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Garry Nov 2017
I would hate to trigger
your triskaidekaphobia,
So please don't count
these words
Denis Barter Jul 2018
A Rhyming Acrostic.

Thirteen on a Friday is a day some hate,
Rendering believers to an anxious state.
I’m not going outside, for it’s an evil day,
Say those who sincerely think this way.
Know something untoward will take place,
And I do not intend to show my face,
In case a catastrophic event does occur!
Devotees of superstitions always prefer
Exercising caution on this auspicious day.
Keeping out of sight, is their chosen way
At times when Friday and Thirteen coincide,
People with abnormal fears frequently decide,
Having such strong beliefs, they cannot explain,
Often finds them subject to humourous disdain!
But remaining silently at home, and out of sight,
Is a triskaidekaphobic’s given right!

Rhymer.  Friday July 13th, 2018.
Make sure you take your Garlic with you today!
Poetry
We constantly deal with poetry which puts us in a soporific state,
we sit here apathetic to the cause of studying this beautiful art-
but Poetry’s breath Ad Nauseum about love and laments is bad for a date,
oblivious to the images, while attempting to turn the key we begin to depart.

Yet the door haunts us, novels, plays, yet poetry is the apex,
of this ethereal mystery within the maelstrom that is our mind,
alas this frustration is focused upon the conundrum of poetry being complex,
is it just a condensed novel, this Herculean Task of understanding the undefined.

There are many who deem poetry obsolete but tis rather far from its nadir,
now begins the unequivocally splendid power of the imagination-
hidden by poetry from the vituperative invader,
who’ve made an egregious mistake in deeming poetry a partial differential equation.

Imagination, oh what a beauty long forgotten in the age of reason-
we’ve been given Hobson’s choice, force fed Occam’s razor, given epitome-
yet good ol’ imagination persist like an excretion,
from the eyes of the true daughter of Time, Science’s proficiency.

People assume poetry is the modern day Gordian’s Knot-
well- let us assume this is Utopia, were Imagination runs wild-
as she watches her forest, a black cat surreptitiously passes a man in thought,
startled because it is Friday the thirteenth his Triskaidekaphobia acts up- this is all rather mild-

Just the tip of the iceberg was touched upon, just the tip-
Poetry and humanity is an oleaginous affair we mix but do not blend,
Or should we, poems are nothing more than what we put in, as if to dip-
just our toes, before we plunge head first into poems so as to apprehend.

Poetry is the Sun, as you are the flowers shined upon,
given warmth of knowledge and power if you are to just reach.
Not to let Poetry in as if to catch on-
give it back in your own form of speech.

Through your own imagination feed poetry,
It hungers for your reality, though not reality-
procrastinate not- hopefully,
for your conceptions are your sanity.

Or rather is fancy your faculty- decide,
it will affect your observation of poetry forevermore.
It will excite-
whether you believe it to or not- you will love or abhor.

Poetry is not arduous -
just do not assume there is a secret door.
In fact poetry is quite virtuous-
Seek only what you can give poetry, I do implore.
A poetry that required certain vocab words, had some fun with it.
Most of my Lix spittle existence
     found me figuratively
     (primarily academically) adrift,
     and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat with
     out an ankh (caws

     away) aimlessly bobbing -
     and drowning akin
     to a besotted drinker
     just out of rest to be
     rescued by Mister Rinker

     sea ming lee without
     any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
     an above average thinker
from without, where two
     myopic ocular
     orbs did winker.

All thru academia
just barely passing grades
     metaphorically
     suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
     thy prepubescent psyche
     plummeted lovely bones
     into grave state,

     sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
     shot thru through with
     healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
     kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
     cortex with monomania

buzzfeed ding somnambulant
     zombified condition
     with a burning
     desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
     raging (red dee
     and bull lush) testosterone
     spawning satyromania


the above particularly
     accentuated, and cresting
     with accursed
     triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
     orbitz around Earth
     demarcated ten plus
     on a Friday the thirteenth,

hence death be not proud
     sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
     if I Willoughby
     able to sprinkle
     cremated ashes across Xenia.
Most of my Lix spittle
+ four anniversaries
since exiting birth canal
as full term newborn
re: minimally viable existence
post doc severance umbilical cord,
nevertheless yours truly

found himself figuratively
linkedin and tethered to lifeline
particularly in formative years
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without an ankh (clawing

away to stay afloat)
aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker

despite being gifted with
an above average thinker,
(who calls Lake Wobegon
his birth place)
from without, where two
brown myopic ocular
orbs shutterfly, twitter and winker.

All thru academia
just barely passing grades
nsync with avocations
such as: jigsaw puzzles,
photography, playing piano
weight lifting with free weights
and other endeavors metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones

into grave state,
courtesy anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
captioned tinker tailor soldier spy
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition

with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning (when libido
ran rampantly amuck)
satyromania, the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when

orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus three
month date on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia
after Dayton death.
Most of my iv + Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically, emotionally,
psychologically, sexually, socially...) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without courtesy picture
an appalling Cap'n Ahab
ankh caws away!

aimlessly bobbing - treading water
analogous to drowning sailor akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker

sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.

