; Heaven is real...
Her lips parted, she pulled the brandy from me along with my tongue that now danced with hers
The fire of the brandy that left my mouth warm, now slid down her neck in one smooth swallow
We took great care in kissing each other, sensuously, passionately, time stood still, for us.

Luxuriating in this kiss, a tear fell from her eye, met only with the tears that fell from mine
As our mind's eye recalled the love we have endured over these adventurous years together
Brandywine never tasted this divine as from the lips of my beautiful lover
Lightheaded, more so from her than from the alcohol, I smiled and held her closer to me.

"I Love you Husband!"
"I Love you more Wife!"

-----ChawzzyScript
It was January 4th 1778, and once again the General had not slept well. He rose before dawn and as was his practice, he wandered down to the southern banks of the Schuylkill River.  Valley Forge had been particularly cold since New Year’s Day, and he was awaiting any word about new supplies being smuggled out from the friends his Army still had in Philadelphia.

The Congress had recently been moved and sheltered in York which was about seventy miles due West of his current position in Valley Forge.  The British had taken Philadelphia and were rumored to be encamped in the heart of the city.  Many residents had fled the Capitol just before the British arrived.  Fresh off their success at the Battle of Brandywine, they did not receive the warm welcome that they were expecting when they entered the city.  According to European standards, when you capture the capitol city of your enemy, the war is then over.  The problem with Philadelphia however was that this was not Europe — and Washington was no ordinary General.

Standing alone by the river’s bank, the General thought he saw something move in the tall grass to his right.  His first instinct was to draw his cap and ball pistol, but for a reason unexplained, he did not.  He called out in the direction of the movement, but no sound was heard.  As he turned to walk back to his tent, he saw a branch move and heard the same sound again.  Slowly, a figure about six feet tall emerged from the river brush.  As he walked slowly toward where the General now stood, it was clear this was no combatant, either Colonial or British — this was an Indian.

He walked directly up to the now still Washington and extended his hand.  He said his name was Tamani, and he and his people were living on three of the islands located in the middle of the Schuylkill River about two miles East of where they were now. The Lenape were a branch of the Delaware Tribe that had originally migrated South from Labrador.  They had populated almost all of southeastern Pennsylvania and especially those lands that bordered the Delaware River.  

The British had inflicted tremendous cruelty on the Lenape during their march toward Philadelphia and had driven the entire tribe from almost all of their ancestral lands.  The Colonists had been much kinder and had in fact been interacting peacefully with the Lenape back to the time of William Penn.

Tamani spoke very good English, and General Washington knew how to ‘sign.’  Sign was the universal language spoken by almost all of the indian tribes and was conveyed with a complex series of hand gestures.  After Tamani saw that the General could understand his words, he discontinued his ‘signing.’  Tamani told the great American leader that his people had been driven from their native lands along the banks of the Delaware and were now in hiding inside the treeline of three remote islands just a short distance down the Schuylkill.  

They would leave and go ashore every night to hunt pheasant and deer but always be back before dawn so the British scouts would not discover them.  Tamani was bitter and angry about what the British had done to his people, and he was also upset that the British had commandeered many of the Colonists homes in the city. The displaced were now living in rustic shacks along the banks of both the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers, and many of these Colonists were his friends.

General Washington asked Tamani if he had seen any British troops in the last several days.  Tamani said he had not and in fact had not seen any Red Coats any further west than Gladwyne or Conshohocken.   Washington asked Tamani how he could know this for sure.  Tamani said that he and his two sons knew of all British troop movements because there was a secret path on the other side of the river that ran all the way from Valley Forge to the falls at Gray’s Ferry.  Gray’s Ferry is where the British had a built a bridge that floats (Ferry) across the river this past winter, and it was their primary way to cross into the city from all directions South.

