Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ALEXANDER K OPICHO

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Poetry is a network of rivers
One river flowing into another
A big river into a small river
A small river into a big one
Some rivers are dead in the catacombs
Others are rapidly flowing down
And up their course making noisy
Roaring waterfalls and poetic whirlpools
Full of the ripple circumlocution as
The whirlwind of gales in the harmattan
And this is the spirit of poetry.

I will sing the songs of Schiller
Hugo, Shakespeare the bard
Alexander Pushkin and Mayakovski,
Homer and Dante the Frenchman son of Maugham
And Dante the Italian father of the divine comedy,
I will sing their songs as they are European rivulets
Of poetry flowing into huge water masses
Of African poemocracy in which
The poetic dystopia is clearly
Couched in the gears of black and white.

I will sing and chant the songs of India
Land of Tagore by shouting his name
Rabitranathe Tagore! Sing for me
The ways of the Indian baby
Your Indian voice is mellifluous like the
Zulu ****** dances Song in full watch
Of King Mswati with dint of libido.

I will sing the songs of revolution
From Bolivia and Chile, neighbours
Of Mexico and Brazil; Brazil in which
Pablo Neruda the dog burrier is a religion
In which was born Paul Freire who forgot
To sing for the world chants and the songs
Of pedagogy of the dystopian poet
Pedagogy of the utopian thespian
Pedagogy of the dystopian bourgeoisie
Pedagogy of the cacotopian capitalist
And pedagogy of the utopian Marxists
Who are mealy mouthied with mutton in  between their ears
Manufacturing and venting dystopian phantasmagoria
I will sing.

Poetry is the river Nile of Africa
Cradling from Uganda at Entebbe
Flowing to Egypt into the Mediterranean Sea
Leaving the statue of Mahatma Gandhi at the cradle
Chanting the pearls of the satyagra
That; in God there is truth and
In truth there is God,
As poetry of Nile flows upwards
Not carrying only poems of love
Or bourgeoisie cosmetic Haikus
Singing carols of summer and Christmas day
But its poetic fluvial is washing away
The heavy social **** of Globalectics
Fearing Pushkin and his love
Shakespeare and his **** of Lucrece
Vladimir Mayakovski and
His slap in the face of public taste,
Schiller and his Cassandra
Master Homer and his Odysseus Iliad
Mocking in an ugly  snook
The Albatross book of the English verse
In tune with Yeats and Rudyard Kipling
Reversing the stanzas to sing of
The world as the Whiteman’s burden.

I will sing everyman and his *****
Every woman and her *******
Every ****** and her flower
I will sing them all and their names
And duties of roles pertinent
In healing the world, abode of mankind
From the impish Mr. Hide of cacotopian streak
To pave way for the saintly Dr. Jekyll
To lull man to sleep in his Cinderella
Of social utopia
As Robert Louis Stevenson
Holds the world a stage
Of dystopia.



Thank you for your audience!
Build in a very humble way
Its architecture redolent of Europe,
Plain and honest in structure,
The vestibule at the entrance
Replete with old hardbound books
Dust covering the jackets
In their agony of human oblivion,
Every section has shelves under lock
Only to be open on permitted access.

Located in the desert like an oases,
But the desert of readers not waters,
But like any other oasis, it is useful,
At most to the genuine users.

There are books and books all over,
Windows only open after adjustment,
You start at the door step with classics,
Indian, European, American and global classics,
I pumped into Leo Tolstoy at the first glance,
Finely juxtaposed; Anne Karenina after War and peace.

I opened war and peace and I chanced on Napoleon
Then thrill of intellect and bliss of art
Began flowing into my guts like a river
I kept on wandering why Leo Tolstoy
Never became a Christian sub religion,
To be added to the two testaments,
For it to begat the post-modern holy Bible.

My physical peregrination of the hand
Led me to a vase of rosy wine
Its intellectual whiff surpassing all,
The psalms of David and songs of songs
This was nothing but precious discovery;
A thousand Rubiyats of Omar Khayyam
The shoulder of wisdom and love of God
The hero of Sufism and demystifier of heaven,
When in fact I came unto his 69th Rubiyat;
I have heard people say
that those who love wine are ******.
That can't be true, that clearly is a lie.
For if lovers of wine and love are bound for hell,
heaven would be quite empty!

I chewed and chewed fortune out of Rubiyats,
I went through all the thousand Rubiyats,
Only hot Sun and desert sand storms of Lodwar
Are my witnesses among the myriads of bystanders
As life of a reader is similar to the life a writer,
They both derive energy from solitude’s power.

I moved on again to Alfred Jarren
The son of France, the father of mystery;
Pataphysics the science of fantasy
It has the realm beyond metaphysics,
His survey of pataphorical world
Has remained witchcraft
Beyond my simple soul’s grasp.

Paradox is one other worldwide wonder
As I look at an illiterate Turkana Man,
Guarding the library, club in his hand,
His ever week from stubborn hunger,
His sires never go to school, perhaps culture
I looked at him often in my pause for muse,
Why guard knowledge that you can’t use?