All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,

sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeeding earthlinked somnambulant

zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
(nearly burned down the house
at 324 Level Road)
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania

the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
accompanied by 756 full moons)
demarcated ten plus three
on a Friday the thirteenth,
according to Gregorian Calendar,

hence death be not proud
(originally titled
a fourteen-line poem,
or sonnet, by English poet
John Donne, one leading figure
in the metaphysical poets group
of seventeenth-century English literature)

sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
Wicked bad designed day poem originally crafted
then alternately titled
for no particular rhyme nor reason:
courtesy Doctor Donald Dossey  
who coined paraskevidekatriaphobia.

August thirteenth nineteen hundred
and ninety nine
forever etched in the annals of my personal infamy
as one still sending hair raising
shivers down my spine
which following unpleasant details
occurred on a street
that branched off kind of like a fork tine
adjacent to one named Woodbine.

Prior to the following awful events
that unfolded aforementioned day
somewhat solemn and gray
I did not consider myself unduly superstitious
nor prone to bouts of triskaidekaphobia/
paraskevidekatriaphobia  no how no way.

Yet that particular Friday
the thirteenth baptized me
in the ****** waters of superstition unequivocally
whence upon waking said particular morning
the search for funereal garb found me
burrowing into a small closet  
while bending on one knee,
and nonchalantly rummaging

for suitable article of clothing to wear
(per the wake/
sitting shiva of William Zison
the octogenarian father in law)
an unbeknownst ill fate
lurked just seconds away
ready to cap cha an innocent prey
as any unseen observer
and/or pet would agree.

Hands rifled and rustled
thru various and sundry
miscellaneous items in one or another box
mostly clothing and other apparel
draped in coat hangers
plus a precariously perched

heavy tin of yarn heavy as rocks
began to teeter from top ledge,
than made a slow inexorable descent
in direct path of thy crown
containing valued mental stocks.

The topmost part of thine skull
felt impact of sharp metallic rim
that left an indentation in soft part of scalp –
more’n an abrasive skim
and bent circular shape

of contrivance filled to the hilt
one law of physics pertaining
to falling object (taught to me)
acquires greater mass
accelerating with velocity and vim.

Upon reflexively yet tentatively
touching raw sore spot
fingertips revealed presence of warm liquid
soon coagulating into a pulpy gordian knot
from sharp lipped impact registering nausea
and vertigo quite a lot
hence sewing crafts managed to stitch
a tattooed laceration forming a ****** clot.

Body writhed with physical torment
as if being only partially alive
whereby waves of blacking
or passing out found me swooning
ready to take a swan dive
nonetheless from Schwenksville
to Penn Valley, I did
(by divine grace) safely drive
whence family members and relatives
once destination reached, the motley crue
began organized car pool arrangements
per heading off to the cemetery,

which caravan formation  
similar to a human bee hive,
yours truly declined to go
communicating persistent distress from mishap
I bowed wowed out, stayed home
and kept company with a dog
(purportedly man’s best friend)
(said pet belonging to a friend
of eldest sister in law),
whose open palmed overtures
of mine did not jive.

An impulse found fingers reaching out
to stroke this unfamiliar animal
supposedly man’s best friend
only to find sharp teeth from canine jaw
clamped down ******* hand
which second ****** injury,
I did immediately tend
while bolts of white hot pain
shot thru lower extremity of palm
radiated upward through forearm
into shoulder did wend.
(alternately titled: courtesy Doctor Donald Dossey  
who coined paraskevidekatriaphobia

August thirteenth nineteen hundred and ninety nine
forever etched in annals of my personal infamy
as one still sending hair raising shivers down my spine
which following unpleasant details occurred on a street
that branched off kind of like fork tine
adjacent to one named Woodbine.

Prior to the following awful events
that unfolded aforementioned day
somewhat solemn and gray
I did not consider myself unduly superstitious
nor prone to bouts of triskaidekaphobia/
paraskevidekatriaphobia  no how no way.

Yet that particular Friday
the thirteenth baptized me
in the ****** waters of superstition unequivocally
whence upon waking said particular morning
the search for funereal garb found me
burrowing into a small closet  
while bending on one knee,
and nonchalantly rummaging

for suitable article of clothing to wear
(per the wake/
sitting shiva of William Zison
the octogenarian father in law)
an unbeknownst ill fate
lurked just seconds away
ready to captcha an innocent prey
as any unseen observer
and/or pet would agree.

Hands rifled and rustled
thru various and sundry
miscellaneous items in one or another box
mostly clothing and other apparel
draped in coat hangers
plus a precariously perched

heavy tin of yarn heavy as rocks
began to teeter from top ledge,
than made a slow inexorable descent
in direct path of thy crown
containing valued mental stocks.

