in passing through highways,
lined with stray trees, ordered erratic
I watch my secrets climb and branch out

as the leaves confluence together,
pondering on at our rush hour madness
I climb a mango tree in my childhood reverie

sitting atop along with a gaze into my future
a fatso, chomping  belly full on deeds of my past

I hear the hopes in children talk
boundaries , shame , other human constructs
still haven't filled their muddy pockets
with eyes of wonder, lilies get attention
miracles are there for our seeking

the need to finish, conclude...
other futile human pursuits,
I hear how dogs yawn at our shams

the end of everything is
the beginning of something new
but we aren't there to witness
entrapped in our misery

prisoners to maps,
when the land lays bare before us
hypnotized by  photographs
until the deterioration of participants
goes unnoticed

I hear
the bones inside me shout, claustrophobic
the dammed blood raging , release
untold ideas in icicles , impaled

I watch
the birds cross Atlantic , free
the universe in details, beauty

Each of you.
My individual singularities, Dad’s One Thing.
Conceived 1955.
Driven home, progeny, made man, unequivocal, indisputable.
Post-war night spirits undaunted ~ stop ******* me.
*** for you, stopped me.
Can’t make it the way you want. Please stop.
Backing off, I respect real you.
Don’t push me Me.
Don’t dream.
Will dream us.
Short sentence for guilt whisked way beyond what crime could be.
We combine beans and seeds and gourds.
That’s science! Culinary!
Botany, true, but I’m enaturated.
Human pod progressed.
If that’s a word, don’t dream it’s not.
Forget every word.
But make each and every word count.
Then add stash, socked away.
I concede.
Mi casa su casa.
Paint it.
Together.
Made mistake then fixed it.
Copasetic dovetails, my lady and me (not I).
We walk talk island jib.
I like the cut of your yar across the moonlit pool.
Go around with me to all haunts, snow globetrotting shaken not stirred
My déjà vu in futurum videre, I can’t believe.
Asunder goddesses should be together,
While Isis and Osiris boogie like Beatrice and Dante encircled,
Their own private imbroglio invaded
By Goth end time alchemists conjuring copyrights for gelt.
You tell me this short story.
I cringe.
My mind clouds men’s, and then conjures Morpheus.
My shadow child joins me in Paradise,
Deliria dancing in concert with Shakespearean intent.
My daughter’s got more guts in one pinky
Than all that fallen pilot on our island bargained for
In the games that decided who’s hungrier.
You could have been that gal.

Oh, smile…
Why do you evade me?
Trump is just a man,
and the presidency is largely
a puppet position….
The boy is twenty and working
he desires to live on his own
soon it will just be the wife and I
living the dream…
my old dog has given me thirteen
wonderful years
unconditionally loving me
even if I was a bad owner early on
even if he had cheap food
while I will miss him,
this is not the first pet I have lost…..
oh, smile!
Why must I seek you?
Forever you have just been the constant
my most faithful accompanist
as if I were blessed to be happy
as life passes by….
lately, you evade me….
I feel your momentary and fleeting
presence
just long enough for me to remember
you live here….
I am sure it is the same
with any traveler
when you tire
of globetrotting
you will return, and I,
I will wear you proudly once again,
Oh, smile!

Yours truly (an amazingly,
gracefully, and markedly modest
passively aging baby boomer -
formerly introverted long haired
pencil necked geek),
prattling wordsmith doth behold
nostalgic memories regarding father
(Boyce Brandon Harris)
long ago lapsed decades

during papa's prime time
many years past when complacence
existed about joie de vivre,
and considerations about mortality irrelevant,
where soothsayers promised
our family staying alive for eternity
few and far between instances found me
acting, exhibiting, illustrating brazenly bold
behavior, said rare spontaneity
the exception versus the rule,

hence following poem crafted
an endearment to those who begat me,
resorted to discipline, but NO spanking
ever since mama did cherish her little boy
scores of years before she passed away
at her death hands went limp and cold
as a shy lad his maternal and paternal parents
their virtues he extolled
contrary, now healthy sexagenarian
born of sturdy genetic mettle

rumor claims I suckled magic potion,
cuz courtesy to preventative medicine
mother followed advice
of one Carlton Fredericks,
renown radio commentator
and writer on health and nutrition
ne'er did mine lovely bones buckle,
even when skinny body crushingly embraced
into loving maternal fold,
without doubt mama adored motherhood
and brood of three offspring

harmonized, memorialized, pampered...
the hardworking de facto breadwinner
late twenty something handsome groom fêted
born April 9th, nineteen twenty nine,
Brooklyn fortune teller travails foretold,
when the late Harriet Harris, not so gold
din as totally bewitched, she gamely evinced
controlling authoritarian versus
crooning, marveling, and warbling
regarding once "little monkey" - me,

which pet name no longer applied
shucked off brought to abrupt halt
as yours truly grew up,
and decried childhood's end
I experienced objection to thwart growing up,
and latched unto anorexia nervosa
countless moons ago,
when I biologically, emotionally,  
intellectually, and sexually transitioned
into socially withdrawn young man,
once indomitable omnipotent

mother/son bond ex post facto lost hold,
where once applicable theme
exemplifying Harris household
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
dramatically, markedly plummeting
formerly measurable appreciable tolerance,
similarly short tempered patriarch
( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime)
over any five members,
especially toward singular male offspring

timid, meek, and demure (effeminate) me,
essentially ruled the roost
regarding Harris household
sole son characterized vis a vis
presented passive resistant
outward nonestablishmentarian mold
worst case scenario
would hypothetically witness
Matthew Scott Harris
spending longevity old and feeble minded
at 324 Level Road