I again came upon the Quran
I read it voraciously over and again,
In expectation of great knowledge
Always making Muslims to be noisy,
I have found nothing great in the Quran,
Only regular subversions of Biblical grammar,
Let Muslims sober up to respect Jesus Christ,
His sermon on the Mountain is perfectly enough
as an impeachment to crazed pataphoricals
That Muslims often dare the world with.

I read the Bible again in repetition
Of what I had did ten years ago,
I read psalms, Job and Isaiah,
Gospels and epistles are more nice,
Chronicles and Habakkuk are so dull,
Lamentations are somber poems,
Revelations are esoteric lies,
Kings and Samuel full of chauvinism,
Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are mere clichés
My idea is; mankind can fear God
Minus Jewish intervention.

Now I chanced upon The synagogue of Satan,
A book written by one other crazy American,
His name is Andrew Hitchcock Crichton,
The book is long and spellbinding,
Having historical facts from early centuries,
Chronicling mysterious growth of Jewish empire,
Arranging facts one after another
Dismissing Bush’s anger against Arabs,
Over the bombing of the twin towers
When they are the Jews who Bombed America
As a decoy to induce American wrath,
Thus twin towers bombing was Jewish war ploy
To put Arabs into a rat’s corner.

I came across one funny book
Written by a Indian sage
Its title was Secrets of ***
From male perspective,
I don’t liked the book
For its prurient content,
But to my sad chagrin it was the most read
Its leaves were dog eared and use worn
I spied into the rumour about its tearing,
T it was a hot cake among nuns and priests
Presently living at Lodwar cathedral.

You could also wonder my dear brother
Why a Christian library has works of Marx?
This was my muse as I read Karl Marx,
I mean everything written by Karl Marx,
From Das Kapita to Germany Philosophy,
Selected works to Poverty of philosophy,
18th Brumaire to Integral calculus,
The Manifesto to the letters,
I read Karl Marx as if I was in Russia,
I wondered why Catholics are Liberal
They fear not those who contradict them.

The Holy Grail is visibly placed
In fact at right hand corner,
At the far end on your entrance
I chose to read it
Because of its voluminousity,
The book is about ****** life
Of Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene,
This book shares out that;
One time Jesus was found hiding,
Kissing Mary Magdalene, the Grail
In the most affectionate manner ever.

The catholic Library at Lodwar is bad news
It swallowed me like waters of Indian Ocean,
It is located at place called Lokiriama,
It was established by Bishop Mahoni
One other man deserving my respect
He was humble and catholically wise,
Very intelligent and consciously bookish,
His mission was to make the Turkana people
A modern community, but he failed,
He was so disappointed to his hilt
He transferred to the Archdioceses of New-York
Where he began facing problems of the law
On allegations of him being a *******,
I curse the devil for such temptations.

I did meet Yan Martel in this dome of books
His famous book; Life of Mr. Pi
It was my eye opener?
It transformed me from a village bumpkin
To a modern reader of global literature,
I read this book amid my fear of Tigre
But I was thrilled, to my bone marrow
When the main character drunk the blood,
Warm salty blood of the sea turtle.

I got another book with folded pages,
At its mid was the red book marker
Baring the name of the respected priest,
The book was entitled; How to excel as
A ****-******, chapter one focused on gays
Chapter two  focused on lesbians,
But the rest of the book was all homosexuality,
In nothing else, but rosiest terms.

On such encounters I once again went back,
To re-read 89th Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam
It has the following quatrain to echo;
Looking for peace on earth? Foolishness.
Believing in eternal calm? Foolishness.
Once dead your sleep will be short. You may
be reborn as a clump of weeds that will be
trodden underfoot, or as a flower that
will wither in the sun's heat.

African writers were stuffed on one shelve
Labeled African books of English expressions,
But on my request to the project manager,
His name was Peter Kebo, he was Flamboyant
And physically indifferent to Turkana poverty,
We agreed with him to rename the shelves
As; African literature in English Language,
Nobel Laureates are in this section;
Soyinka, Lessing, Coatze and Gordimer
Not forgetting the Egyptian literary tiger
In the name of Mahfouz or Maguiz
I clearly don’t know,
Sembene Ousmane is also here
I read him again for the fourth time,
It’s when I found out the simple truth,
That God’s bits of wood, translates as;
The wretched of the earth,
I read Lessing’s Grass is singing,
She likes ***,
I read Gordimer’s July’s people,
She likes menstrual blood,
I read everything here
As published by James Currey
In his Africa writes back,
I also read the White African Nobelite
Joshua Maxwell Coetzee
He is a wizard of Narrative literature,
I read his life of Mr. K.
I found amusing plots and amusing themes,
I also read Ngugi’s Wizard of the Crow
It is nice; Ngugi is still fighting dictatorship,
Not physically but in a metaphysical manner.

I was again lucky enough
To chance on Caribbean literature,
Is when I read Vitian S Naipaul
The humourist Marxist of Marxists,
I read his Mr. Biswas’s house,
With avidness of an aphrodisiac cur,
His characters like taking a long time
In the toilets, Naipaul is good,
I again chanced on George Flamming
In the Castle of my skin
Caribbean literature stinks of slavery
And counter-slavery.