Washington was more than intrigued.  He asked Tamani how many members of his tribe knew about this secret trail.  Tamani said just he and his two sons.  Tamani had two sons and a daughter by his wife Wasonomi, but only the two boys had been down the 17-mile trail that paralleled the river on the far bank.  He also said that the trail could not be seen from the water because it was so heavily covered with native Sassafras and Poplars.

The dense brush made the northern bank impossible to see from either a boat or when viewed from a quarter mile away on the southern shore.  By keeping this trail a secret — Washington thought to himself — even the Indians knew that loose words sometimes trump the loudest canon.

Washington told Tamani that the only information he had received was from the few brave horse mounted scouts that had tried to infiltrate the city at night. They would then flee before morning with whatever local knowledge the remaining loyalists to the revolution could provide.  Lately, he had been losing more men than had been returning.  

Tamani told the General that by using the trail, he could pass totally unseen into the city on any night and return along the same route without the British noticing.  From where the trail ended at Grays Ferry, he and his oldest son had climbed the tall poplars and watched British troop movement both in and around the city.  The General now extended his own hand to Tamani and said: I need you to do something for me.

I need you to take me along this path and show me what you have seen. Tamani stood frozen for a moment as if he didn’t believe his own ears.  Here was the Great General of the American Army, the greatest general that he had ever heard of, wanting to make the 17-mile trip to Philadelphia virtually alone and unprotected by his troops.  Washington also told Tamani that he could tell no one of his plan.  

To ensure this, General Washington took the plume from his Tricorn Hat and presented it with great ceremony to Tamani.  He said: Tamani,  you and I are now brothers, and we must keep between us what only brothers know.  Tamani sensed the importance of the moment and handed Washington a small pouch from the breechcloth he was wearing.  Inside was the Totem of his family’s ancestry.  It was a small stone with a Turtle inscribed on one side and a spear on the other.  The General took the stone in both of his hands and placed it over his heart.  Both men agreed to meet again along the river’s bank at dawn of the second day.

For most of two days, Washington thought about his narrow escape at Brandywine and how these British had menaced him all along the Delaware River to this isolated field so far from where he wanted to be.  He had heard from one of his own scouts that there was British dissension within some of Howe’s troops, but he wanted to see firsthand what he might be facing.  At daybreak on the second day, he walked to the riverbank again.  This time he again saw no life or activity only a small fox with her yearling kits heading down the steep bank to drink.  

After twenty minutes, the General turned to walk away when he heard a whistle coming from the same bush as before.  He approached cautiously and there stood Tamani, but he was not alone.  He had two young men with him that looked to be about a year apart in age.   These are my two Sons, Miquon and Yaqueekhon, Tamani said, as he pointed downriver.  It is just the three of us who know the way along the river that leads to where your enemy sleeps.  Washington greeted both young braves by touching them on both shoulders and then turned to Tamani and said:.  I would like to take the path to the British, and I would like to take it tonight.

Tamani said that he and his two sons would be ready and waiting and that they could leave as soon as the sun was down.  Washington said he would like to leave earlier than that and that he would meet them where the river turns when it is the deer’s time to drink.  During the winter months that would roughly be 4:00 in the afternoon.   With that, the three native men turned away and disappeared into the trees.

Tonight, Washington would alert his men that he would be working and then sleeping at the Isaac Potts House, (better known as Washington’s Headquarters), instead of in his field tent which was his usual practice. He needed to be alone so he could slip away unnoticed along Valley Creek to where the Schuylkill turned and where he would then meet his three new friends.

The General had been spending most of his nights with his troops sleeping in his field tent high atop Mount Joy.  It was here that he was provided with the best views to the east toward Philadelphia.  He had felt guilty about sleeping in the big stone headquarters with the comfortable bed and fireplace for warmth when so many of his men froze.  Tonight though, there would be no sleep and no guarantee of what the morning might bring.  

With all the risk and challenge set before him, he approached it like every battle he had fought up until now.  This would be a fight for information and one that just possibly might allow him to formulate a timetable and a plan for his next attack.  He lit the candle in his bedroom window — as was his practice — and locked the door from the outside.  He then slipped out the side door of the big stone house and headed for the bank. It was now 3:45 in the afternoon and already starting to get dark.

