A forward rush by the lamp in the gloom,
And we clasped, and almost kissed;
But she was not the woman whom
I had promised to meet in the thawing brume
On that harbour-bridge; nor was I he of her tryst.

So loosening from me swift she said:
“O why, why feign to be
The one I had meant—to whom I have sped
To fly with, being so sorrily wed,”
’Twas thus and thus that she upbraided me.

My assignation had struck upon
Some others’ like it, I found.
And her lover rose on the night anon;
And then her husband entered on
The lamplit, snowflaked, sloppiness around.

“Take her and welcome, man!” he cried:
“I wash my hands of her.
I’ll find me twice as good a bride!”
—All this to me, whom he had eyed,
Plainly, as his wife’s planned deliverer.

And next the lover: “Little I knew,
Madam, you had a third!
Kissing here in my very view!”
—Husband and lover then withdrew.
I let them; and I told them not they erred.

Why not? Well, there faced she and I—
Two strangers who’d kissed, or near,
Chancewise. To see stand weeping by
A woman once embraced, will try
The tension of a man the most austere.

So it began; and I was young,
She pretty, by the lamp,
As flakes came waltzing down among
The waves of her clinging hair, that hung
Heavily on her temples, dark and damp.

And there alone still stood we two;
She once cast off for me,
Or so it seemed: while night ondrew,
Forcing a parley what should do
We twain hearts caught in one catastrophe.

In stranded souls a common strait
Wakes latencies unknown,
Whose impulse may precipitate
A life-long leap. The hour was late,
And there was the Jersey boat with its funnel agroan.

“Is wary walking worth much pother?”
It grunted, as still it stayed.
“One pairing is as good as another
Where is all venture! Take each other,
And scrap the oaths that you have aforetime made.”

—Of the four involved there walks but one
On earth at this late day.
And what of the chapter so begun?
In that odd complex what was done?
Well; happiness comes in full to none:
Let peace lie on lulled lips: I will not say.

a shredded bath mat, a Dead Sea salted bath, and a cold root beer
you want vino veritas vignettes,
color commentary, stray dog thoughts
time lapsed into a ****** single poem wood,
ha ha ha you can't handle the falsified lies
that constitute a sad man's disfigured truths

nobody cares that failure contretemps
inhabit every other thought,
his own sounds of silence sung repetitiously,
every severed second a new verse
coughed up and cursed,
emptying your verbal purse,
snorting with disgust
at your own claptrap vetted pomposity,
who gives a ****...

what I got is the ability
if you can call it that,
to cerebralize verbalize
every eye picture, inputted impulse,
knowing in the fullness of the unwell
that hash for breakfast ain't
suitable for mass consumption

a shredded bath mat,
a Dead Sea salted bath,
and a cold root beer
begat a poem of knowing nowing
a pretend poet meowing what he seen,
what he got temple pounding

Fogelberg sings Auld Lang Syne,
swig down the root beer,
thinking that is one freaking good song,
a life reviewed on the HP stage,

his lyrics modified
with only a tune he can hear

no one will like this,
as it should be,
don't like it me neither,
double negatives for rule busting emphasis,
the only point, ending circumscribed,
curcumsized  by children who don't love,
an ex wife hateful ***** man-enslaver,
this close || to losing your job,
*** is the new ***,
ain't it pc
to singalong
standing on a shredded bath mat,
fresh from a Dead Sea salted bath,
and having drunk a cold root beer,
Crosby Stills & Nash chiming in
teach the children well
their father's hell
will slowly go bye

and this is a poem

that I didn't write,
just reported the here and the there,
and the nothing in between

Eyes ajar, still can't gaze far
No one dies, still feel subpar
Time flies & the days say their goodbyes
& you won't know my struggles, there's no memoir
Don't like to parade my weakness
I lust for people to see the value of my uniqueness
So bye trust, I can't reclaim you
Heart's inflamed & my mind hurts too,
I blamed & despised myself, so curse you
Find it hard to love, because it brings pain too
Yet I still seek validation regardless
I'm aware of my low valuation,
But please take me irregardless
This desire to be held needs to be quelled
Numerous attempts have been withheld
Inner contretemps between fear & paranoia
Has been ruinous. Don't feel contempt; I'm in ruins

Everyday, A New Person

Stop!** Lest you think,
This is some poem, of a nature serious
I warn you with supercilious contempt
This is a mischance, a contretemps,
This is a dumb poem, like Suntan Lotion^
Inspired by that silliness's Broadway success,
About how everyday, I awake,
A New Person,
With a new designer hair styling

O Yeah, I gotta grip the sink counter,
When I see how my pillow friends^^
Have revenged themselves the night prior,
Upon awakening, I contemplate suicide by pills
But more labor saving for the undertaker I usually choose
Setting One's Hair On Fire

It be awful, it be ridiculous
That my hair defies gravity
Standing straight up,
After a night of lying down,
This is the product of rocking out to the
Hardest of hard rock n' roll.