My landing to the shelve of Latin America,
Was a total blessing; Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Stood out like tor of literature among others,
I began with his Big Maria’s Funeral,
Then I moved on to Love in Times of Cholera,
And then You Can’t Write to the Colonel,
As I spiced my intellect with Melancholic *****,
Then finally I revisited his Stories from Africa
And the Hundred Years of Solitude,
The following morning when I came back,
I read in the newspaper that;
Gabriel Garcia Marquez is dead!
It was sad and poor of me, I mourned him
With long essays and somber poetry,
Then I fell in love with the literatures
of Spanish origin in language sense,
I read Octavio Paz and Pablo Neruda
From Octavio I enjoyed coda,
Between Coming and Going and so on,
Neruda thrilled me with his sense of Marx
Especially his poem; on burying the dog.

European classics section arrested me
I never easily moved out of there,
I chanced on ****** and annals of Goebbels,
Reading Russians like Tolstoy,Chenkov,
Gorky, Gogol and Shelynetsyn was lively,
Chewing Shakespeare from cover to cover
Not spearing Pushkin nor Homer,
Victor Hugo was a relish. Emile Zola
And Maugham, I too enjoyed…

Then my holiday in Lodwar was finally over,
But I am soon going back for my Xmas,
I will directly go back to the European section,
I also remember having come by;
The Satanic Verses of Salman Rushdie,
I will have to  re-read it with passion,
It is my prayer that this time comes
For I to resume my holy duty
In the Catholic Library at Lokiriama
In Lodwar Dioceses of Turkana County
In the Savannah desert in North West
Regions of my country Kenya.
THE HUNCHBACK OF AFRICA

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)



He lives in a big city
In a big bungalow
With all of his henchmen
And henchwomen
He puts on big sun-glasses
He has bushy beards
On his back a clenched hunch
Protruding menacingly
Like a lethal bombshell
His skin is ***** dark
His face is frog wrinkled
He forgot indigenous tongues
But he is a master of spoken French
Don’t mention the queen’s English
He is a bad news,
He is shrewd and corrupt
With avarice for money
He loves women, women, them women
Hot mistress is his domain
He loves European alcohol
His public office
Is a private personal bar
With all types of wines haute couture;
***** and whisky
John walker and cappuccino
Champagne and cognac
Smirnoff and viceroy
Chang’aa but in a skulk,

He has nothing to do with men
Only his two sons and brother in-laws
His sons bear European names
Aristocratic European names;
Knappert and Otto von Guericke
Mussolini and Harold,
He reads not African literature
On the claim that they are whimsical
But he reads white African writers;
Lessing and Macgoye
Coetzee and Nadine
Ruark and Blixen,
His shelves are woodlots
Of European classics
Classics of Palimpsest nature;
From Hugo to Dumas
Fyodor to Tolstoy
Cervantes to Austen
Maugham to Friedrich schiller
Pushkin to Bernard Shaw,

The hunch back of Africa gets broke mid-month
He goes for bank overdraft
A mistress snatches him to zero anew
He clicks and curses the **** *****,
But he consoles in the prompt flick
Wine can’t be sweet without those wenches
As he drives his white jalopy
A ramschackled beetle shaped Volkswagen,

He has ever nursed a Germany dream
To go to Germany and come back strong
To reason strong like the sons of bundeslander
To come to Germany and pluck out
The **** of a hunch from his back,

He expects nothing from a man
Especially men from other African tribes
Other than bribe and praise
Any form of praise sends him berserk with jubilation
Any form of bribe sends him rambunctious with ego
He loves power with all of his nerves
Including the entirety of his hunch,

He hates one book in his  live
That even he made it a toilet paper
‘The constitution’
He says it has no respect for old people
That it has no respect for freedom fighters
That it has no respect for hunchbacks
That it has not respects for royal sons
That it has no respect for rich people
That it makes the poor people to be rude
To be rude without discipline
He condemned it a toilet paper,
When you come to African privities
Be careful, the paper you use may be a constitution
The hunch back himself must stay in the toilet long enough
To use minimum of fifty pages of the Katiba
When cleaning his ****
He has an ambition to reach all the pages
Bearing the number hundred
On which there is a clause on
International criminal justice,

The hunchback of Africa is full of love
Indeed he is a fountain of love;
Love of his second wife among them all
Love of his tribesmen who are yes-men
Love of his atrocious spies
Love of his sycophants
Love of his fresian cow
Which he imported from the Hague Holland
Love of his ******* son sired to him by a mistress
Love of the psalms of David the king in the bible
Love of his English name ‘josephat’
Love of his kingdom
That made him the hunchback of Africa.

Goodbye!
Third Mate Third Aug 2014
A lot of people think they can write or paint or draw or sing or make movies or what-have-you, but having an artistic temperament doth not make one an artist.


