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Eve Jun 2019
Come with me,

Come with me to netherland

Cried the

Boy

His emerald cap

Shifting ever so

Slightly

To the north

To the star.

Home of adventures

Home of pirates and

Mermaids

Fantasies

Nightmares

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Striped fur and

War paint

But made of

Mud

Not

Blood

Never

Blood

For those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Come be our mother

Come and love us

They cry

Childish tears

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Down those flushed

Children’s cheeks

Coming home with

Scrapes

Grazes

Sniffling at the blood

Hissing at the hurt

But no scars

Never scars for these

Lost

Lost

Boys

Silvery lines just

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Of them.

You’ll never get away

We’ll make you pay,

How drunk

Are they?

On that righteousness

Glory

That they will play

Wars with

Men

Monsters

Mermaids

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

How far,

Do you think,

Do The waters of netherland run?

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Into that

Star-flecked

Ocean.

Deep

Enough for

Little boys to

Drown

Methinks

Deap enough to

Forget

Mothers

Sister

Fathers

Methinks

Deap enough that

Tears?

Tears?

They will be nothing

Methinks

Those

Lost

Lost

Have no idea

How

Truly

Truly

Lost they really

Are.

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys,

Follow her

Those blond

Strands of hair

Drifting

Drifting

Drifting

Ever so

Slightly

South

Back

Home.

Methinks

They will come

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys
Eve May 2019
Come with me,

Come with me to netherland

Cried the

Boy

His emerald cap

Shifting ever so

Slightly

To the north

To the star.

Home of adventures

Home of pirates and

Mermaids

Fantasies

Nightmares

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Striped fur and

War paint

But made of

Mud

Not

Blood

Never

Blood

For those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

Come be our mother

Come and love us

They cry

Childish tears

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Down those flushed

Children’s cheeks

Coming home with

Scrapes

Grazes

Sniffling at the blood

Hissing at the hurt

But no scars

Never scars for these

Lost

Lost

Boys

Silvery lines just

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Of them.

You’ll never get away

We’ll make you pay,

How drunk

Are they?

On that righteousness

Glory

That they will play

Wars with

Men

Monsters

Mermaids

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys.

How far,

Do you think,

Do The waters of netherland run?

Rolling

Rolling

Rolling

Into that

Star-flecked

Ocean.

Deep

Enough for

Little boys to

Drown

Methinks

Deap enough to

Forget

Mothers

Sister

Fathers

Methinks

Deap enough that

Tears?

Tears?

They will be nothing

Methinks

Those

Lost

Lost

Have no idea

How

Truly

Truly

Lost they really

Are.

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys,

Follow her

Those blond

Strands of hair

Drifting

Drifting

Drifting

Ever so

Slightly

South

Back

Home.

Methinks

They will come

Those

Lost

Lost

Boys
Thomas Thurman Aug 2010
If anything should happen to The Hague,
if someday they abandon Amsterdam,
philosophers will take these strange and vague
descriptions, and derive each tree and tram
by mathematical necessity:
should nations shake their fists across the seas
with words of war, it follows there must be
a middle ground, a people loving peace.
And is this scrap alone a netherland?
Not so: we spend our nights beneath the sky,
and every country's low for us, who stand
a thousand miles below the lights on high;
if only I could learn to live as such,
and count myself as kindly as the Dutch.
Written, with thanks, for the organisers of GUADEC 2010.
Dre G Oct 2013
speaker of inferior tongues
you may not cross this earthen border
traitor from the Netherland suns
your chaos mask smells of forced order

on this land we do not follow law
on this sacred land i demolish your flaws

your genetic traits bear a history of ****
you have no true rank
and you have no ethnic tribe
your courtship is pathetic
your existence a mistake
i'm gonna have your baby
and then leave it on a cliff to die
i'm howling with laughter
as i curse its blasphemous blue eyes

***** of your mother's ****
as you lie with joy beside me
you'll think of names for your first son
whose birth is utmost blasphemy

on this land we do not interbreed
on this sacred land i destroy your vile seed

your genetic traits bear a history of ****
you have no true rank
and you have no ethnic tribe
your courtship is pathetic
your existence a mistake
i'm gonna have your baby
and then leave it on a cliff to die
i'm howling with laughter
as i curse its blasphemous blue eyes
a side of me you guys haven't seen before. sorry if this offends anyone, i wrote it about a cheating ex.
Dawnstar Sep 2018
The flat island floods
for want of a ****;
the land turns to mud,
the landsman alike;
  cursing the robin,
  the jay and the shrike.
Paris Raine Oct 2014
Here comes the countdown,
The ring of twelve awaits,
I lay bare in my chamber,
Nothing past this will ever equate.