As the General arrived at the bend in the river he saw two canoes pulled up on the bank and covered with branches of pine.  Standing off in the trees, about fifty feet from the two craft, were Tamani and his two sons.  Tamani greeted Washington as his brother.  He explained that they would take the two small boats downriver for what the whites called five miles, and then cross to the other side to begin their walk.

Washington was in a canoe with the older of Tamani’s two sons Miquon.  They paddled quietly for over an hour until Tamani ‘signed’ back something that Miquon quickly understood. From where they were now, on the right (south) side of the river, he signaled for them to head directly across the Schuylkill to the bank on the far side.  This was what the Delaware Tribe had always referred to as Conshohocken.  

As they reached the far bank, Tamani’s two sons quickly hid the canoes in the underbrush.  As Washington started to walk toward Tamani, Miquon took a satchel out of the first canoe and handed it to the General.  For your feet, said Miquon.  Washington opened the satchel and found a large pair of Indian leggings with Moccasins attached at the bottom.  These will help you to walk faster, said Tamani, as Washington sat on a log, removed his boots, and strapped them on.  In two more minutes, the four men were walking east on the hidden trail just ten feet from the north bank of the Schuylkill River.  They had 12 miles still to go, and the surrounding countryside and river were now almost totally covered in darkness.

I say almost, because there were a few flickering lights from lanterns on the far southern bank.  The four men listened for sounds, but heard nothing, as the lights faded and then disappeared as they progressed downstream.  Miquon told his father that they needed to get to the British War Dance before the moon had passed overhead (roughly midnight), and his father grunted in agreement.  Washington wondered what this British War Dance could possibly be but figured that he would wait for a more appropriate time to ask that question.

For two hours, the four men walked in silence.  The only sounds that any of them heard were the breathing of the man in front and the ripples from the approaching current.  The occasional perch that jumped in the dark while hunting for food kept them alert and vigilant as they continued to visually scan the far bank. The going was slow in many places, but at least the terrain was flat and well worn down.  Someone used this path on a regular basis, and the General couldn’t help but wonder not only who that might be but when they had last used it.

Tamani stopped by a large clump of rocks at the river’s edge and reached behind the smallest of the boulders.  He pulled out a well-worn leather satchel and laid it on the ground in front of the other three men.  Miquon reached inside and handed a small ball which was lightly colored to the General.  Pinole, Miquon said as he placed it within Washington’s open hand. Pinole, you eat, Miquon said again.  Tamani looked at the slightly perplexed General and said, Pinole, it’s ground corn meal and good for energy, you eat!  With that, the General took a bite and was surprised that the taste was better than he had expected.  

They lingered for no longer than five minutes on the trail and were again quickly on their way.  Washington marveled at the speed and efficiency of his Indian guides and again thought to himself: "The Indian Nations would have been very hard to beat if they could ever have come together as one force.  We could learn much from them."

The moon was almost directly overhead when Tamani raised his right arm directing the others behind him to stop.  There were lights up ahead and voices could now be heard in the distance.  Tamani told the General: One more mile to ferry crossing.  With that they proceeded at a much slower pace while increasing the distance between each man.  Tamani and Miquon had made this trip many times, but this was the first time that Yaqueekhon had been this far.  For Washington, the feeling of being back in his beloved Capitol, coupled with his hatred of the British, had his senses at a high level.  He felt an acute awareness overtake him beyond that of any previous experience.

Looking across the river toward ‘Grays Ferry’ reminded Washington of the many times he had played along the Rappahannock River in Virginia as a boy.  He moved to ‘Ferry Farm’ in Virginia when he was still young and when his father Augustine had become the Managing Partner of the Accokeek Iron Furnace.  Those days along the Rappahannock were some of the happiest of his life, and he secretly longed for a time when he could mindlessly wander a river’s banks once again — but not tonight!

