Eat Write and Exorcise

a blog by Scott Powell

Archive for the month “April, 2012”

Poetry can be beautiful (but it doesn’t have to be).

The photo below, and assistance from two others (anonymous for now, until I get their permission to use their names), inspired the poem further below.
Amish Savior, a poem by Scott Powell
Among the bloody husks of corn,
a mutant infant – vengeance born.
Swaddled in quilts of English flesh,
It takes its first unholy breath.
A prophecy none dared believe,
too horrific to be conceived.
Secret sisters, fear their savior,
soothe its brow to curry favor.
Closet brethren, bloody buggy,
headless horses, cannot whinney.
Whisk the child to hidden caverns,
for it to grow, and hate to learn.
When moon is full and stars are bright,
for none can look in full daylight,
they offer gifts, some still living,
knowing soon he’ll do their bidding.
When faithful travel to their towns,
the people laugh, as if they’re clowns.
They know they must suppress their rage,
as it is written on the page.
Although terrified as it grows,
it must be done, as each one knows.
They wish to live in blessed peace,
and only it can bring release.
They are shamed, and take no pleasure,
knowing future drastic measures.
Their vengeance soon will visit those,
who love to taunt and land their blows.
Too soon it seems, the day has come,
though some object, it must be done.
The English threat must be controlled,
their way of life they wish to hold.
Soon the peace they dearly treasure,
will be granted them forever.
The prophecy will be fulfilled,
when all the modern men are killed.
Again, I ask that you please not attempt to have me committed.

Childhood memories

My earliest memories are of learning that I could fly and that I could breathe underwater. Also, that there were dinosaurs in our backyard. These may have been dreams. One of the earliest memories that I am pretty sure is real is of a duck trying to eat my toe (It was bandaged up following an ill-advised encounter with a scorpion, and looked like one of the marshmallows we’d been feeding them). A couple more are my brother reading me bedtime stories (Poe – The Raven, The Telltale Heart, The Pit and the Pendulum, etc. (I was 5 and he was 9)) and at age 6 getting a dog, and naming him Finley because we finally got a dog, but “here Finally” sounded awkward. His middle name was Parentheses, because he was bow-legged.

Most of my other childhood memories are the usual assortment you’d find in the head of someone who grew up in a dysfunctional family, and may or may not be discussed later.

Haiku for the Masses

Definitely not my best effort, but as the name of the blog implies, there are some things I just have to get out of my head.

Limericks Masquerading as Haiku

A low branch protrudes
Pants stretched beyond their limit
His penis exposed

A Nantucket man
His penis is very large
A Limerick born

Why-ku? (or why the hell would anyone write Haiku?)

Five short syllables
Followed by seven, then five
What’s the fucking point?

Such short poetry
Yet such great capacity
To annoy us all

Why do I write them?
I have not chosen this form
They come unbidden

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