Even the great writers of our time have tried and failed and failed some more. Vladimir Nabokov received a harsh rejection letter from Knopf upon submitting ******, which would later go on to sell fifty million copies. Sylvia Plath’s first rejection letter for The Bell Jar read, “There certainly isn’t enough genuine talent for us to take notice.” Gertrude Stein received a cruel rejection letter that mocked her style. Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way earned him a sprawling rejection letter regarding the reasons he should simply give up writing all together. Tim Burton’s first illustrated book, The Giant Zlig, got the thumbs down from Walt Disney Productions, and even Jack Kerouac’s perennial On the Road received a particularly blunt rejection letter that simply read, “I don’t dig this one at all.”

So even if you’re an utterly fantastic writer who will be remembered for decades forthcoming, you’ll still most likely receive a large dollop of criticism, rejection, and perhaps even mockery before you get there. Having been through it all these great writers offer some writing tips without pulling punches. After all, if a publishing house is going to tear into your manuscript you might as well be prepared.

1. The first draft of everything is ****. -Ernest Hemingway
2. Never use jargon words like reconceptualize, demassification, attitudinally, judgmentally. They are hallmarks of a pretentious ***. -David Ogilvy
3. If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy. – Dorothy Parker
4. Notice how many of the Olympic athletes effusively thanked their mothers for their success? “She drove me to my practice at four in the morning,” etc. Writing is not figure skating or skiing. Your mother will not make you a writer. My advice to any young person who wants to write is: leave home. -Paul Theroux
5. I would advise anyone who aspires to a writing career that before developing his talent he would be wise to develop a thick hide. — Harper Lee
6. You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. ― Jack London
7. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. — George Orwell
8. There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are. ― W. Somerset Maugham
9. If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time — or the tools — to write. Simple as that. – Stephen King
10. Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong. – Neil Gaiman
11. Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So change it. Stop arguing with yourself. Change it. See? Easy. And no one had to die. – Anne Enright
12. If writing seems hard, it’s because it is hard. It’s one of the hardest things people do. – William Zinsser
13. Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college. – Kurt Vonnegut
14. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration. – Ernest Hemingway
15. Write drunk, edit sober. – Ernest Hemingway
16. Get through a draft as quickly as possible. Hard to know the shape of the thing until you have a draft. Literally, when I wrote the last page of my first draft of Lincoln’s Melancholy I thought, Oh, ****, now I get the shape of this. But I had wasted years, literally years, writing and re-writing the first third to first half. The old writer’s rule applies: Have the courage to write badly. – Joshua Wolf Shenk
17. Substitute ‘****’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. – Mark Twain
18. Start telling the stories that only you can tell, because there’ll always be better writers than you and there’ll always be smarter writers than you. There will always be people who are much better at doing this or doing that — but you are the only you. ― Neil Gaiman
19. Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative. – Oscar Wilde
20. You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. ― Ray Bradbury
21. Don’t take anyone’s writing advice too seriously. – Lev Grossman
image – christine zenino
Taken from the Internet
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous  eyes on the skull of  historical future
on my pykitonic   torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical  balance for wondrous poetry.

Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense  dwarfism  of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,

From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.

A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of  Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****,
bordering on the  teutonic greatness of  ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples  in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite  of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human  neurosis an equation of perfect art.
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if 
framed
paused 
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!
Andrew Monroe Sep 2013
Let me tell you what I want….

I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver
I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia
I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground
I want to explore small towns and big cities
I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard
I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques
I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies
I want to take long drives without a destination in mind
I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing
I want to build a fire and watch a movie
I want to sit on the couch and sip tea