Now I am a man,
Re hair and grooming I ain't usually
Prioritizing and swooning,
But get this,
It takes a tube daily,
Of alcoholic gel,
To get my pop,
To do the 'lie flat down flop'

When my woman strokes my hair,
She doesn't think I notice,
How she subtle slides her hand down my shirted arm,
To dispose of the newly acquired kitchen grease,
I sometimes, on really bad hair days,
Need to employ to encapture my Grayed Fleece

No faking joke, my mind out strokes
When I look at what handiwork
Has worked me over,
Multi-directional, punk sensational,
I swear it also has changed colors!

No unrequited love, just requited hate
For my torqued, drugged, twisted hairy fate,
Two minutes to write this idiotic ditty,
Ten minutes to nerve to open my eyes to look twice
At what the hairie fairies mischievously hath wrought,
Is unbalanced, demand a recount, a fair fight sought

Soon it will be clear, if you think this poem amusing,
Be in readiness for an Ode to the Haircut upcoming,
Be in readiness for an opera, entitled naturally,
Get Thee To The Barber of First Avenue
As soon as I get the nerve to leave the bedroom.

A Friendship gone sour
till the final hour

Tears streaming down my face
for the one i'd come to hate

Do you think we'd be friends 3 years from now?
That kind of talk was disallowed

But little did I know
that day would come to be
when the friend of 3 years
would move without telling me

We had our fights
Our little contretemps

Remember in the end
You were the one that left

Thus the fight seemed to do the deed
It broke us apart in our last times of being

Glances from you
who did not speak
I wondered what you wanted
yet I never made a peep

We laughed the week before
But never dared to do more
for we weren't as close as we were before


Anyhow
*Maybe we'll meet up in New York 3 years from now

Dear agonised thing,
Older yet still young,
Thank you for being yourself,
For trying your best,
For being worn down and feeling broken,
Even if we don’t know the use
At least we both got through.

You think you’ve given up
Oh so many times
Just walking through disasters,
Proceeding until it’s done,
It’s over now,
You’re okay,
I promise.

I know you’re weary
Of all the next contretemps,
I know you don’t want to
Spare a thought on it
I’ll say this to you instead:
That it’s safe now,
And you can be safe here and
We’ll hold onto each other,
Because you are my safety
And at the end of the day
All we really have here
Is ourself.

"AHHHH PADDY IS IT YOURSELF THAT'S IN IT?"
( In memory of Paddy Kavanagh )

"Howya Paddy!"
I address him
in the friendleist of terms

Paddy doesn't say a word
as not only is he dead
but a statue into the bargain

I switch to
thought-thinking
"Ahh that's better!" snaps Paddy

"I suppose ya couldn't
wipe that pigeon poo
from my left eye?"

he clocks on that
today I am
bicycle-less

"Where's the wheels?"
he asks gruffly
"Dead!" I almost cry  

"Dead is it
ya don't tell me!"
"Dead surely!"


"Cycling to an interview
I was so I was
and a posh car knocked me down!"

"Terrible,,,terrible!" Paddy sighs
"But sure tell me
did ya get the auld job!"

"Indeed I didn't and sure
wasn't it the interviewer
that knocked me down!"

"No...no!" he whistles
through his teeth
I hoosh a pigen off his head

we had a bit of a contretemps
about signalling
I said I had...he said I hadn't

"Listen..." says the statue softly
a drop of rain
landing on his chin

"Ya wouldn't read
one of me poems
ta me....would ya?"

"I would to be sure
sure isn't that the why
I've come here today!"

and so I begin
the daily ritual
turning my voice into his words

"Every old man I see..."
and I see his old ghost smile
"In October-coloured weather"

Seems to
say to me
I was once your father"

"Ahhh!" the statue says to me
"Yer a grand man...a grand man
so ya are!"

Translated by Jarek Zawadzki

Tell me, Mother, do, at least in a dream
And I'll believe you that it's so up there,
So still and windlessly as it might seem
For when I put my ear unto the bare
And frozen ground, with a reunion theme
The ground comes up, that we should join forever
In a union that no contretemps will sever
And that, transformed, we'll take the likeness of
A philosophical and wordless love,
But you won't tell the things I can't infer
Or maybe you are not exactly sure
I think that, as if lyrics immature,
You tease me like a Christmas caroler.

