"enrolling" poems
I’ll rev you like a Porsche
Pressurize the clutch then
ease on the equipped brake
enrolling the steering wheel
On the highway as we sing
Tuning choruses eccentrically
apply the mascara and smile
put my flock on, swing like Bowie
Craze up in seismic grooves
Shift to a self expression culture
be so extreme that you glitter
I’ll desire your ambiguousness
Unarguably, I’ll hold your hand
An evolved zeitgeist in revolution
squeeze their prejudiced little heads
replicate, experiment your persona
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:56 PM UTC
He’d been close to the big time,
If not a god of the fight game, perhaps a demigod;
He’d been possessed of considerable brute strength
And the ability to shut out concern for the well-being of others,
But there had been the odd ***** in his armor:
An overhand right which announced itself too early,
And arrived just a smidgen too late,
Plus an unhappy tendency to lose focus,
To stray from those plans his corner had set up chapter and verse,
Choosing the forbidden fruit of the quick knockout.
He had, after losing a bout to a top-ranked fighter
(He was eighth in the world, he would chuckle ruefully,
And I fought him like I was eight years old.)
Decided to chuck it all in,
Enrolling in a scruffy little bible college
Sitting just off an interstate on-ramp,
Cheek-to-jowl with a Wendy’s and 7-11,
In order to facilitate the transition from mayhem to ministry.
He’d soured on the process in fairly short order;
He understood instinctually that he, like all men,
Was a sinner, and likely unworthy of salvation,
And the faculty accentuated the notion daily, if not hourly,
Like so many jabs to the midsection.
He’d inquired, gently, as to the approach one should take
To addressing the worrisome paradox
That all men were imperfect beings
Marooned on an imperfect world,
Yet their fallibility was all they had to build on,
(A rickety ladder to scramble upwards, for sure,
But the only way to reach that golden fruit
Held out for him, though just beyond his grasp.)
The responses varied, from sputtering and vague parries
To the suggestion that such notions were heresy,
And so he’d returned to the club-and-casino circuit
Makin’ the best use of the gifts I have, he would sigh,
Before heading out once more,
Hoping there was one more short right at least one more time.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 8:59 AM UTC
In the enrolling darkness
I awake to life once more
Healing after you last left
Regrowing my heart you ripped out
I see you as you are now
The happiness and life in your eyes
The joy my suffering has brought
The remains of my heart filling your empty one
No more, life is now mine to command
To appear before you, the person you made me
While celebrating my pain with your demons
You stand shocked, the thought of me horrid
I stare into your eyes
Once a portal to paradise
Neither say a word, mutter a sound
A moment conflicted with history
I unsheathe my sword
A sword meant for the death of the devil
I drive it through your rib cage,
Puncturing your lonely heart
You stare once more at me
Blood filling your lungs
I reluct to shed a tear
Not for what was, but for what wasn't
I pull my sword out
Your blood now decorating it with honor
I step over your corpse
Warmer now then it ever was
A few places forward
Lies your new lover, a newer specimen
Around him your demons praising
I walk to him, waking him purposefully
He sees me, his last sight
A ghost from a distant past
I leave him to Hela, a ritual for her
The blood angel marks his fate
The demons I slaughter
Their words not but poison
Lies that fuelled an old life
Their corpse the foundation of a new life
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 12:10 PM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring
and only son of Boyce and the late harriet harris)
made his unheralded debut on a brutally cold
January thirteenth.
Once awareness blossomed
within thee Iris of each eye, Mother Nature with
proclivity to become most grounded when basking
in the seasonal pastel of sounds and smells.
This predilection a rose and stemmed from self-propelled
exposure to fauna and flora.
All creatures great and small found him bedazzled, de
lighted, fixated, harmonized, kindled, moored, ogled, quelled,
seduced, tantalized, vaunted from biodiversity.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with
general electric - heard the powerful lungs of this gangly new
born prior to being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority
of his existence at two rural areas fifty plus four years ago.
Audubon and Collegeville the geographic names of said locales.
His ability to adjust from one than another grade school evinced
early signs of difficulty.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect (sub
mucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other classmates.