Most of all, I want to do these things with you

Don't let your addiction take this away
With all the bits of my heart….
Despite countless factorial permutations
and combinations, this cyber surfer avails,
thumb thing with two alms
seeking succor asper sum er set Maugham
Mom mee **** sic cure human *******,
boot metastatic carcinoma snatched such balms
when tethered in utero umbilical connection,
etched bromide, which hankering calms
embryonic sensation this corporeal being lacks
constantly subjected to exams
                                             *         *         *       *
From the hard school of hard knocks
which I bewail sets espionage forcefully gloms
mine aim to revel in blissful contentment
but circumstances decrees otherwise
cursing this badinage collegiate chap tubby haunted
by veritable elfin grotto dwelling phantoms
hovering over sweet clove, his persiflage dials a mirage
somewhat shrouded in camouflage, and
yes...Iris sieve blurbs from gals and guys
that span the World Wide Web, and exude
                                                      *         *       *
Premature ejaculatory x2c, puzzled if fie
totally tubularly trod a tedious trek
along the boulevard of broken dreams
what happenstance oft finds thyself to flail
amidst difficulty to maximize
optimal opportunities searching for Holy Grail
or whatever constitutes such lofty
personal objective, perchance being hale
and hearty of body, mind and spirit
                                                      *         *       *
spurs the furies of fate tut test this primate
while he aims to gallop with mighty industrial
vim and vigor leaving a virtual cloud
of dust, though mindfulness helps
to pass go, and chance avoid jail
Time, then maybe monopolized feedback offered
to this toothless mwm quasi-vegetarian
enjoying poetry stone soup, yet also subsisting
on supplementary vitamin packed glue tin free
                                                      *         *       *
NON GMO fruity tall tales for a male
forty-two years shy sans Bing a centenarian,
which span of life best cut short with a nail
(possibly nine inches) hammered into
faux coffin, cuz this imp doth turn pale
At the prospect to fill up a space of land
best utilized by birds - such as quail
Mongoose, or ibis (though aye n'er saw
one), where cremated ashes sail
                                                      *         *       *
across some verdant plain under
cerulean skies putting to rest every travail
which thoughts of dem eyes spells
relief since homelessness -
the main impetus explaining this rambling spiel
the warp and woof ova gauzy veil
imperceptibly looms closer upon
turrets of my digital sea faring gun whale
and thus desperation finds pleading for salvation.
                                                      *         *       *
before mine danse macabre doppelganger draws dagger
   Punctures the skein tight as a yank key notched belt
housed within mine impenetrable hermetically sealed invisible bubble
   drapes with blackened Hades hued habiliment therein dwelt
sinister saboteur mastermind marauder of the Hubble
   piercing fiery ocular rift presence unseen but felt  
   demands sacrifice to traverse river Styx with unadulterated gelt        
which known phantasmagorical double
                                                      *         *       *
diabolical self amidst aftermath from Armageddon rubble
   astride charred global ruins entire civilization melt
planetary paroxysm prognosticated
   by Maya sages with 11th hour stubble
   birthed Darth Vader nemesis with evil upon earth he did pelt
annihilating mankind, the derelict species that fueled trouble
   hence evil twin appointed apocalyptic malevolence spelt
desiccation, humiliation, and laceration upon once verdant veldt
   With mass crematorium desecration left horrific blistering welt!
                                                      *         *       *
Countdown to **** sapiens extinction predicted millenniums in past
   to occur December 21 two thousand and twelve after common era
whereby catastrophic spark detonating inferno incinerating blast
   eradicating extant flora and fauna bereft sans hegira
with no means to interrupt the die since the dawn of civilization cast.
                                                      *         *       *
Impossible to escape ominous predetermined fate of human rat race
nor turn back hands of time with origin of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and providing Gaia to redeem terrestrial space
vestiges of teeming billions soon erased criminal minds without a trace
forcefully relinquishing simians planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa for another dominant species to claim the place.
                                                      *         *       *
Sirens promulgate emergency
   toward impending inescapable cataclysm
   yet no place to run or hide lest one boards a rocket light-years away
which makes suspense thrillers birthed by John Grisham
   enviable plot to keep total Earths’ destruction at bay.
                                                      *         *       *
This word maven count himself as a crowing lifetime americaonline
Meme bur hastens to convey dire
crisis sparking to offer electric nom de plume
Harris40tude a papa who did sire
deux darling daughters, yet for ages hive stung
with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire
meow n childhoods' end fostering people
strangers even fork getting this communication,
per S0S sprinkled with auk shucks corny,
Egret - letting opportunities take flight aspire
now pleasures soft as gossamer feather bedding
down play hardened angst riddled psyche, where ire
                                             *         *         *       *
Ronny gully stubbornly thrives amidst adversity
   as father time spins gyre
row scope at greased lightening speed,
intimating with dead reckoning to hire
grim reaper, who **** patient as Job, and exemplary at ridding mire
and muck bogs down this dada robbing
existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre
doth flickr beckoning GoDaddy, cuz
Juno i haint gonna hear angelic choir
or equivalent enlightenment re:
   now more than ever with forebodings dire
yule lies zing pursuit of Nirvana starts with a smile, which tire
less upturn of lips panacea per stark
   awareness that zero control exists many a mile
from home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire
so haim trying keep sea legs one step ahead of tipping point
envision self pitched into abyss - thus end of wire.
Despite countless factorial permutations
and combinations, this cyber surfer
avails two alms
(one from alma mater, thee other

handily gifted from alma papa)
seeking succor asper sum er set Maugham
mull eight mom mee **** sic cure ring
(via chemotherapy and radiation) human *******,

boot metastatic carcinoma snatched away
futuristic pharmacological balms
so glad experienced being tethered
in utero umbilical connection
and this brother smothered and overly mothered,

etched bromide, which hankering calms
embryonic sensation this corporeal being lacks
constantly subjected to exams
from hard school of hard knocks

which i bewail sets back and gloms
mine aim to revel in blissful contentment
but circumstances decrees otherwise
cursing this chap tubby haunted

by veritable elfin grotto dwelling phantoms
hovering over sweet clover dials a mirage
yes...iris sieve blurbs from gals and two guys
that span the World Wide Web, and exude

premature ejaculatory ecstasy, puzzled if fie
totally tubularly trod a tedious trek
along the boulevard of broken dreams
what happenstance oft finds thyself to flail
amidst difficulty to maximize

optimal opportunities searching for Holy Grail
or whatever constitutes such lofty
personal objective, perchance being hale
and hearty of body, mind and spirit

spurs the furies of fate tut test this primate
while he aims to gallop with mighty industrial
vim and vigor leaving a virtual soundcloud
of dust, though mindfulness helps
to pass go, and chance avoid jail

time, then maybe monopolized feedback offered
to this toothless mwm quasi-vegetarian
enjoying poetry stone soup, yet also subsisting
on supplementary vitamin packed glue tin free