Miquon now pointed to a tall clump of trees directly ahead.  They were right along the river’s edge and there were large branches that protruded out as much as twenty feet over the water.  Tamani said: We climb.

From this location, the four men climbed two different trees to a height of over forty feet.  Once situated near the top they secured their packs, looked off toward the North, and waited.  From this position they could clearly see Market Street and all of the comings and goings in the center of town.  Washington noticed one thing that gave him pause … he didn’t see any British soldiers.  Tamani told the General in a hushed tone that almost all of the soldiers were in German’s Town (Germantown) with only a small detachment left in the center of the city for sentry duty and to watch.

Why Germantown Washington asked?  This had been the site of our last battle, and he was surprised more troops had not been positioned in the center of town to protect the Capitol.  Too much food and drink, Tamani said.  It took Washington a minute to process the words from before. The British War Dance.  The Indians also had a sense for satire and irony.

                               The British Had Been Celebrating

Is it possible, the General wondered, that the British could still be celebrating their last victory at the Battle of Germantown, and could they have let the King’s military protocol really slip that far? Washington knew that General Howe was under extreme criticism for his handling of the war so far, and there were rumors that he might now be headed back to England to defend himself before parliament.

                                    When The Cat’s Away …

Washington’s impression of what he was now facing immediately changed.  He believed he was now charged with defeating a British force that had tired and lost faith in the outcome of the war.  In their minds, if capturing the new American Capitol had not turned the tide, and men were willing to freeze and starve in an isolated woods rather than surrender, then this cause was almost certainly lost. In that mood they decided to party and celebrate in a fait accompli.

                           A Revolutionary ‘Fait Accompli

For three more hours, they observed Philadelphia in its vulnerable and seemingly de-militarized state.  Many of the houses were empty as the residents had left when the outcome of the Battle of Brandywine was made known.  Washington closed his eyes, and he could see Mr. Franklin walking down Market Street and talking with each person that he passed.  He then saw a vision from deep inside of himself showing that this scene would be recreated soon.  The British couldn’t last in the demoralized state that they were now in. He knew now that it was more important than ever, for he and his men, to make it through the rest of the long cold winter, and into the Spring campaign of 1778.

Washington signaled to Tamani that it was time to go.  Before he left, he asked if he could borrow the Chief’s knife.  After climbing down the big poplar, he walked around to the side of the tree that was facing Philadelphia and inscribed these immortal words  — WASHINGTON WAS HERE!

All the way back along the trail, Washington was a different man than before.  If he had ever had any doubts about the outcome of the war, they were now vanished from his mind.  He asked Tamani and his two sons if they would continue to monitor the trail for him on a weekly basis.  They said that they would,and would he please keep their secret about being encamped on the three islands in the middle of the Schuylkill River.  They also pledged their help as scouts, in the coming spring campaign, against what was left of the British.

Washington pledged both his secrecy and loyalty to the Lenape Tribe and continued to meet with Tamani along the banks of Valley Creek until the winter had finally ended.  The constant updating of information that Washington had originally seen with his own eyes allowed him to formulate a plan that would drive the British from the America’s forever.  He was forever grateful to the Lenape people, and together they kept a secret that has remained unknown to this very day.

With all the rumors of where he slept, or where he ate, there is one untold rumor that among Native People remains true.  Along a dark frozen riverbank, in the company of real Americans, the Father of Our Country stalked the enemy. And in doing so …

                                            He walked !



