Ford’s Theater, April 15th, 1865,

Petersen House, Washington, D.C.

(i admit to own a passion for the Civil War in general,
and the life and death of
the sixteenth president in particular).

between a hard spot of whiskey
and draughts of arrack
nonetheless (without doubt), this Yankee
would be fain toot ravel back

to Antebellum America
amidst the urban din and clack
where smelting earsplitting,
choking industrialization

a deaf fin hit drawback,
and where dark shadows cast an eternal
edge of night pallor tubby somewhat exact
from mighty robber barons,

who tolerated no flack
despite the (bleeding nose against grindstone)
inhumanity bearing down hard
with very little giveback
viz zit head as greenback

yes…no matter the noxious
crash course urbanization
(and attendant ghettoization)
breeding a lunging tuberculosis hack

this twenty first century mid dull aged
married man (an average Monterey Jack
ass), whose sought after
claim to fame penchant

modestly admits to whiz knack
crafting literary concoctions with no lack
of ideas, where one arose
strong as an oncoming mack

truck (this vibrant fascination
with the American Civil War
(even before Ken Burns popularized
this calamitous event) in nonblack

and white (digital remastered technicolor)
exemplified, enumerated, and emphasized
how a minor dispute got way offtrack
whereat the stately commander in chief did pack

a punch analogous sans,
barreling forth
like unstoppable quarterback
despite his six foot four inch

gangly physique cull rack
tried his darnedest
(or unprintable epithet)
yet a coterie of anti war subjects
figuratively and literally up in arms
wanted nothing less to sack
the sixteenth president

whose aged fifty seven year old countenance
one month after the Ides of March death didst dance
during the low key celebration sans,
internecine bloodbath Grants’

and Lees’ armistice
one hundred and fifty years ago
the peace treaty signed at Appomattox,
an irrevocable agony did blow
when that fateful, mournful,

somber night at Ford’s Theater
the grim reaper didst (like Jim) crow
after one shot rang out blasting,
where crimson tide didst flow

drowning American history
at that juncture grow
wing no less painless today, which hoo
veer ring agony didst smite

incomprehensible cleft mow
wing down unfinished ambition, which no
one other than Abraham Lincoln could sow
the racial rift, that slavery trucked in tow
generations shackled with compounded woe!

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Matthew Scott Harris

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
çhåråc†e® ske†çh øƒ m円hew sçø†† hå®®is! ™Born in Cincinnati that buckeye state January 13th 1959 – 57+ years to date A tangle of arms & legs testing lungs, which sounded great He kind of resembled a misshapen octopus with oval pate Glowering inxs of deep purple from blue mood being irate Thrust out the womb of Harriet Harris whom Boyce did date After courting this youngest Kuritsky kin whose ill-fate Whisked by grim reaper, which demise she did hate For her being imbued with vim and vinegar til illness ate Away her je nais sais quois personable maternal trait Evident during my boyhood reflected by her son of late As he too inches closer to his mortality and Hades gate Aware that each day ought to be cherished as the rate Of time courses down zip line where grim reaper does wait Attired in brand name hoodie swinging scythe across oblate Spheroid i.e. terrestrial firmament – though years some great Yet to be lived – trying to re cap cha childhood bliss b4 freight Train on a collision course toward self-destruction ala tete a tete With Anorexia Nervosa as thy then coveted deadly mate A brutal hellish spiral down in2 abysmal depths of despair did create Indelible psychological affects undermined existence I now equate writ horrendous emotional, physical n social gouge within pate Pledged troth ('bout 2+ decades ago), which spouse oft times berate For lack of expressed concern and attests schizoid psychic slate irrevocably seared and stunted natural development where I rate prepubescent, early adulthood mental illness did grate Against once boisterously playful innocent boy crushed potentate Only male heir from me deceased mother who tried to extirpate Mailer daemons who forged suicide pact and via voice did dictate Albeit without success, yet decry forsaken innate Experiences with female relationships off viz poisoned bait!
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of

Commentaries — From April 4, 2014

Commentaries     From April 4, 2014 prose poem

though moo cho yars older, i (bovine cuddly name = hay4four at aol dot com), could feign 2b a frat house bro by undergoing a facial augmentation – despite lacking dough unlike the multimillionaires here in lower merion, where a


Theater prose poem

Fuss and confusion; At the nearby café, a woman is hanged on her high velvet hat, concealing a left crossed-eye behind a piece of texture pretending transparency. A director with two extra-ordinary long sideburns points at an old man, who

Your Lie In April

Your Lie In April prose poem

They say that when you fall in love, your world turns brighter. I never thought it would be true… At least, not until I met you. From the crest of the hill, I could see you looking off in the


April prose poem

I will end up at the sky gates, as a thirsty spike, roving around in valleys, looking for a crippled dream. I am an almond tree, a stolen joy for a feast of phantoms. I bend to the mornings’ face,

A Beautiful April Morning

A Beautiful April Morning short poem

Whenever, I feel tired and exhausted, From life’s monotonous routine, I go to my courtyard Theatre, On the enormous screen, Watching the free natural movie scenes, Projected by The Almighty Producer. The scenes change there with the passage, Of the