Wieslaw Musialowski 3/8/2007

Next to me was this one
and her feet were never still
she twirled and span through contretemps
and likely always will

That one had intensity
but never said a word
from blackened fingered canvases
his voice could still be heard

These two stood in spotlights
and held everyone in thrall
performing other’s stories,
their own a quieted call

And the group raised up their voices
which entwined and fit so well
and the chorus spoke of everything
they’d never usually tell

These memories, these children,
who moved, who drew, who showed,
who sang unguarded clarity
while the emptiness bellowed

Used to have us allies
used to have us care,
now, become statistics
now, are never there

Holding on so tightly to the final shreds of me
    I need to run and howl the forests down.
        I need to pound into submission
            Everything that jumps to bite me.
               I need to find a breath not gasping,
                  Hand on heart that isn’t racing,
                       Stomach free from panic acids.

Calamity stacked on disaster
   Perched atop catastrophe;
      Mishaps nestled in misfortune-
         Contretemps my middle name.

Fourteen traumas in a listing -
   Some stretch over several years.
     Stress points top the nation’s debt.
       Hated where I should be loved-
          Pushed harder when I should be resting;
             Attacked when I should be applauded-
                 Do I live in the Twilight Zone?

With the end of weeping, silence-
   Save the endless humming in my ears.
      Eyelids sore, too red and swollen
         Let the door and phone bells ring
            I have no things with which to answer.

How can fate keep spawning badness
   Coming up with innovative forms
      To slither out and trip me as I stagger by
         Trying to create tomorrow from the wreckage of today.
ljm

to my long deceased mom...
Harriet Harris née Kuritsky

My mother succumbed to a terminal illness
two score minus three orbitz passed away
no matter she fought tooth and nail
to keep ovarian/uterine cancer at bay
disease metastasized throughout major organs,
hence demise found grim reaper to carry
her Bag of Bones into The Dead Zone -
where Misery loves company
Four Past Midnight
well nigh seventeen
and a half years ago to the day
thus a flash in a bedpan idea flit
thru me mind setting task at hand
to forego bidding on eBay

and ruminate how she felt
knowing her end to be near, -
where her psyche did flay
with anger writhing at the injustice
to ****** thee lover of life
her deadened flesh became ashen gray
yet, a recurring memory
replays in my mind,
whereby this ordinarily
sole sunny trooper
blackened hole within her sons' psych
doth feebly booster morale
with a lame duck uttered hay
huzzah, but flashback to last moment

I saw mother, yet
merely stood mute in close proximity
within the kitchen of thee predominant
century old mansion stone
built home donned with English ivy
once glorious complex edifice
sans domicile razed
no stone left unturned
remains longer only in me noggin
twittering memories flutter
and tweet like a blue jay
keeping visage intact
the house (formerly known as Glen Elm)
at 324 level road,

Collegeville, Pennsylvania -
amazed at my ability to recall an okay
dough key mixed meadow
for with many emotions arising
from where siblings
and me did blessedly play
our oasis, a rural route number 2 -
or rd2 for short a constituent key
per our residence, which like a quay
Tsar seemed light years
removed from civilization,
a remnant tract of idyllic ray

dee hance, upon with open space slated
to become outfitted
and transformed into an urban stay
shin for mobile Americans hopscotching
as short term owners of a new home they
never knew what fractious
mother-son trials and tribulation,
now invisibly harbored and enshrined
forever pristine sanctuary
denominated secular way
down deep in thy conscious, which access
to retrieve nada so

excellent circumstances of youth
(oftimes meditating while dwelling
upon expansive roof
many an outlook raised)
on par with hop, jump,
or skipping to Uruguay
but nothing can recreate
and make real one again
deconstructed house where dwelt pangs
of pre and post adolescence
no matter I mouth
and soundlessly mutter oy vey
till the cows come home,

cuz the days of boyhood,
teenage and emerging adulthood
(matter of fact, this heir -
overstayed his welcome)
accentuated courtesy corrosive
contumely contretemps
thus ambivalent feelings
doth owe way
kin this day of the month
every year the aura, charisma,
and persona delighting like galena zany
persona, thine late mother of pearl

and milk of human kindness
yes, this cingular male offspring doth miss
when he gives pause (all faux),
thus aye scrawl this poetic mini opus
knowing full well,
ye will never be cognizant,
but cathartic to press
any black key (on this laptop)
and expunge thru
Times New Roman font size 12
discombobulated words

buffeted bitta bing bitta bang
in situ jewel flowing emotions
akin to Rapunzel unfurling long tress
buffeted by the war wren inside mine being
for love unspoken, I confess
and tis thru fatherhood
(which beautiful granddaughters
ye would marvel) despite obloquy
when ye and papa de address
me in harsh terms, but objectionable traits
wove within mein kampf DNA less

or more, and angst riddled
body, mind and spirit
rent asunder with emotional duress
essentially encoded within
the twisted sisterly chromosome strands
that wrought Matthew Scott Harris,
now the boss and master
of his own psychological domain,
whereat he closes with mum --
I feel terrible ye got angry and cross!

Introduction: once again I incorporate
my trademark penchant
to fabricate fictitiously
portions of the following poetic endeavor
can you care to
discern fact from fiction?