As an outside neutral observer, i watched with gut wrenching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited to join in any reindeer games.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered manna to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability and susceptibility being
the pluperfect target, thee oafish goons i.e. enemies all against
a once upon a time puny punt able person unfortunately at
receiving end of verbal slings continued all thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with scathing expletive filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and withdrawing
from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark shadow creeping closer like the edge of night.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
If I didn't love my truck so much ,
I'd drive it off a cliff .
Do you know how maddening it is to go a whole day
Twenty ******* four hours
Without a single concious thought .
Except as when I drive home
And they rush me
Collecting their stamps on the first Tuesday of the month between my ears and
I switch on the radio
So I don't pull over and kick over that bird bath in that yard .
I love mine .
I sit on my hands so I don't serve myself to the belly of that semi.
I want to get a ***** tattoo .
I got to finish my hip .
What if I cover myself too much and I have no room left and I want more things to stop the aching ?
I'm 20 .
Two decades old .
I live with my parents again .
I have never gone downtown drinking .
Or finished enrolling in college .
Why do I chicken out of every ****** appointment ?
I don't want medicine .
I could go for a slushie .
Am I real person ?
I toy with my floor mat , because it makes me place my feet weird .
It's not because I'm awkward .
I wish I had a joint .
Wait .
I can't smoke **** anymore ,
It stops my heart .
Well ... ****** .™
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
As I view my world
I stood from a far distance
Left to my unused Wisdom
With an open mind
Accessing the great treasure of this
Poetic picture
It worth is unknown
Clerify with deep peace
Which clear sorrow and give inner joy
Never the less I gain wisdom
Each time I view my poetic picture
Each time I view my poetic picture
Grace is made available
Like the blue sky mixed with white and gray clouds
Dew locating it resting place
As I allocate myself terms to it
Fruitful tresses beautify with drip of water
As it dirp down on green grass's
Finding it way on earth
Watering the earth
I could feel the air
powered with purity
The enrolling sound of each bird
Made substantial harmony
The sun rise
Titled with glorious ability
Edifying the field with enrich satisfaction
Each time I view my poetic picture
Each time I view my poetic picture
My poetic picture could be
Me, you, man, woman, words
Sure as I gain wisdom from it.
My poetic picture is the voice that address me in different picase for the moment of reality, existence and truth
Wisdom is profitable to direct
If I may ask
What is your poetic picture?
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring and only son of
Boyce and the late Harriet Harris) made his unheralded debut on
a brutally cold January thirteenth almost three score years ago.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with general
electric heard the powerful lungs of this gangly newborn prior to
being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority of his
fifty plus LIX existence within southeastern Montgomery County
Pennsylvania.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect
(submucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other class
mates.
As an outside neutral observer, I watched with gut when
ching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited
to join in any reindeer games, rather mean kids balled their fists
and swung faux pas sucker punches to sleigh **** shay -
so they did say.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered hue manna
tee to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability, and susceptibility per
receiving verbal slings continued thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then
endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with a scathing expletive
filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and with
drawing from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark
shadow creeping closer to the edge of night.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Stranger behind this digital veil,
I am assuming this is another one of
Cupid’s play
Tell me, is this just another summer fling
Or do I anticipate it to be a real thing?
Will you detest my individuality?
And try castigating my intellect?
Or,
Would you be my Prince Charming,
the ones only found in books?
Would I hear guitar strings strum,
As love crawls in to find its way,
Even then,
Would it, be love?
Could we possibly Make up to the distance?
The warmth, the fireworks of each other’s presence
Amidst the epidemic that has interfered
Would we Rave endlessly?
Talking all night,
Choosing each other
Over Morpheus’s arms.
Obsessing over little that are suddenly cute
Would we look deranged, with a constant smile?
Hushed voices, muffled giggles,
Lost, chuckling into our phones.
The very type I’ve always made fun of.
Would it be a Disney movie?
Say, a tad more magical?
Could I really judge you,
with a mere photo?
It could be the a summer drizzle
Or go down the drain.
Farce and adherence
Have been my metier
Assuring amazement
To be mundane.
Dear new immigrant,
Enrolling for my heart,
Hoping you’re the yin,
To my yang.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 9:41 AM UTC