outliving parents, pets
(comprising inordinate
number of dust bunnies) and siblings,
both caring and concerned girls
(an older and younger sister),
the latter whose globetrotting exploits I envied,
nevertheless yours truly
speculatively imagined himself
to have outlived anyone polled
even Methuselah, where mein kampf
blissful, fanciful, nouveau poet
nearly long forgotten boyhood charade,
facade inlaid masquerade

analogously crumbled like broken scaffold
attaining centenarian years old -
faintly maintaining umbilical stronghold
considerably surpassing mommy dearest,
born November 13th, nineteen thirty five,
yet moments before her passing
she barely audibly apologized
for occasions she did reprimand and scold
retaliated against grim reaper,
he whisked her diseased riddled body away
after completing approximately
seventy plus orbits, all told.

I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
bullying vulnerability compounded amid
courtesy of split uvula set me apart
alien as a Druid livingsocial
during latter half of twentieth
and first two plus decades
of twenty first century
rather a speech pathologist
informed legal biological guardians

regarding Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic
minor congenital defect when
attending sixth grade at
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary
i.e., submucous cleft palate, aforesaid
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid
me, this twangy nasal kid
my undersized and socially
withdrawn demeanor contributing
to existence tumultuous and turbid.

Extreme shyness demeanor
did heavily exhibit
as if burdened with a yoke
linkedin with anatomical diminutiveness
punctuated with aforementioned
pinched nose adenoidal sound,
quite obvious when I infrequently spoke
conveniently availed himself
as cannon fodder i.e. scapegoat to bullies
as a socially withdrawn pre/
post pubescent slowpoke.

Yours truly (an amazingly,
gracefully, and markedly modest
passively aging baby boomer -
formerly introverted long haired
pencil necked geek),
prattling wordsmith doth behold
nostalgic memories regarding father
(Boyce Brandon Harris)
long ago lapsed decades

during papa's prime time
many years past when complacence
existed about joie de vivre,
and considerations about mortality irrelevant,
where soothsayers promised
our family staying alive for eternity
few and far between instances found me
acting, exhibiting, illustrating brazenly bold
behavior, said rare spontaneity
the exception versus the rule,

hence following poem crafted
an endearment to those who begat me,
resorted to discipline, but NO spanking
ever since mama did cherish her little boy
scores of years before she passed away
at her death hands went limp and cold
as a shy lad his maternal and paternal parents
their virtues he extolled
contrary,  now healthy sexagenarian
born of sturdy genetic mettle

rumor claims I suckled magic potion,
cuz courtesy to preventative medicine
mother followed advice of Carlton Fredericks,
renown radio commentator
and writer on health and nutrition
ne'er did mine lovely bones buckle,
even when skinny body crushingly embraced
into loving maternal fold,
without doubt mama adored motherhood
and brood of three offspring

harmonized, memorialized, pampered...
the hardworking de facto breadwinner
late twenty something handsome groom fêted
born April 9th, nineteen twenty nine,
Brooklyn fortune teller travails foretold,
when the late Harriet Harris, not so gold
din as totally bewitched, she gamely evinced
controlling authoritarian versus
crooning, marveling, and warbling
regarding once "little monkey" - me,

which pet name no longer applied
shucked off brought to abrupt halt
as yours truly grew up,
and decried childhood's end
I experienced objection to thwart growing up,
and latched unto anorexia nervosa
countless moons ago,
when I biologically, emotionally sexually transitioned 
into socially withdrawn young man,
once indomitable omnipotent

mother/son bond ex post facto lost hold,
where once applicable theme
exemplifying Harris household
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
dramatically, markedly plummeting
formerly measurable appreciable tolerance,
similarly short tempered patriarch
( ~6'2” ~ 200 lbs at prime)
over any five members,
especially toward singular male offspring

timid, meek, and demure (effeminate) me,
essentially ruled the roost
regarding Harris household
sole son characterized vis a vis
presented passive resistant
outward nonestablishmentarian mold
worst case scenario
would witness Matthew Scott Harris
spending longevity old and feeble minded
at 324 Level Road

outliving parents, pets
(comprising inordinate
number of dust bunnies) and siblings
(an older and younger sister),
the latter whose globetrotting exploits I envied,
nevertheless outlived anyone polled
even Methuselah, where mein kampf
blissful, fanciful, nouveau poet
nearly long forgotten boyhood charade,
facade inlaid masquerade

crumbled like broken scaffold
attaining centenarian years old -
faintly maintaining umbilical stronghold
considerably surpassing mommy dearest,
born November 13th, nineteen thirty five,
yet moments before her passing
she barely audibly apologized
for occasions she did reprimand and scold
retaliated against grim reaper,
he whisked her diseased riddled body away
after completing seventy plus orbits, all told.

I experienced interminable
relentlessly psyche burning acrid
tormenting, teasing, and talking funny
bullying vulnerability compounded amid
courtesy of split uvula set me apart
alien as a Druid livingsocial
during latter half of twentieth
and first two decades of twenty first century
rather a speech pathologist
informed legal biological guardians

regarding Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic
minor congenital defect when
attending sixth grade at
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary
i.e., submucous cleft palate, aforesaid
whereby every day akin getting scorched
by some "NON FAKE" ironclad grid
me, this twangy nasal kid
my undersized and socially
withdrawn demeanor contributing
to existence tumultuous and turbid.