Attempts at lifelong friendships and holy matrimony...

Shot thru with figuratively cankerous nub,
cuz yours truly did flub
even though as a scouting cub
how yours truly - alias Phil Anderer
committed faux paw unlike me papa bear,
he set admirable example
sidestepping and skirting carnal temptation,
(****** one... two...; ****** one... two...)
squelching roaring testosterone
against succumbing, rutting, quieting
call of the wild desire meaning
inevitably envisioning seducing,
mounting, kissing, caressing...
receptive quite pleasing gals,
nonetheless merely fending off such
verboten enticement left him panting.

Think surrendering to playful kibitizing
as kickstarter to hanky panky;
said violation against matrimonial covenant,
thwarting potential indiscretion subsequently
linkedin with Capital one aplomb.

I never bore witness
seeing me dada caught
in sexually compromised contretemps
to any aforementioned high fidelity hubbub,
yet his sole male offspring (me)
begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce,
(but one minor tidbit to share,
neither father nor mother physically alive
they long since passed away
to Elysian Fields)
found their one and only son - nada faithful
blithely nixing pledged troth,
which rent asunder filial bond

between self and precious progeny
plus provoked wrathful ire
and eventually forgiving soul of thee missus,
nevertheless her heartfelt
initial fury at discovery
of absent husband from Bryn Mawr quarters
didst activate pulse
to throb considerably faster
and louder than usual subdued lub dub
and even at present
when daring to discuss
mine moonlighting one night tryst
as Casanova wannabe, which
hard drive of mine generated message
Abort, Retry, Fail?

Though ***** never freed
flagellated empowered gamete sea men
despite libido being shifted to high gear;
****** ******* never consummated,
nor ****** ******* bliss experienced
much less allowed, enabled and provided
ditto the recipient of mine adulterous affections.
Far fetched fanciful whim
(hard to believe) fallacy
complicity, excitedly, and willfully
following imaginative thought,
though following whim never expressed,
but how rousing, spellbinding,
tantalizing the thought of foreplay
exciting, fondling, goading
receptive flirtatious paramour,
an alluring mistress of color
to attempt and strategize my abduction
as random human trafficked heist
held prisoner until an undisclosed
sum of ransom money
delivered to the captors.

The wife ofttimes references taboo subject
regarding aborted love affair
(alluding to side piece as underhanded gibe)
upon being probed, questioned, and raked
over figurative coals with intimate queries.

These mild interrogations
trigger a sudden uptick
in voluminous silence;
tick tock transpires soundlessness
spikes male level lent rub,
between one once randy husband
and grateful wife; she exhibited forgiveness;
how virtuous ma lady accepting spouse,
which whole frisky fiasco
(on a Freaky Friday)
fostered felicitous flagrante delicto
induced reciprocal black barbs upon psyches
their paternal parent inflicted.

Although antics unbecoming
monogamous kickstarted, declared, and avowed
essentially compromising legally binding union
long since ceased
(matter of fact yesterday April 21st, 2022
me and the missus
went shopping at BJ's. Whole Club
200-C Mill Rd, Oaks, PA 19456),
the psychological fallout
still indelibly etched.

Tumultuous emotions roiled
driving past long gone
home of me childhood
324 Level Road no longer exists,
yet chuckful of memories
flooded mine consciousness
flashback triggered gamut
of existential trials and tribulations.

As a youngster behavior of yours truly
(i.e. mine) never purportedly "bad"
rather reserved, I gave no indication
then how such a cute beastie boy
when becoming acculturated
within loving family provenance
versus disaster later married life evinced
displayed, exhibited, and flaunted
characteristics antithetical, diabolical,
heretical, and piratical
(so much for hyperbole)
par excellence of an exemplary cad,
a most definite poor example

and embarrassment of one
good for nothing dad
to two adorable daughters,
who deserved better egad
myself as basket of deplorable
father figure in retrospect me not glad
carrying on illicit affair
trying to compensate
while cultivating the row
(elle) regarding husbandry
during and post pubescence
never going out on date,
nor kissing an attractive lass,

when poet of Perkiomen Valley
scores of years ago
besotted with anguish
extremely, governed as introvertedly,
and painfully shy lad,
(he knew nothing about
powder milk biscuits)
and more or less describes himself
during his adolescence as a "wallflower"
self deprivation concerning experiencing
life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness
found aging logophile mad
at himself missing out

on typical social/interpersonal casual forays
donned in fashionable dungarees and plaid
fast forward to mein kampf as unhappily wed
whereby hours spent
(rather wasted) posting
and answering personal classifieds
for female assignations
numbering well into bajillions
in other words quite a scad
only countless lunar months ex post facto
did sincere regret prevail
mooch more'n a tad;
dalliances involving barenaked ladies
costing inxs of any legal tender ***.