Kurt Philip Behm
Andrew G Wendell Feb 2014
From the first time that I remember,
'til I penned this ode in September,
I never called him Chips (though many others did) --
Dad was always the name I used ever since I was a kid.
Separated were our ages by two score years and more.
In fact, when I was born -- he was fourty four.
He taught me to be interested in many many things,
for therein lies the essence of life -- with the joy that it brings,
(such as) trains, boats, music, science, photography, sports, and art to start,
... and then he'd tell me to pull his finger when he had to ****.
I learned from him respect for others, and to be clever;
and whether or not I received what I ought
I should always appreciate all kinds of weather.
Speaking of which, we'd lie side by side watching the nighttime sky
for lightning, bats, and satellites, and other things that fly by.
Chante et pleure - I sing and cry as I lie beneath the stars
and consider the physics of light, and matters of matter like Mars.
I'll never forget clutching a tree by a flooded Brandywine River
pleading and quaking in my shoes, in the throes of mortal terror
mortified as I watched my dad standing by the rushing drink --
-- ... taking pictures and movies, I think.
Family and friends mattered much to dad,
and keen was his memory of facts he had.
He was serious and fun; and I loved him a ton.
He'd pull a bully aside and tell him to go fish.
And I wish he was still here to correct my English.
So Chips, I would not even be here, I see
without you and mom both growing me,
and I'm grateful 'cause I'm sure that must'a took alot of energy.
I never told you there once was a time when somehow I felt like you;
and now that you have joined the cosmos, I'm sure that that feeling is true.  Occasionally, I am swept away by the tide of work and rhyme
but knowing you helps me stay afloat, and focus each snapshot in time.
The poem was born on 09/28/10
Robert C Ellis Dec 2016
The pulp of brandywine leaves thistle with the dew of dawn,
the strung lights accorded bronze
sashing of the crumbled brick sacrament situated beneath the crack-
break of December 21st, Christ, Nativity,
a triptych;  Wrench the whetted, gold seed the steed
of the Order, Clementine garland
and extension cords;
Altar of Santa Celia, burnished walnut shoes,
polished silver fillium.  
The wanton hymn of baritones and wisteria hung
from candlelit pictures  pressed
between rotted chicken boxes. Merry Christmas
Inevitable Nov 2023
The muddy water courses through our veins.
Exhaust fumes fill the air with each exhale you let out and I grew to love that smell,
even more so now.
Tearing up the yard and making sparks through the night, the roar of an engine echoing through the daylight, always knowing where
you were going...
We walked and rode miles upon hours, swam in the muckiest of waters and
counted stars more nights than not.
The **** smoke floating through the car and the sunroof open with music louder than the thoughts we were always running from,
and boy, lord knows we were always
running from something
.
If the police couldn't stop us, bullets couldn't hit us, not a fight we couldn't win,
who would ever tell us to live differently?
If there was ever a time I lived,
it was the hours I spent with you.
Sitting in silence, backing up even the most wrong choices but thats what brothers do.
Every move I take and breath I breathe will forever be in the name of you.
LLAJTHAKIDD
Wrote 11/29/23  @ItsInevitable229
(just in time for summer reading...
recounting emotionally disastrous campy turbulence)

Amidst a raft of fellow (Brandywine Valley
     Y.M.C.A) resident campers
     who, didst excitedly quiver
donning a "NON FAKE" lifejacket

     coursing down swiftly
     moving Youghiogheny river
(evidenced by small hairs along spine),
     that caused me animatedly to shiver

this predisposition prevailed despite
punishing revenge didst stamp excite
me inducing suppressed
     giddiness to take flight

against self toward parents,
     who did light,
a conspiratorial idea
     countered meek self spite

compared to their hefty might
forced me to attend ("dumb")
     sleep away camp
     for about a fortnight

whereupon, being dropped off "bright"
brainchild idea awoke around edge,
of my consciousness,
     where figurative hatchet cleft a wedge
vis a vis, an immediate

     avowed personal pledge
sworn against experiencing even
     one iota of fun (a ha...so there) ledge
er domain mental prestidigitation
     could not dredge

countervailing loathsomeness naysaying fun
in any weigh, shape or form
     pertaining to this sole son
but, matter of fact

     adventuresome giddiness gave run
     for metaphorical psychological money,
     and much to my chagrin
     gleefulness didst stun

into silence malevolent
     anti yippee surge
crept into the noggin of this
     chaim yankel and could not purge

