The world's a bubble; and the life of man less than a span.
In his conception wretched; from the womb so to the tomb:
Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years, with cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.
Yet, since with sorrow here we live oppress'd, what life is best?
Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools:
The rural parts are turn'd into a den of savage men:
And where's a city from all vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head:
Those that live single, take it for a curse, or do things worse:
Some would have children; those that have them none; or wish them gone.
What is it then to have no wife, but single thralldom or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please, is a disease:
To cross the sea to any foreign soil, perils and toil:
Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease,
We are worse in peace:
What then remains, but that we still should cry,
Not to be born, or being born, to die.

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

Wondering what I should write
and floundering in my own confusion
I thought – why not write about poems
that set me thinking what poems are
A poem could be anything.......!
at best, distilled thoughts put into rhyme
or a moment caught in time
a window glimpse into the world
an engrossing passion’s ardent curl
a snap shot of scenes from Nature- wild
or a slice of life, birth or death
      
sometimes it could be a yearning  
or an image long hung on a pole
a thought turned inside out
or the emptying of a mind about to spill
it could be the liberation of a fancy,
for long held in thralldom
a gnawing pain, long suppressed
or a secret, never divulged
      
As I pondered over the subjects’ enormity
and a poem’s vast scope,
I asked myself- ‘Why hesitate?’
soon I felt a stir inside,
my thoughts broke loose
a terrible block lifted off my head
my silence became audible
I embroidered these thoughts
into the pattern of a poem

Here it is before you, have a look at it
Will it annoy you or will you enjoy!

White line, bare bridge, small talk, smoke.
Two nights, bloodshot, park bench,
toast. Dead girls, dead rose, swing set, laugh.
Our clothes, this day, street kids, trash.
Bed time, still strung, sit still,
move. Your arm, my mouth, my goal,
proved.  

Inhale, late bar, clear ****, down. Breathe out,
too much, cut’s blood, brown.
Thigh highs, hide thighs, bad mood, ***.
Taught tongues, dark room, light sleep,
none. No sound, turned down,
sharp teeth, moan.
Long lies, said truth, ropes tied,
known.



**This piece is a mimic exercise based on Saeed Jones' poem, Thralldom II, from his book, "Prelude to Bruise."

Under the tree
Under the shade
I sat me down and wrote my poem
In the heat of noontide
The braze of summer
Reminiscence of my trials

Under the tree
Under the shade
I stood and sat
Stood and walked around
Aimlessly in heaviness
Wondering how, why and what for

Under the tree
Under the shade
I sat with my pen
And wrote my song immortal
Recounting my quondam thralldom
The genesis of my exodus
The Numbering of my lapidation
The Levitical ministry of providence
The Deuteronomic prospects of victoire
The Joshua-like expeditions and vigils
That brought triumph on enemy
And lead my feet to Canaan

He was found lying dead, in the fresh pool of blood,
Oozing from diverse punctures over his muscular body.
His eyes wide open, as if he must look to die
Hairs of his head freckled ***** in plasma dye.
His shoes a distance away, gorging in mud,
Redolent of his demise struggle with killing the mad.
His deep blue Brazilian made suit, waning in a whiff of freedom,
That came to sweep out of Kenya a cult of thralldom.
Several Packets of ****** spilled over and nearby,
Inspiring apt quizz; did lethal *** happen to pass by?
He had only given democratic legs and hands to his government,
Amid virtuous selflessness and people-centrism his prime indent.
A polity virtue which irked corrupt cacotopian powers that be,
To lethal turf of politics; imaginative vices dominant on human bay.
Packaged in the apex of local beauty of the nation,
Her stowaway; sorriest death of the law in the reign.
Leaving all of us agape in remorseful and  foolish quixoticity;
Dudes in the political caucus, who killed the minister?

Just give me the ocean
My only last bastion
My massive
Enormity
Thralldom
Comes crashing
To swallow me whole
Then unfold
My serenity
Visions of boundless
Effulgent
Prosperity
Stretching and spanning
Horizon tomorrows
To bottle me up
In a vial of sorrows
I’ve written to her
Ever faithfully true
And submerged in her mysteries
I am deep blue

after reading the article
(published in the July + August 2024
issue of Mother Jones)
titled Raging bull - Donald Trump's
pugilistic spokesman has taken
campaigning to a whole new level of low.