NON GMO gluten free
fruity tall tales for a male
forty-two years shy
sans Bing a centenarian,
which span of life best cut short with a nail
(possibly nine inches) hammered into
faux coffin, cuz this imp doth turn pale

at the prospect to fill up a space of land
best utilized by birds - such as quail
Mongoose, or ibis (though aye n'er saw
one), where cremated ashes sail

across some verdant plain under
cerulean skies putting to rest every travail
which thoughts of dem eyes spells
relief since homelessness -

therein lied the rub
but dove vine intervention    
cooed not comb sooner
main impetus explaining this rambling spiel

(since completion a moot point
since amazing grace smiled)
the warp and woof ova gauzy veil
imperceptibly looms closer upon
turrets of my digital sea faring gun whale
and thus desperation finds pleading salvation.

(since completion a moot point
since amazing grace smiled)
before mine danse macabre
doppelganger draws dagger

punctured skein tight
as a yank key notched belt
housed within mine impenetrable
hermetically sealed invisible bubble
drapes with blackened

Hades hued habiliment therein dwelt
sinister saboteur mastermind
marauder of Hubble
piercing fiery ocular rift
presence unseen but felt  

demands sacrifice once
into bowels of Hades
force at Devilled Pitchfork
to traverse river Styx
with unadulterated gelt,        
which known phantasmagorical double

diabolical self amidst aftermath
from Armageddon rubble
astride charred global ruins
entire civilization melt
planetary paroxysm

prognosticated by Maya sages
with 11th hour stubble
birthed Darth Vader nemesis  
evil upon earth he did pelt
annihilating mankind,

the derelict species that fueled trouble
hence evil twin appointed
apocalyptic malevolence spelt
desiccation, humiliation, and laceration
  
upon once verdant veldt
with mass crematorium desecration
left horrific blistering welt.
Tan Sichuan Countdown

to **** sapiens extinction
predicted millenniums in past
to occur December 21
two thousand and twelve

(that date elapsed without incident
but beware unexpected    
cataclysmic circumstance)
after con comma tinted common era,

whereby catastrophic spark
detonating inferno incinerating blast
eradicating extant flora
and fauna bereft sans hegira
with no means to interrupt the die
since the dawn of civilization cast.

Impossible to escape
ominously predetermined quaking
fate of human rat race
nor turn back hands of time

with origin of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday
without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and
provide Gaia to redeem terrestrial space

vestiges of teeming billions soon graced erased
criminal minds without a trace
forcefully relinquishing simians
planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa
for another dominant species
to claim the place.

Sirens promulgate emergency
toward impending inescapable cataclysm,
yet no place to run or hide
lest one boards rocket light-years away,

which makes suspense thrillers
birthed by John Grisham
enviable plot to keep
total Earths’ destruction at bay.

mice elf, a lifetime americaonline
Meme bur hastens to convey dire
crisis sparking
to offer electric nom de plume
Harris40tude a papa who did sire

deux darling daughters,
yet for ages hive stung
with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire
meow n childhoods' end fostering people

strangers fork get dish
comb bob yule hated communication,
per S0S sprinkled with awe shucks corny,
Egret - letting opportunities
take flight aspire,

now pleasures soft
as gossamer feather bedding
down play hardened
angst riddled psyche, where ire

Ronny gully stubbornly thrives
amidst adversity as father time spins gyre
row scope at greased lightening speed,
intimating with dead reckoning to hire
grim reaper, who **** patient

as Job, and exemplary at ridding mire
and muck bogs down this dada robbing
existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre
doth flickr-beckoning GoDaddy, cuz

Juno I haint gonna hear angelic choir
or equivalent enlightenment re:
home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire
so haim trying keep sea legs
one step ahead of tipping point
envision self pitched into abyss, thus end of wire.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
now, asper that unwelcome deathly still intruder
tis thee demise of life i.e. known
(among other names) as grim reaper
accompanied by ghost of
John (toot till loo to you) Bankhead Magruder.
Michael John Nov 2022
(i have always liked you
because i never
knew you
or known you
or know you..)

i haver spent the summer
reading Maugham
he knows people!?
the narrow corner-

the painted veil-
tales of death and betrayal..
some dark hilarity
brilliant character portrayal..

also,the moon and sixpence,
-the story of Gauguin
the south sea islands
a frolicking faun

and the tragedy that is
human
in his tireless endurable
style..

i like Somerset-Maugham
he is dry fun
his short stories
another time.-.
Michael John Mar 2018
i

i got a new chair
a family affair
the other
broken like
a broken heart
on a may evening..

i felt like samson..
it is ten years since
she had cancer..
lily,wilful creature..
i stood ikea..!

ii

i do loathe poetry
until i am ******..
and then i fall in love
all alone..

