the banner photograph that the poem references is off now, but...

The poem is about a photo I took, outside looking in, where the window and an interior mirror, both reflected me, outside, outwards, but caught the interior of the house within, and the interior of our lives, which was my intent, but the poem came later....

a self portrait,
a reflection
in a window, in a mirror.
a man stick figure
within and without.

me hidden, armed,
iPad spyglass
one upon the other,
unaware of observation,
introspection / extrospection.

man, external,
grilling striped bass,
woman, internal,
kitchen caught slicing heirlooms,
a dressing awaits,
peach salsa,
the seagulls inform me.

Outdoors, indoors.
bay,
in the background.
living room, kitchen,
in the foreground
couching, crouching, cooking,
a closeup and landscape,
of two lives.

so the photo treatment,
introspection / extrospection,
upon reflection,
a poem ouside-insight.


a moment to reflect upon a reflection of a moment.

this  how I see things,
and why not you too?

Double vision.
outside, looking in, inside, looking outward.
then,
at the point of intersection,
a memory recorded,
always recording,
paths, moments,
worthy of note.

such a note, here,
record of a photograph.
preserving my preservation.
tho photo blurry,
what you see,
is what I see.
lives of symmetry

summer symmetry is my life.
life is my summer symmetry.

exactly.



August 2012

The Real Poets Here

are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find

their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port

they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary  Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West

opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages

when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided

fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass

of them
I*
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me

Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly

dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...

all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,

wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or  urgently comfort us when none else can,

these are my friends,
the real poets here*

god keep you well

my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth

A prisoner of memories
locked in the shallows
of the past .
A true dissenter of the war
on my conscience education.
A burning freight car
keeps haunting my dreams.

A spyglass
destiny of fire .
More energy spent
unlearning than learning.
Living life toiling
in enemy territory.

Sweetly decadent this
flesh and blood woman .
Feminine as lace
lyrical and ferocious,
exquisite and dangerous.
Unintended consequences of
the violence of religion,
a famine of spirituality.
The terrible separation of faith.

The poet ablaze
with the poetry of fire.

The laurel has withered
in the talons of the dove .
The sun rose as they danced
over the renegade landscape.
Nine stones surrounding
the olive branch that’s broken.

Confessions of evil,
lightning and lace .

Sometimes love sets sail on some distant journey
To get farther and farther away from me.
I see the journey going round the world
In the most vivid color – as an apparatus
For its own painting – or at least so I presume.
I long for love's conversation but
It is too far away it seems.
What wretch is this that hazards this life?
What thanks is this nature capable of returning?
This wretch will be repaid only with
Insults and injuries.
Any blessings in store for the meek and the
Gentle heart might be disinherited by it.
If hope is that which keeps one alive
Then I should by my hope be kept afloat
Both in spirit and in looks.
And in love's journey, would it ever know me again?
Would it know me as if my pleasure is left
Behind in a kind of resigned misery which arises
From this situation where a heart is unsupported
By everything but its own tenderness?

We all owe love much and I will have patience.
For love's journey – it does round this Cape of Good Hope.
It will undoubtedly begin the long trek home again –
Sooner or later - the least I can do is to hope.
The demand – it is equal – for I owe it as much as love owes me.
I watch as its treasures float away making of it
Conjectures upon each part – all the while thinking that
The distance is but a little ways off and I know
That I could venture after it – I’m sure that I could –
Were I to only understand the reason for the distress.
But what if nature has chalked out another road?
Must we go on with so many a weary step?
Each in a separate heartless track till nature
Takes this journey’s course wherever it will?

Love asks me why – why do I say this?
Why do I write such a somber set of words?
And yet – it knows I follow it alongside its journey.
I beg of it to return while the heart of love
Tells me why I do this – as with everything that I do.
This journey does make a shadow of love and if I am
Good for anything I must remain true to the mortal part
Of its agreement – but that mortality does allow for me
To think and talk upon everything, does it not?
I rally my words, my powers and my alarms not to
Send ill winds to push love's sail farther away from me
But rather hoping that it will meld them all into one.
With the hope that within my power
With the most ardent of affections – they will triumph
Over all these feelings.
Standing aft on the vessel of love with its spyglass in hand
Look closely at me – I’m just off its bow.
I’m in its wake paddling trying so hard to
Keep what is left above the waters edge.

I wonder what infection it is that passes in this
affected crisis?
The contrary winds and currents leading this track
Could be the engine of nature working it together –
Or apart.
Tis true, it know it is – or should I just continue
To leave nature to her own destination?
But the language and the embodiment of love
Should not be left to mere chance.
If I swim harder toward it would love at least drop its sail?
Maybe I should speak no more - whatever the currents carry
May they carry the gentlest illusions through
The spyglass – and I suppose somehow they will.
If the remedy is but a cold philosophy then
I shall remain here undaunted by the distance – frantically treading water -
While love carries away with it the balm of my existence.
If so – somewhere round the Cape of Good Hope
Is where love can find me if it should ever choose to return.

I am here treading water as best I can in love's wake
As its vessel sails ever further and further away from me.
It is love who must decide my fate for I am doing all that I can.
I flail my arms side to side hoping against hope
That this Cape of Good Hope is not where love abandons me.
But I refuse to drown and I refuse to give it up
Just as ardently as love fails to turn around and see me.
Please don’t turn around unless you too understand
That our fates are indelibly tied together.
If this wretched thing does take full possession of love
Then it too has possession of me.
Like a baited hook I swim here watching and waiting
For the shark to come and swallow me up.
And all this time all love had to do was to – STOP.
It’s almost too late for that – the distance is so great.
I cannot swim that far.
I close my eyes and dream.
My tears flow into the ocean around me
So I know I’m still here.
Swimming for my life –
Somewhere just off the
Cape of Good Hope.

To compensate for (A -Z)
     ineradicable alphanumeric
     character flaws (i.e. mutations
     of body or mind,)

     and avoid amass
sing wracking up vexatiously
     undesirable threatening class
action lawsuit against

     Matthew Scott Harris,
     which preliminary measure
     taken to avoid disembarrass
sing said individual as

     a majorly flawed individual
literal shortcomings of body,
     mind and spirit,
     the metier of writing doth encompass

a creative realm to trump
     geomorphology, sans groundmass
at the unsolicited expense
     (mine alter ego i.e. worst critic)

     will gleefully find,
     and expose grammatical,
     misspelling, spelling,
     et cetera errors to harass

glommed together with isinglass
hop, skip and jumping
     to appear as a *******
whereat no respect

     able collegiate lass
would give a fig about me,
     one totally tubular royal morass,
which expert anthropologists

     stumped asper nonclass
     if eye able ****
     sapiens mutant ninja turtle
case in point being his

     wanting in height not e'en pass
     sing the six foot mark
     plus mental illness
     perhaps traceable to

     besotted cognitive damage
     inherited predecessors
     quaffing an overdose of quass
made obvious peering at resulting

     Ct scan results viewed
     via microscopic spyglass
revealing abnormal amygdala
automatically designating
     his aptitude underclass
among average human
     with mettlesome Zeusian brass.