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Crispin as hermit, pure and capable,
Dwelt in the land. Perhaps if discontent
Had kept him still the pricking realist,
Choosing his element from droll confect
Of was and is and shall or ought to be,
Beyond Bordeaux, beyond Havana, far
Beyond carked Yucatan, he might have come
To colonize his polar planterdom
And jig his chits upon a cloudy knee.
But his emprize to that idea soon sped.
Crispin dwelt in the land and dwelling there
Slid from his continent by slow recess
To things within his actual eye, alert
To the difficulty of rebellious thought
When the sky is blue. The blue infected will.
It may be that the yarrow in his fields
Sealed pensive purple under its concern.
But day by day, now this thing and now that
Confined him, while it cosseted, condoned,
Little by little, as if the suzerain soil
Abashed him by carouse to humble yet
Attach. It seemed haphazard denouement.
He first, as realist, admitted that
Whoever hunts a matinal continent
May, after all, stop short before a plum
And be content and still be realist.
The words of things entangle and confuse.
The plum survives its poems. It may hang
In the sunshine placidly, colored by ground
Obliquities of those who pass beneath,
Harlequined and mazily dewed and mauved
In bloom. Yet it survives in its own form,
Beyond these changes, good, fat, guzzly fruit.
So Crispin hasped on the surviving form,
For him, of shall or ought to be in is.

Was he to bray this in profoundest brass
Arointing his dreams with fugal requiems?
Was he to company vastest things defunct
With a blubber of tom-toms harrowing the sky?
Scrawl a tragedian's testament? Prolong
His active force in an inactive dirge,
Which, let the tall musicians call and call,
Should merely call him dead? Pronounce amen
Through choirs infolded to the outmost clouds?
Because he built a cabin who once planned
Loquacious columns by the ructive sea?
Because he turned to salad-beds again?
Jovial Crispin, in calamitous crape?
Should he lay by the personal and make
Of his own fate an instance of all fate?
What is one man among so many men?
What are so many men in such a world?
Can one man think one thing and think it long?
Can one man be one thing and be it long?
The very man despising honest quilts
Lies quilted to his poll in his despite.
For realists, what is is what should be.
And so it came, his cabin shuffled up,
His trees were planted, his duenna brought
Her prismy blonde and clapped her in his hands,
The curtains flittered and the door was closed.
Crispin, magister of a single room,
Latched up the night. So deep a sound fell down
It was as if the solitude concealed
And covered him and his congenial sleep.
So deep a sound fell down it grew to be
A long soothsaying silence down and down.
The crickets beat their tambours in the wind,
Marching a motionless march, custodians.

In the presto of the morning, Crispin trod,
Each day, still curious, but in a round
Less prickly and much more condign than that
He once thought necessary. Like Candide,
Yeoman and grub, but with a fig in sight,
And cream for the fig and silver for the cream,
A blonde to tip the silver and to taste
The ***** gouts. Good star, how that to be
Annealed them in their cabin ribaldries!
Yet the quotidian saps philosophers
And men like Crispin like them in intent,
If not in will, to track the knaves of thought.
But the quotidian composed as his,
Of breakfast ribands, fruits laid in their leaves,
The tomtit and the cassia and the rose,
Although the rose was not the noble thorn
Of crinoline spread, but of a pining sweet,
Composed of evenings like cracked shutters flung
Upon the rumpling bottomness, and nights
In which those frail custodians watched,
Indifferent to the tepid summer cold,
While he poured out upon the lips of her
That lay beside him, the quotidian
Like this, saps like the sun, true fortuner.
For all it takes it gives a ****** return
Exchequering from piebald fiscs unkeyed.
CH Gorrie Jan 2013
You turned me into a paperweight.
Ambling out of your genealogy,
you chiseled me to the marrowbone;
     walk tall with your invisible chains.

You turned me into a paperweight
marooned on polished mahogany –
conquered West-Indian trees;
     walk tall while your mastery wanes.

You turned me into a paperweight.
From your bottomless, two-ton
tongue came my disfigured heart –
     walk tall, you pyrite suzerain.

You turned me into a paperweight,
deserted on paperwork seas,
ball-and-chained to the wooden beach –
     walk tall in your insidious vein.

You turned me into a paperweight.
I fell, clutching the snowflakes,
and held your whole ******* useless life together –
     walk tall, play that catchpenny game.
Wk kortas Apr 2017
We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?

So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.
Slur pee Jun 2016
Pull me oh so close,
And then push me away.
You're the suzerain of my terrain;
This body is your state.
Yours to use, to sate.
I'm a vassal, under reign
Of your heavenly gaze.
Mark me with kisses your lips lay
Underneath the night, the day.
Silence me- only have me say
"My lord, this pleasure is
Yours to take"
As I spread my timid legs;
You make my knees buckle and shake.
My eyes wander to a place
That my tongue would love to taste.
Teach me the rhythm, the pace
To keep your body
In this spiritual place.
My throat betrays,
And I utter your name
Correct me with haste
You're my lord and I, your slave
Master, show me how to play
I want to pay,
Punish me with rough foreplay
Bound my legs, bite my thighs
Conceal vision from these lustful eyes;
I want to feel you grow in size
Between my lips, please make me smile
Show me the meaning of your title.
Dominate me while I cry out
To some god hidden in some clouds.