He never came through the window,
Nor did I catch his shadow,
To take me to his Netherland
And live as innocence incarnate.

The fresh second has passed,
I inhabit the other side,
I stand sheathed among the others,
I stand as Adam, with dignity
By my side.

The ship is leaving from the shore,
Here are my records from life abroad,
The twelfth ticking finger; the other side,
Aboard the Grand Expectation, at high tide.

I remember those days in practising
Youth, to obtain those leisure’s, I
Now pursue. Wishing for time to burn
Away whilst the paper’s smoke, astray.

I have no hand to follow,
Only my own two feet,
Down the path to *‘prepare the face,
For the faces that I will meet.’

My shelter has been broken,
I face this open world,
Life expels, whilst hope
Is tortured and contorted.

Yet, I will find a place to stand,
Among a band of life’s grand
plan, To sit with the others,
Plated in Dionysian armour.

We will set upon the stage
And light Pandora’s candle,
So the last flicker of hope,
Will blind Failure’s scandal

And I will look back,
At the awe of innocence,
Through eyes who have seen a
Thousand smiles, whilst laughing

We are Life’s but inner-child.
*T.S Elliot - The Love Song of J.F Prufrock
while soaring the heavenly heights
     many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
     about a million miles below

the rarefied atmosphere
     ideal composition beckoned angels,
     who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
     (which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem

     intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
     and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
     cap ping bulging port folio,

which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
     snapped amidst light emitting diodes
     with a snazzy aura, charisma
     harp pulling, piping, and chiefly

     paying praise (CI years post haste)
     to William Henry Perkin
     whose credit able karma
     (and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
     purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo

couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
     shutter flying sky sustaining

     self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
     and gratefully huzzahing insinuating

     killing, kindling kissing
     malaria goodbye, an outlook
     (nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud

     respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
     (to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Navpreet Kaur Oct 2018
I am from a town who never loved me,
Until Captain Hook took me away
From I am a lost gurl from Netherland,
Who hangs out with Peterpan

I am from bending laws abd cutting rules,
From I’m about to risk it all for I ain’t got too much to lose.
I am form revenge is the best medicine,
From to increase the dose and to unleash the monsters.

I am from no trust and broken promises,
From lack of hope and freedom.
I am from lying and keeping secrets from my parents,
From new arguments everyday.
I am from being misunderstood and putting others before myself,
From forging others and moving on in life.
I am from a useless child in their eyes,
From being emotionally separated to them in life.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.                                              swedes,
**** germans
mispronouncing names,
russians not giving
a ****:
козел... koza (female,
gender plural neutral),
   kozioł...
  (male, gender exclusive
non plural)...
mongols...
     mongols esp.,
"as if" we protected
the peoples of the western
hinterlands...
the low-lands...
ottoman turks...
   świnia - (female) pig...
male pig?
                  k'nur.
ever ear the male pig's reply
"trapped" in a trough
with a harem handy?
            you want
to play the grammar game?
i'll play the grammar game!
my people protected
your people,
for this lot of **** and *******?!
you have to be kidding me...
no, really,
you have to be kidding me,
for, ****'s sake!
point being: you don't like me,
and.. given the current
pakistani **** gang
example: i'm clearly not
able... to like you, either...
     so... we're even...
aren't we, herr anglais?!
           i'm all for it,
your people telling a bunch
of more of your people
how to rewrite grammar...
   no.. no..
this is not a foreign invasion...
it's allocated to:
having the ***** to say
that you were already thinking...
but doing nothing about...
instead pillow mastering
the lease on
a football match...
         ******,
******, ******, beyond
the st. peter's cockerel...
fourth time: a complete,
and utter... ******!
          this! this is the respect
i or we are to receive?!
cheap labourer wages...
right...
     guess what...
you deserve that, which you,
have reaped...
                 no...
this time: it's a variety of:
not really...
           you snippet your
******* netherland tulips...
you collect
your fwench asparagus...
        and your english
apples...
              your belgian
****-up-chocs...
          suddenly i feel "ambitious"...
not that i will gain anything
from it,
it's not like i will meet a
****** beauty and start a family
with her...
    but i will: be left,
death assured...
with the sort of peace that
leaves me without
making a: the west will survive
argument...
            whatever the hell
that implies...
                 i'm buying time
until the eroticism of ******
of a heart-attack...
              levels me to
a waited for plateau...
                  