this meta static Grinch,
     who could not steal away
     euphoria that inevitably didst emerge
unable to root out,

     and suppress nemesis foe
men ting misery, but an inescapable glow
manifested when father
     and mother end of Jeff session

     came back, and said "hello"
when, and I immediately replied with emphatic "NO"
in regard to having a good time oh
mitt ting like a lump pin pro

let tarry yet exerting will
     power to asphyxiate
a faint bubbling of attraction
     toward a darker skinned

     slender cute teen age girl
though at that stage
     oblivious how to create
friendship, thus aye

     vividly recall to this date
hop scotched potential summer romance
     which induces regret to emanate
cursing forsaken ill fate

now, feel deplorable
     for stifling relationship
     slid into behavioral sink (of this got
     ham) fore'r tortured
     within iron barred gate.
(just in time for end of summer reading...
recounting emotionally disastrous campy turbulence)
intended food for thought indulgence.

A boys' life aborted
miscarried golden opportunity
for adolescent romance to be courted.

Amidst a raft of fellow (Brandywine Valley
Y.M.C.A) resident campers
seething with hormonal secretion to canoodle
who, didst excitedly quiver
donning a "NON FAKE" lifejacket
coursing down swiftly
moving Youghiogheny river
(evidenced by small hairs along spine),
that caused me animatedly to shiver
snuffing out potential fortitude
gained late in mein kampf,
whereat yours truly a creaky giver
even scores of years later deliver
to sender nowhere to be found.

This predisposition prevailed despite
punishing revenge didst stamp excite
me inducing suppressed
giddiness to take flight
against self toward parents,
whose puny singular offspring
smallish in stature of height
who did light,
a conspiratorial idea
countered meek self spite
compared to their hefty might
forced me to attend ("dumb")
sleep away camp
for about a fortnight

whereupon, being dropped off "bright"
brainchild idea awoke around edge
of night bordering my consciousness,
where figurative dark shadows
courtesy Molly Hatchet cleft a wedge
vis a vis, an immediate
avowed personal pledge
sworn against experiencing even
one iota of fun (a ha...so there) ledge
er domain mental prestidigitation
could not dredge

countervailing loathsomeness naysaying fun
in any weigh, shape or form
pertaining to this sole son
but, matter of fact
adventuresome giddiness gave run
for metaphorical psychological money,
and much to my chagrin
gleefulness didst stun

into silence malevolent
anti yippee surge
crept into the noggin of this
chaim yankel and could not purge
this meta static Grinch,
who could not steal away
euphoria that inevitably didst emerge
unable to root out,

and suppress nemesis
flitting hither and yon to and fro
fomenting misery, but an inescapable glow
manifested when father
and mother end of Jeff session
came back, and said "hello"
when, and I immediately
replied with emphatic "NO"
in regard to having a good time oh
mitt ting like a lump pin pro

let tarry yet exerting will
power to asphyxiate
a faint bubbling of attraction
toward a darker skinned
slender cute teen age girl
though at that stage
oblivious how to create
friendship, thus aye
vividly recall to this date
hopscotched potential summer romance
which induces regret to emanate
cursing forsaken ill fate
now, feel deplorable
for stifling relationship
slid into behavioral sink (of this got
ham) fore'r tortured
within iron barred heaven's gate.
Zubair Hussaini Feb 2011
I am the dreamer
Fantastical possibilities
and countless opportunity
constitute my reality

But now he's all grown up
and dreadfully practical
With nary a dollop
of anything whimsical.
I'm afraid the dreamer
has become quite practical

I am the pragmatist
Benign equity
and rising amenity
fabricate my reality

But he's wandering on a path of his own making,
never seeing a destination, pining for Mirkwood's treetops
and wishing for the carefree flow of the Brandywine
Who would have guessed ambition and obligation
would lead right back to the folly of childhood?

I am Zubair
Innumerable contradictions
and multifaceted reflections
make up my personality.

— The End —