lily,
and my pen
just flows..
and the next day
ten years gone bye!
flown a lost dove..ah..

iii

with all the rain
the agave fallen
****** puddles
in my room..
bird song
through the nights..

lost count of the tvs
now,we have 5 cats
i read adventure..
to abode beneath
southern climes..in

a somerset maugham yarn!
i have come to like sweeping..
and have nearly forgotten
the little bamboo constructions..
by the sea..

we have one of the noisiest
kettles ever invented by man
it is a real trojan..
or sleeping in the desert
or living in my van by a stream..

drunk and free..
so,i have that chair
a long time..
the new one even worse
but good for one´s posture..
wine was so cheap..
the stars so bright..
i read the russians..
we were bare assed and naked...

the beauty of crete
i was consumed with the
beauty of crete..
their dancing sacred!
we dug holes
surrounded by family
and friends..
i dug holes so
******
so depressed
so beligerently..

but they understood..
if i shewn any sign of recovery
they handed along and down
a bottle of something..
which gave me some thing
like insane..
and we´d be howling and laughing
in no time..going fit to ****..

and for dinner they would feed us
or go to the soup cafe..!
or to say soup kitchen
and then to the cafe
and we get so ******
no one cared
and runnng after
the man..
to get paid and
he has no change
and a way we go again..

i was consumed with the
dazzling mountains
but the villages impossible
too quiet
too ******
time after time..
i always enjoyed wine..
the local style..
ah..the bus rides
so close to death
the silent left
donkey dread..if,
the driver met a friend
we would stop for a drink
and a lot of shouting..
i worked on our gabbage truck
when george had to have his break..
george was our landlord too bless
he gave me a present every day
he would eat half a nut and press
the other half on me..
and come in the room
when he chose..
with a wild scream..
we had a lovely garden..
and frighten everyone..


he did not want a vacation
and to show his disgust
raced in front
and picked up
the garbage..
all his money went
on cognac..
we stopped at
most bars..
and at the end of the shift
we spied on the hippy chicks..
george would get his wheel barrow
and moonlighting..
i would play backgammon..
and do some reading...
Despite countless factorial permutations
& combinations, this cyber surfer avails two alms
seeking succor asper Somerset Maugham.

Mom mee **** able to sic cure human *******,
boot metastatic carcinoma snatched such balms
when tethered in utero umbilical connection,
etched bromide, which hankering calms
embryonic sensation this corporeal being lacks
constantly subjected to exams

from the school of hard knocks,
which I bewail sets back and gloms
mine aim to revel in blissful contentment
course out of Homs way,
but circumstances decreed otherwise
cursing chap whose sweaty palms
foretold veritable haunted
elfin grotto where dwelt operatic phantoms
hovering over sweet clover dialing up mirage
yes...I iris sieve blurbs from gals and guys
that span World Wide Web,
who forewarn and exude against
premature ejaculatory ecstacy, puzzled
yours truly (a garden variety generic bloke)
detects giant bellowing fee fie fo fum
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he alive or be he dead.

Meanwhile mine tenderfeet
totally tubular trod tedious trek
along the boulevard of broken dreams
what happenstance oft finds thyself to flail
amidst difficulty to maximize
optimal opportunities searching for Holy Grail
or whatever constitutes such lofty
personal objective, perchance being hale
and hearty of body, mind and spirit

spurs the furies of fate tut test this primate
while he aims to gallop with mighty industrial
vim and vigor leaving a virtual cloud
of dust, though mindfulness helps
to pass go, and chance avoiding jail
time, then maybe monopolized feedback offered
to this toothless mwm quasi-vegetarian
enjoying poetry stone soup, yet also subsisting
on supplementary vitamin packed glue tin free

NON GMO fruity tall tales for a male
thirty eight years shy being a centenarian,
which span of life best cut short with a nail
(possibly nine inches) hammered into
faux coffin, cuz this imp doth turn pale
at the prospect to fill up a space of land
best utilized by birds - such as quail
Mongoose, or ibis (though aye ne'er saw
one), where cremated ashes sail

across some verdant plain under
cerulean skies putting to rest every travail,
which thoughts of dem eyes spells
relief since potential homelessness -
the main impetus explaining this rambling spiel
(clumsily crafted near ten years ago)
the warp and woof ova gauzy veil
imperceptibly looms closer upon
turrets of my digital sea faring gunwale
and thus desperation finds pleading for salvation.

Before mine danse macabre doppelganger draws dagger
punctures skein tight yank key notched belt
housed within mine impenetrable
hermetically sealed invisible bubble
drapes with blackened Hades hued
habiliment therein dwelt
sinister saboteur mastermind
marauder of the Hubble
piercing fiery oculus rift presence unseen but felt
demands human sacrifice (me) to
traverse river Styx with unadulterated gelt,
which known phantasmagorical double

diabolical self amidst aftermath
from Armageddon rubble
astride charred global
housing ruins entire civilization melt
planetary paroxysm prognosticated
by Maya sages with 11th hour stubble
birthed Darth Vader nemesis
with evil upon earth he did pelt
annihilating mankind,
the derelict species that fueled trouble
hence evil twin appointed
apocalyptic malevolence spelt
desiccation, humiliation, and laceration
upon once verdant veldt
with mass crematorium desecration
left horrific blistering welt!