mind you:
i'm lucky to express these
"fweelings" in this language...
this grand an feral land...
where spring gives off
a scent of winter,
and the scent being:
    auburn, the slow burning of
wood... smokey...
even among these spring bloom
colours... the persistent winter
clarifies the perfumery
of the night...
with... something akin
to smoking oak barrels...
should an eel sleeze itself in,
or a salmon,
or a liter of whiskey...
akin to the english,
i too take pride...
   christianity only came 'ere
in 962AD...
the romans never set foot
on these lands...
        i have a skin's worth
of tattoos...
these are my, tattoos...
  the battle of grunwald
(15 july 1410)
   the battle of vienna
(12 september 1683)...
here you go... my tattoos...
the battle for moscow
(september 1 and 3, 1612)...
hastings...
the battle of hastings...
              i'll speak the language
of the natives...
but please don't think
i'll just, "simply"...
   blank the rest of me
for a ******* chinese take-away
tattoo of ideogram on my bicep!
there are limits to being
reasonable...
once you cross them...
don't expect any paddy power
enforcement to make it
compliant to continue to fake
entertaining the sikh
turban...
         like unto like...
             i hate being made being
patronißed...
because by then...
why wouldn't i contradictorily
side with someone, akin to,
                       herr zeppelin?
you take pride in yours,
i will take pride in mine...
             then we're even...
i just can't become bothersome
with these mickey mouse
quasi-communists
of the current social narrative...
just say it out-loud:
we miss the old soviets,
we miss the old soviets,
we miss the cold war narrative,
we miss the old soviets...
given, what you're producing
right now?
it's not something to be feared...
deplatform: sure...
but do you have the power
to cut the electricity supply
to my house?
  no... i guessed just as much...
internet banking and
shopping,
the internet from the late 1990s
with internet chatrooms...

              you really just miss
the old soviets, don't you?
with capitalism having imploded
upon itself...
   you stand before your own
worst enemy:
                                 yourself!
enveloped in your embrace
sinking safely to the
netherland where
my lipstick meets your face
sticking calmly to your cheek
an imprint made to last, I
could feel it for years after
I grabbed the memory
from the air as it was created
knowing the moment
would fly by with
such speed, but i can still
feel your skin through my shirt
and your fingertips tracing
my chin, cheek, and hairline
I can feel your eyes as they
wander amazed as i sob
tears in your passenger seat
and conclude with a warrant
to kiss you
not knowing if i’ll have
the time again
to show how much love
can pour from my skin
and into yours lighting a fire
that would still be burning
the afternoon after
the coffee and cigarettes
were gone. There’s beauty
in disaster and truth in struggle
and i found both of the better
with you. Smiling and laughing
and asking about my day
and always being tucked in
so tight
like i was precious cargo
Of thee virtual netherland...
courtesy one spellbound wordsmith
within apartment b44
nestled within a manor
(and manner of writing)
atop nondescript Schwenksville highland.

All gibbets zing aside
I got noose for you,
yours truly enjoys harmless chide
ding even kibitizing about,
when cessation of consciousness occurs
leaving terrestrial plane
frequently incorporates divine spirit as guide
absolute zero escape
regarding death to override.

Oft times ('specially
these latter unsainted days and nights)
death doth haunt me atheistic zeitgeist
which thoughts of my demise
crowds out purposeful thinking
in the twitching mind kempf
paradigm of this atheist
hence, he betook himself
to this MacBook Pro,

while swiss side dull ideations
for professional intercession,
deadline could not wait
asper affecting s cathartic,
emetic, harmonic tete a tete
and providing a meaningful surrogate
to expunge morbid mental state
accessed Open Office
and let fingers (of left hand)
do talking heads

to an imaginary therapist
across this qwerty keyboard
allowing, enabling, and
at the quickest typing rate
striving to cap cha dismal, gloomy,
and ill lust tree us deplorable
mood aye equate
with pitching into
a bottomless abyss where pate
fed ceaseless diet of NON GMO –

a last repast
the grim reaper did orchestrate
gluten free, an extra heavy dose
of monosodium glutamate
which ingredient doth
BuzzFeed thine appetite
for total mortal exterminate
'thou no need fermi to rush,
where angels fear to tread,
cuz tis better late