Beyond the lookout
for Huyen "Steven" Cheung
(born June 23, 1982)
an American political advisor
Donald Trump's campaign spokesman
in the 2023–24 Republican primary
and served in the Donald J. Trump administration.

He previously worked in Trump's 2016
and 2020 campaigns.

Brilliant gifted package of brains and brawn,
his crude quips against opponents,
(which includes politicians of all stripes),
cut down and figuratively quartered
reduced courtesy raw bits of biting riposte
forced into thralldom, cuz Trump world
adversaries sacrificial fodder roasted alive
all stops pulled out except blood relatives,
where merciless cutthroat antagonism drawn
sycophants molded like putty in the hands
of Voodoo magic spellcaster henchman
disabling staunch radical transgressors

think how frozen blinded deer fawn,
videre licet buckle under headlights glare
immobilized lifeless body
courtesy invisible hawn
fricasséeing, mincing, skewering,
and frankly zapping unwitting victim
par for the coarse faux jambon,
or sprinkled as rich nutrient
upon manicured lawn
housing consecrated ashes
disintegrated lovely bones of Memnon
stands proud as genetic product of Nippon.

Upon first immediate glance
his seventy two plus inches
presents overshadowing, looming,
and hulking mound of flesh
capped with large oblong head,
his likeness surpasses,
supersedes, and summons
idealistic awesomeness of
(Jean Jacques Rousseau) noble savage
beastie boy incarnate,
nevertheless he only poses a menace
to any and all who cross his path.

His physical prowess proved time and again
evident as high school football player then
soon thereafter, he channeled latent might
as martial arts fan
and dabbled in taekwondo,
and Muay Thai boxing
answering the call to ring communications
linkedin to testosterone laden
UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship).

I would not wish to be caught,
in a dark alley with him;
me, who (resembles an aging hippie
and long haired baby boomer)
with accidental affectations somewhat effete
laud a fellow generally antithetical
to my quiet and gentle mien;
no matter yours truly tauts his grandeur

on well poised amazingly graceful feet
exhibits art in motion,
and ability to throw a judicious punch
combined with said averred
robust pillar of strength
being politically savvy
and whip smart to boot
qualities I envy and admire.

Quite challenging,
yet not quite impossible mission
to wax poetic toward an individual
exemplifying the complete antithesis
of mine body, mind and spirit
and synonymous with flattering a bully
for the shear confident bravado
exhibited, which winning qualities
guarantee a success brand
within cutthroat political
webbed wide world effects expand
ever outwar affecting mien kampf

analogous to a monstrous tropical storm
acknowledged as more powerful
(than my measly, and wimpy strength)
that doth move inland,
which earth-shaking event headline
sells papers at the newsstand
years from now techniques
of his stellar machismo masterfully characterized
courtesy elephant gingerly
standing, grandstanding, and balancing on one foot
will serve as object lesson for aspirants
nasty brutish modus operandi
scrutinized, schooled and scanned.

My luminous thralldom
Plunged back into war
I could not save a soul
Mine was nevermore
Sure
And the traveler
Side of me
Once optimistic
Fell prey to the death of ideals
Unrealistic
There was no escape
Nowhere else the tale goes
Though I found a few hiding spots,
Highs were still lows
I felt useless,
Abused,
Disaffected
Confused
And with each passing day
Became more a recluse
And I could not excuse
My aberrant behavior,
Attempts to explain
Only made me seem stranger
The anger again
Was what woke me from bed
Or else probably would
Have just laid there
All dead

Shards of a shimmering
Sanity
Slither
The rain,
Forest flame,
Mortal-stained
Rivers wither
And little known
Little me’s
Watery grave
Seems a long way away
In some newfound malaise
Where the waves
Undulate
Even out
Across land
And alone in its
Thralldom
I stand but a man