-SLuR
Aw shucks, I did sustain
moderately serious injury
series of unfortunate events
ludicrous and quite insane,
yours truly did previously explain
while crouching (think

Tony as papier mâché Tiger),
aye fell backward, where sharp
desktop corner didst train
ground zero right side rib cage domain
punched thru L.L. Bean Autumn jacket
zapped, tattooed, lacerated... bloodstain

proof positive bow tocks sing
arrowing, fletching, notching,
piercing, searing targeting ... pain
prestidigitation went awry
courtesy "fake" legerdemain,
yours truly incapacitated plain

vanilla and simple
found me mortally slain,
more tortuous than spelunking thru
eye of needle size tunnel,
no bigger than sand grain,
and/or trumpeted by suzerain

arrogant, boastful, contemptuous...
arid, barren, cerebrally desolate brain,
a definitive liability,
(not just from Ukraine
stormy din yelled brouhaha), profane
but..., I wholeheartedly ascertain,

the commander in chief
an absolute zero inane
purpose twittering acrimonious, disdain
calamitous, egregious, gangrenous..., arcane
rumbustious, venomous,
zealous... carte blanche

bigoted, misogynistic, racist..., inhumane
blathering, excoriating, insulting...
seeding, planting, muckraking... dogbane
demanding obeisance till
henchmen verstehen
unwittingly declaring himself
jejune bloodhound August huss

preening, primping, proofing
orange-blond mane
more attentive to applying
gray matter to strain
Midas coated self
important fiery propane
verbal quid pro quo

explosions inevitably spray'n,
nothing but antisemitism, barbarism,
demagoguery, hatred...
diatribes roiling the masses
til rabid rantings attain
intolerant decibel threshold
usurping totalitarian refrain.
No stuntman/woman showed up,
albeit intervened in timely fashion
to thwart mishaps experienced
courtesy me I bemoan,
and poet lore re: yet of Perkiomen Valley
Pennsylvania, United States of America
never suffered major illness nor broken bone
(specifically life and death health crisis,
nor compound fracture respectively)
cuz guardian angel intervened,
though aim of mine heretofore
forthwith literary endeavor
merely expressing, exhibiting, examining...
a painfully ****** mishap,

where Lady Luck gussied up as crone
perhaps female spirit of  
Matthew Scott Harris
in the guise of wizened older woman
himself affecting doppelganger
as grotesquely personified...
well lemme cease written jibber jabber
without rhyme nor reason
nor sense and sensibility
analogous to being subjected to annoying drone  
and describe and elucidate
how stunted man (me) amazingly graceful,
nevertheless, yours truly accident prone

The following bonafide poem
fleshed out ~ October 2019
I did accidently revisit
painfully suffering with silent true grit.

Aw shucks, I did sustain
moderately serious injury
series of unfortunate events
ludicrous and quite insane,
yours truly did previously explain
while crouching (think

Tony as papier mâché Tiger),
aye fell backward, where sharp
desktop corner didst train
ground zero right side rib cage domain
punched thru L.L. Bean Autumn jacket
zapped, tattooed, lacerated... bloodstain

proof positive bow tocks sing
arrowing, fletching, notching,
piercing, searing targeting ... pain
prestidigitation went awry
courtesy "fake" legerdemain,
yours truly incapacitated plain

vanilla and simple
found me mortally slain,
more tortuous than spelunking thru
eye of needle size tunnel,
no bigger than sand grain,
and/or trumpeted by suzerain

arrogant, boastful, contemptuous...
arid, barren, cerebrally desolate brain,
a definitive liability,
(not just from Ukraine
stormy din yelled brouhaha), profane
but..., I wholeheartedly ascertain,

the former commander in chief
an absolute zero inane
purpose twittering acrimonious, disdain
calamitous, egregious, gangrenous..., arcane
rumbustious, venomous,
zealous... carte blanche

bigoted, misogynistic, racist..., inhumane
blathering, excoriating, insulting...
seeding, planting, muckraking... dogbane
demanding obeisance till
germane henchmen verstehen
unwittingly declaring himself
jejune bloodhound August huss

preening, primping, proofing
orange-blond mane
more attentive to applying
gray matter to strain
Midas coated self
important fiery propane
verbal quid pro quo

explosions inevitably spray'n,
nothing but antisemitism, barbarism,
demagoguery, hatred...
diatribes roiling the masses
til rabid rantings attain
intolerant decibel threshold
usurping totalitarian refrain.
Jay Jan 2021
The adoration and admiration I have for you is as immeasurable as the vastness of the void we call space.
You are the maestro who composed
the triumphant tune which tamed my heart.
You are the suzerain to grant me riches beyond compare,
such as emotion.
I have been given the option to sink or swim,
So I chose to plunge myself into the depths of your heart
so that I may understand what makes you warm, so that I may pursue what I truly adore.
This is the 5th poem I have ever written, I am happy with it but I am very open to criticism as I want to become a better poet/writer.

— The End —