than never, the apothegm,
credo, ethos...foreign ha Kate
the caterer maintains
an open exit from life,
and cares only
that each soul doth feel elan,
joie de vivre, and psalm times
a leaper chants, ecstatically finally
gustatory humming don't jubilate
for your final homecoming, or else
the mailer daemon lived
a devilish life will instigate

a de coup age d'etat,
but such extreme
measure for measure heed doth hate,
yet exceptions always made for a date
particularly when henchmen to die for
golden opportunity
to ****** a generic guy a create
an underground soiree will cease,
when ashes master
of hell raising circumstances
twill use as bait
let underground missionary be advocate.
Borne aloft into the netherland
the body bearing thee soul  
of Boyce Brandon Harris
birth name given to my late father
buoyed aloft united with spirit
of mine late mother Harriet,
whose passing well nigh eighteen
orbitz of the earth around the sun.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tadpole more than three
guppies and a half years ago
froggy (disguised as grim reaper)
went a courtin for fresh corpse,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020
ye did somewhat peacefully die
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,

when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one wunderkind whose accomplishments
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply.

The late Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a polymath - jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said Renaissance man.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate.
ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny.
iii. amassing wood pile(s),
to stoke wood burning stoves
iv. designing Zayda trail for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies
rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg, Penna work site)
v. constructing sauna in cellar,

vi. etching, detailing (al fresco),
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling,
viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof,
ix. tiling the kitchen floor,
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms,
xii. building custom made toy chest,
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark,
xiv. partly assembled a kayak,
xv. retooling - enhancing porch
(formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers worn for about
one eighth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner -).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone,
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experiencing irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother,
who unwittingly made decision
how uprooting their offspring
to move without consulting
either yours truly, or older
and younger sibling.
to anonymous readers March 6th, 2021
(blustery and chilly Saturday)
reminiscing about mien kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
three plus decades already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" thumb

of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly refashioned
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.
(boot exhausted tending Milan Collie)

If only father time could... but
yea right Matthew Scott cut
your losses, accompanied
with sinking feeling in gut
ready to vent off steam
start fire next time and burn

(billy me I merrily Joel King),
down house i.e. mancave hut...,
in tot, while yours truly emulates
one among many talking heads
with tongue doth jut
out mouth making nasty ****** feature

at reflection nut
tin much else
except, perhaps try to put
gear into overdrive any
remembered magmatic
lava lee fragments

to pull this mad man
out of figurative rut
nothing gainsaid verbally taunting self
with expletive epithet
more colorful than tut...tut... tut.

Chalk permanent heart wrenching
pinteresting kindling horrifying
devastating loss regarding
opus magnus extremely cross
at yours truly, nope no ace

in the hole, hence best bet to
down bottle of tranquilizers
with swig flask of ***** to brace
transcending after life netherland,
where angels plucking harps
magically can exorcise

Manhattan goose stepping
quite pheasant hunched mountebank
Norte worthy dame
giving bankable chase
courtesy cloistered chaste
siren of Titan (on the

order of Mrs. Doubtfire)
hoop fully abducts me than
willingly, meticulously,
and compliantly doth erase
every vestige of writings.

Thoroughly cooked duck, dogged
dully dilly dallying gent
realized errors of
his ways, where bent
crooked right hand pinky the chief
hankering provocateur leant
admission (for one adult) cogent

tam o shanter donning Brit with scent
tum mental affectation unable to console
yours truly, who feeble
effort non poetic event
merely hoped to muster
even lame to assuage
smoldering ire, wherever
sense and sensibility went.
Into lonely senescence -
three plus decades already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" thumb

of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still fifty years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!
the following written
for no particular rhyme nor reason
quite aware the exit (stage door left)
allows, enables, to provide every season
with a bumper crop of dead souls.

many mortals beseechingly
lift up their hands
in supplication and inquire
omnipotent omniscient force
and ask why
since the dawn of civilization
humans dream up schemes to try
and sidestep unavoidable death,
whereby each person
in the macroscopic scheme of things
lives infinitesimal time –
say the lifecycle of a mayfly
as compared/contrasted
with birth of the universe,
yet noone can  defy
unstoppable process of senescence
and reincarnation into other matter.