Countdown to **** sapiens extinction
predicted millenniums in past
ordained but never occurred December 21
two thousand and twelve after common era
whereby catastrophic spark
detonating inferno incinerating blast
eradicating extant flora and fauna
activating bereft hegira
with no means to interrupt the die
since the dawn of civilization cast,
but last minute reprieve granted.

Impossible mission to escape ominous
predetermined fate of human rat race,
nor turn back hands of time
with origin of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday
without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and providing Gaia
to redeem terrestrial space
vestiges of teeming billions soon erased
criminal minds without evidence traced
forcefully relinquishing simians
planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa
for another dominant species to claim the place.

Sirens promulgate emergency impending
toward inescapable cataclysm
yet no place to run or hide
lest one boards a rocket light-years away
which makes suspense thrillers
birthed by John Grisham
enviable plot to keep
total Earth's destruction at bay.

Matthew Scott Harris, a lifetime America Online
meme bur hastens to convey dire
crisis sparking to offer electric nom de plume
a papa who did help sire
deux darling daughters,
now grown into young gals
yet for ages hive stung
with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire
meow n childhood's end fostering people
strangers even fork getting this communication,
per S0S sprinkled with auk shucks corny,
egret - letting opportunities take flight aspire
now pleasures soft as gossamer feather bedding
down play hardened angst riddled psyche, where ire

Ronny gully stubbornly thrives
amidst adversity as father time spins gyre
row scope at greased lightning speed,
intimating with dead reckoning to hire
grim reaper, who **** patient as Job,
and exemplary at ridding mire
and muck bogs down this dada robbing
existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre
doth flickr-beckoning GoDaddy, cuz
Juno I haint gonna hear angelic choir
or equivalent enlightenment re:
home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire
so haim trying keep sea legs
one step ahead of tipping point
envision self pitched into abyss -
thus finally ends discombobulated wire.
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2023
Somerset Maugham
The Razor's Edge
Carefully I proceed

Lake Lebarge
Homer and Marge
A pal's last need a thing to heed

Thank you dad for the money
Keeps me going
Keeps me fed

She's as sweet as Tupelo Honey
Erin Go Bragh!
Water and Wisdom Wed
Otherwise known as
absentee ballot/ mail-in ballot
if ye read no further... please exercise
opportunity to cast ballot
obviously freedom to choose,
but take serious stock of human *******
(desperately calling out
for the Maugham me)
regarding: economy, integrity, monetary, xyz...

Anyway, twas quite
pleasurably comfortably seated
cerebrally assessing optimal choice(s),
carefully using dark ink
to designate candidate(s) on roster
without being inconvenienced
versus scouting out parking space,
doubly troubled with meteorologic curse

as weather turns severely inclement,
subsequently wading thru
still waters that move deep
(cue electorate getting
splashed courtesy angry driver)
finally standing in long line
closely resembling infinite jesting
looping Möbius strip.

Throughout mine voting career nsync
back then a whopping $2.30 =
Pennsylvania minimum wage
ohm eye dog...!

http://www.winedecider.com/
en/vintage/1977.htm lists oenophile vintage
I teetotaler shied away alcoholic usage
wine not axe else questions,
who experienced tutelage?

Extreme social distancing stage
then identified as introvertedness,
sublimating any rage
me i.e. wallflower never invited to party,
thus remain shtup in boyhood bedroom
when chronology equaled quarterage
compared to present orbitz around sun

now... still smarting - essentially
never made psychological pilgrimage
to adulthood, oh for sure parents
found withdrawn behavior (mine) an outrage
depriving yours truly natural
linkedin interpersonal discovery(ies)
emotionally shortchanging me – noncoverage

replaced with buffering self in isolation
yea... kinda like quarantine mirage
minus coronavirus - COVID-19
never learning/mastering dating language
hence... alone within
mine emotional wilderness
analogous to Matthew

Scott Harris's private hermitage
20/20 hindsight heart wrenching gauge
long haired pencil necked
hippy caricature just a lad
dinned during rosy 1960's flowerage,
reaping what I did sow
with rusty and fragile equipage.

Metaphorical three strikes disadvantage,
nonetheless below shows initial POTUS,
spouses (FLOTUS), plus
respective vice presidents
upon me attaining
legal Pennsylvania voting age.


1977-1981
Jimmy Carter
Rosalynn Carter
Walter F. Mondale
1981-1989
Ronald Reagan
Nancy Reagan
George Bush
1989-1993
George Bush
Barbara Bush
Dan Quayle
1993-2001
Bill Clinton
Hillary Rodham Clinton
Albert Gore
2001-2009
George W. Bush
Laura Bush
Richard Cheney
2009-2017
Barack Obama
Michelle Obama
Joseph R. Biden
2017-
Donald J. Trump
Melania Trump
Mike Pence

— The End —