The topmost part of thine skull
felt impact of sharp metallic rim
that left an indentation in soft part of scalp –
more’n an abrasive skim
and bent circular shape

of contrivance filled to the hilt
one law of physics pertaining
to falling object (taught to me)
acquires greater mass
accelerating with velocity and vim.

Upon reflexively yet tentatively
touching raw sore spot
fingertips revealed presence of warm liquid
soon coagulating into a pulpy gordian knot
from sharp lipped impact registering nausea
and vertigo quite a lot
hence sewing crafts managed to stitch
a tattooed laceration forming a ****** clot.

Body writhed with physical torment
as if being only partially alive
whereby waves of blacking
or passing out found me swooning
ready to take a swan dive
nonetheless from Schwenksville

to Penn Valley, I did
(by divine grace) safely drive
whence family members and relatives
once destination reached, the motley crue
began organized car pool arrangements
per heading off to the cemetery,

which caravan formation  
similar to a human bee hive,
yours truly declined to go
communicating persistent distress from mishap
I bowed wowed out, stayed home

and kept company with a dog
(purportedly man’s best friend)
(said pet belonging to a friend
of eldest sister in law),
whose open palmed overtures
of mine did not jive.

An impulse found fingers reaching out
to stroke this unfamiliar animal
supposedly man’s best friend
only to find sharp teeth from canine jaw
clamped down ******* hand

which second ****** injury,
I did immediately tend
while bolts of white hot pain
shot thru lower extremity of palm
radiated upward through forearm
into shoulder did wend.
Once again tis time to pony up and trot out (neigh - without horsing around) an unforgettable day encompassing a series of unfortunate events (so take that Lemony Snicket! - yeah go ahead and picket!).

Wicked bad day poem
originally crafted, designed, engineered...
then alternately titled
for no particular rhyme nor reason:
unwitting courtesy extended
to Doctor Donald (Duck) Dossey  
who coined paraskevidekatriaphobia.

Superstitious severely tested across fineline
doggedly gingerly jinxing luck of mine
August thirteenth nineteen hundred and ninety nine
forever etched in the annals of my personal infamy
as one still sending hair raising shivers down my spine
which following unpleasant details occurred on a street
that branched off kind of like a fork tine
adjacent to one named Woodbine.

Prior to the following awful events
that unfolded aforementioned day
somewhat solemn and gray
I did not consider myself unduly superstitious
nor prone to bouts of triskaidekaphobia/
paraskevidekatriaphobia  no how no way.

Yet that particular Friday
the thirteenth baptized me
in the ****** waters of superstition unequivocally
whence upon waking said particular morning
the search for funereal garb found me
burrowing into a small closet  
while bending on one knee,
and nonchalantly rummaging

for suitable article of clothing to wear
(per the wake/
sitting shiva of William Zison
the octogenarian father in law)
an unbeknownst ill fate
lurked just seconds away
ready to cap cha an innocent prey
as any unseen observer
and/or pet would agree.

Hands rifled and rustled
thru various and sundry
miscellaneous items in one or another box
mostly clothing and other apparel
draped in coat hangers
plus a precariously perched

heavy tin of yarn heavy as rocks
began to teeter from top ledge,
than made a slow inexorable descent
in direct path of thy crown
containing valued mental stocks.

The topmost part of thine skull
felt impact of sharp metallic rim
that left an indentation in soft part of scalp –
more’n an abrasive skim
and bent circular shape

of contrivance filled to the hilt
one law of physics pertaining
to falling object (taught to me)
acquires greater mass
accelerating with velocity and vim.

Upon reflexively yet tentatively
touching raw sore spot
fingertips revealed presence of warm liquid
soon coagulating into a pulpy gordian knot
from sharp lipped impact registering nausea
and vertigo quite a lot
hence sewing crafts managed to stitch
a tattooed laceration forming a ****** clot.

Body writhed with physical torment
as if being only partially alive
whereby waves of blacking
or passing out found me swooning
ready to take a swan dive
nonetheless from Schwenksville
to Penn Valley, I did
(by divine grace) safely drive
whence family members and relatives
once destination reached, the motley crue
began organized car pool arrangements
per heading off to the cemetery,

which caravan formation  
similar to a human bee hive,
yours truly declined to go
communicating persistent distress from mishap
I bowed wowed out, stayed home
and kept company with a dog
(purportedly man’s best friend)
(said pet belonging to a friend
of eldest sister in law),
whose open palmed overtures
of mine did not jive.

An impulse found fingers reaching out
to stroke this unfamiliar animal
supposedly man’s best friend
only to find sharp teeth from canine jaw
clamped down ******* hand
which second ****** injury,
my mother affixed a butterfly bandage
to expedite the injury to mend,
I did immediately tend
while bolts of white hot pain
shot thru lower extremity of palm
radiated upward through forearm
into shoulder did wend.

— The End —