no rival can outwit death
the latest craze constituting immortality
cryogenics will be tried
for the rich and famous
unlike one garden variety married man
a common joker biden his time
mortality of all will level
ever since origin of species
**** sapiens took self pride
whence began the march of time
human beings sought futile efforts
to sell their soul

to the devil who never lied
for lame excuse being brought
into this tangled
webbed wide world with invisible twine
impossible to outwit death
no matter how far
one tries to run and hide
wrenched to underworld
of Hades forced
across river Styx foul breath
from decomposition per billions
of **** sapiens that died.
  
intrepid souls stymied with infinite jest
by devising laughable escape
regarding these lovely
bones and flesh to divest
from nada one knotted loophole
tied by supreme hands and very best
no nonsense, but
to acquire every singular soul

financially straightened budget
necessitates yours truly
without undo extravagance fussed
on me, a pragmatist
to stockpile skull and cross bones,
which eventually turn to dust
enriching cadre from those
who trod across
boulevard of broken dream
capitalizing on those blessed
with booming fortune before going bust
joining rank and file of countless
anonymous graveyards  silently scream

the massed voices
who felt the fate of uninvited curse
once living in the green day of glory
before their existence rent asunder
taken under by driverless hearse
and subsequent devilish quarry

further contributing to the complex edifice
seen only by the dead
patrolled by Lucifer
for those who believe
against atheism and diet of worms
extremely well fed
those lives lost and once
whose kin did grieve

from sorrowful plight
departing with sweet sorrows rife
with natural fear of corporeal cessation
whether prematurely or
at some ripe old age
pitting impatient burgomaster
stealer of life
whereby surviving kith pay homage
on specific date of calendar page
aware that netherland awaits
without bugles nor fife.
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.

Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.

Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.

Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.

Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
Within the same breath
yukon catastrophize and
make mountain range
out of molehill mental material
impossible to scale
even with best Sherpa as guide.

Take advice from expert
what if...worse case scenario
time and again no fiasco
never makes cerebral showdown

most horrendous debacle
defies savviest soothsayer
subsequent anticipatory anxiety
exhausted body electric for naught.

Courtesy minecrafted psychosomatic zone
access information superhighway
exit ramp marked "Road closed"
inadequate infrastructure funds

against insurance policy
take life in hands
blithely ignore danger warning
emulate crash test dummy

ram thru barricade
torpedo comfort zone
gallantly ford cliff
behold avast airborne aerial view
traverse iter itineris
partake breathtaking view
quickly descend along skyline drive.

Downplay fear of dying
finally impossible mission
to dodge lifelong unlucky brakes
reassurance courtesy circling hawks
future ingestion feather bedded
good luck bon voyage

bid lugubriousness adieu
farewell to arms, legs, torso...
disc hover onset blissfulness
quickly accelerating toward dead end
automatically yields right of way
into...netherland analogous
to Dutch wonderland

monorail singular underground
freedom locomotive track,
otherwise traffic nonexistent
into eternal nesty plunge

steeping, kneading, enmeshing
fountainhead shrugging off atlast,
where well mapped
neurosis/ psychosis
dost no longer dwell.
Religion versus culture

If the Dutch had adopted the Koran
made churches into mosques would Holland
be different for it is today?
I don't think so. Because of
their characters
and culture would have reminded active
travelling the world for a business opportunity.
Been Moslems in name only as they are
Christians in the name just today
The Islamic rule that works in the backwater
of, say, Pakistan could not be applied
in Netherland, the people were too educated
to swallow wholesale the Islamic dogma
in the end, culture is more important than religion.
The following words crafted soon after the soul of me daddy set adrift into the empyrean realm joining the rank and file of entities constituting spiritus mundi.

Borne aloft into the netherland
the body bearing thee soul  
of Boyce Brandon Harris
birth name given to my late father
buoyed into the great beyond
united with spirit
of mine late mother Harriet,
whose passing well nigh nineteen
orbitz of the earth around the sun.

Elysian fields embraced dada's soul
which rocketed into aerospace
(courtesy General Electric satellite)
just a tadpole more than three
earth orbitz and a half years ago,
when venerated, loved,
and celebrated then nonagenarian
on par with jumping frog
of calaveras county,  
(whose captor disguised
as toad tilly grim reaper)
went a courtin for fresh corpse,
nevertheless melancholy
still plucks mine heart strings.

Mine psyche still situated awry
placid countenance of yours truly doth belie
residual sadness easily prompted
can easily trigger me to cry
linkedin when grim reaper gloated
October 7th, 2020,
he did somewhat peacefully die
(courtesy congestive heart failure),
though methinks immortality
I did briefly espy,
when miracles of modern medicine
tried, but could not
stave off mortality nor fortify
depredations of aging concerning
one (back during his boyhood)
a wunderkind, whose accomplishments
evinced a lad who pulled out all the stops
laudatory when a young handsome guy,
whose intelligence scored high
native talent aptitude tests did imply,
an august presence
his person, especially birthday celebrated,
lorded over, regaled and touted
like fourth of July
completely unlike yours truly
pitifully jejune existence well nigh.

The late polymath and scientifically astute
Boyce Brandon Harris
exhibited prolific talents at young age
aside being scholastically gifted,
acquiring graduate degree
courtesy Columbia University,
freshly minted mechanical engineer,
(he admirably ranked within
uppermost percentile academically),
I hashtag thy mine deceased father
(a Renaissance man
- jack-of-all-trades),
who possessed (née excelled)
at diverse creative abilities.

Aside from being schooled
as mechanical engineer,
(which courses in mathematics and science
he passed with flying colors)
his mind genetically bequeathed
to craft almost anything under the sun
evidenced first by yours truly,
the second offspring and sole son
who ofttimes felt intimidated
at being in presence
of said versatile person.

Handicrafts included
expending blood, sweat, and tears
coercing, fabricating, invoking
earth, wind, and fire elements of style
to craft multitude of projects;
i. building me Flintstone (foot powered)
car with wooden license plate

ii. making playhouse for all three
of us - his progeny;
iii. amassing wood pile(s)
to stoke wood burning stoves;
iv. designing Zayda trail
for Teddy and Ruff
(two doggone mixed breed Border Collies

rescued courtesy youngest sister
at her Jacobsburg,
Pennsylvania work site);
v. constructing sauna in cellar;
vi. etching, detailing (al fresco);
vii. plus trimming living room ceiling
with dainty crown moulding;

viii. shingling (while fiddling) on the roof;
ix. tiling the kitchen floor;
x. building a cistern for brethren,
xi. wood paneling many rooms;
xii. building custom made toy chest;
xiii. stringing up lights to increase visibility
driveway lit like Christmas tree after dark;

xiv. partly assembled a kayak;
xv. Rehabilitated derelict houses
in Norristown, Pennsylvania
xvi. retooling - enhancing porch
with tiles (formerly slate covered),
where Morris dancers performed
at wedding for eldest sister.

Unlike him who did beget me,
I experienced cognitive challenges
that beset one painfully shy
and severely introverted male
more to the point
as a lad and mediocre student to boot
promotion to next highest grade
occurred just by the skin of my teeth
and analogously, figuratively, and poetically
nearly shaved née scalped,
butchered of me pilgrim's pride

thankfully peach fuzz bewhiskered
fine hairs of my chinny chin chin,  
staved off retention
never forcing me to repeat a grade,
which may help to explain
why I wear dentures,
oh... these choppers
then worn for about
one eighth of mein kampf livingsocial.

A sense of inadequacy prevailed,
when absolute zero self esteem
strikingly and suddenly manifested
in tandem when parents moved
their young tender family within
Lower Providence School District,
but into a vaunted larger house
(initial summer estate constituted
about one hundred acres of woodland -
named Glen Elm
think Winnie the Pooh -
house at Pooh corner).

Not quite two score plus ten years
spent livingsocial at 324 Level Road
(above mentioned abode alluded),
and twas there majority
mine existential highs and lows,
where nadir of mein kampf transpired,
I emotionally hit rock bottom
upon onset of prepubescence
yet major event triggering
mine major depression
set in motion,
when parents chose February 28th, 1968
to move out of shoddily constructed domicile
located on Lantern Lane.

As shared with Renee Cardone,
(the therapist whose virtual sessions
linkedin courtesy Doxy.me portal -
similar to Zoom),
that aforementioned date
marked a turning point
after which time, I floundered
experienced irrevocable mental health issues
punctuating my psychological equilibrium
with chronic distress,
though I forgive father and mother,
who unwittingly made decision
how uprooting their offspring
to move without consulting
either yours truly, or older
and younger sisterly sibling.
to anonymous readers March 22nd, 2022
(blustery and chilly Tuesday)
reminiscing about mein kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
more'n three plus decades
plus three extra orbitz
around mister sun already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" nothing
to thumb button nose at

think hitch hiker pose
of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly
refashioned, repurposed and revised
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.

— The End —