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Off-Center Poetry

By blind Ryan

Off Center Poetry is a collection of ten poems all written in haiku.


Ryan Scott is a retired psychologist, living in Austin with his guide dog, Chaucer. Other books he has written and put on line include: Ella, Relax and Go Limp, Matter of Attitude, The Amazing Dr. Mulfinger, Realty Riches for Cowards, Penny Fishbound, Dogs Are Better than Women and Darkness, the Secrets of a Blind Psychologist.


Visit: https://www.booksryanscott.com/home/


The Scorpion


Tyrone filed his tail

Sharp like an eight penny nail.

Waiting for a lift.

I’ll cross that darn lake.

Any old conveyance I’LL take,

Or hire any old skiff.



When turtle swam by,

Tyrone yelled out with a cry,

“Hey Turtle! Come here!”

Turtle raised his head.

“Are you calling me?” he said

Laughing with good cheer.


“I need a ride quick.

My grandmother is quite sick.

I’ll sure pay you well.”

“Your are in a plight,

But I’m afraid you might bite

Or sting with your tail.”


“I swear I’ll be good.

I should be grateful if you would

Only do it fast.”

“Alright I’ll do it.

Just hop on my back and sit,”

He replied at last.


Tyrone liked to sail,

But he raised his deadly tail

And slammed it down quick.

“Why did you do that?

You are much worse than a rat.

Such a dirty trick!”


It ain’t no big thing.

It’s my nature to sting

Now you have to die.”

“That’s where you’re wrong

I am designed to live long.

My shell is three ply.”


“Now pull you’re barb out

And then we’ll play turn about,”

He said with a Frown.

“Goodbye now my friend

I’m afraid this is the end.”

And then he dove down.


“I’m too young to die

Please give me just one more try.”

But turtle stayed down.

“You want to be alive,

But it’s my nature to dive.”

And poor Tyrone drowned.





The crop



There stands fields of fear.

Wheat nor rye nor corn grow here,

Just the weeds of war.

Lands once green and lush,

Now covered by smoke and dust,

Speak a silent roar.


A crop grimly grows,

All crosses arranged in rows,

The fruit of conflict.

The bugle is still

Its call not ringing off hills,

While new rifles click.


Blood of lust still flows,

History winks as it knows,

Men eager to kill!

The winds blow softly

Over dreams ever lofty,

Reaping one more hill.


Sir Charles


His stance was noble,

Appearing ever so mobile,

Poised for any task.

He captured my heart,

Looking so shiny and smart,

But only a mask.


His rumble was loud,

Like a tiger in the crowd,

Awesome to behold

But then the first doubt

When most of his oil leaked out.

My affair turned cold.


Mechanics looked sad.

The list of repairs was bad.

It seemed hardly real.

I ranted and raved

I tried to be brave, but

Revenge had appeal.


His water was hot

As I parked on the rear lot,

His head held in shame.

The con men were hit

By the old puppy dog bit

Beat at their own game.


I’d returned him quick

Very feverish and sick,

Far from my home.

I said he was swell,

Everyone thought he ran well,

Too precious to own.


I got my cash back

By using my well-worn act,

Letting my tears well.

I left Sir Charles there

Leaving him without a care.

Sir Charles, rest in hell!


The Thinker


I had a quaint thought

About lessons often taught,

When is “why,” “when” and “how.”

“When” is now and then

Lurking just behind the bend

But mostly, it’s now.


“Why,” tries to explain

Philosophers scratch their brain.

But we just don’t know.

“Where,” is just a spot.

Sometimes cold and sometimes hot

Between high and low.


“How,” is great to tell

Just tweak a monkey’s tail

It’s oodles of fun.

“Who,” is he nor she.

It’s definitely not me.

It’s the other one.


My House


My house just like me,

Born in 1933,

Has put on some years.

My house has fared well.

Better than I like to tell

Since we are linked as peers.


It’s still strong and stout,

Often patched inside and out

Unlike my fat gut.


It’s bold and young

Desired by everyone

While I’m in a rut.


With replacement parts

It still remains crisp and sharp

While I barely tick

My house proudly stands

Boasting brand new ceiling fans

Making me feel so sick.


I have not done as well

As my beautiful hair fell,

My balding head shone.


My old body sags

With creaking bones and dark bags

Bending makes me moan.


I wish there were a store

With body parts galore

Then I could compete.

I’d be well toned

Far better than that old home

Groveling at my feet.


The walk


I like a long walk

Better than some boring talk.

That’s the way I roll.

I went for a hike

Strolling a street I like

But fell in a hole.


I gave out a shout

They finally got me out

All covered in muck.

The next day I tried

Squeezing around the narrow side,

But ran out of luck.


I fell once again,

Bouncing twice hurting my shin

My pride all shattered.

After I got out,

My judgment was called in doubt.

But it didn’t matter


Day three I ran fast

Jumping over the crevasse,

But I fell real hard.

Once again I cried

All the firemen replied,

“Man, you’re a retard!”


On the final day,

I tried another way,

Feeling rather unique.

I regained my pride

Walking with a rapid stride

On a different street.


The Harvest



I have a new job.

One step ahead of the mob.

Collecting body parts.

My very first crop

Was someone I liked a lot.

Young, healthy and smart.


It took a long time

Trying to make up my mind.

But I chose quite well.

He lived away from home

Was conveniently unknown.

With great parts to sell.


The deed was done clean,

He did not feel anything.

I had parts galore!

Making the first choice,

I took parts still warm and moist.

It was quite a score.


With eyes that could see

And heart pumping steadily,

I felt so much pride

Then I snatched his hair

My own poor scalp nearly bare.

I chuckled inside.


His toenails were clean.

My own nails very obscene.

So I took them too.

Finally, I was done.

But there was much more fun,

With gifts for a few.


My daughter was a nut.

Wanting his cute bubble butt.

I let her take it.

She wanted his brain

Only the math part she claimed

It was a good fit.


Some teeth and some skin

Satisfied her silly whim.

Finally, she was bored.

My grandson shed tears

When I gave him brand new ears.

His hearing restored.


A new GPS,

Several new teeth more or less

And then he was through

My son-in-law said

His liver was almost dead.

So I gave that too.


The remaining parts

Were wheeled away in big carts

My gift to the poor.

It’s all out the door,

But now I want three or more

Bodies to process.

I’ll package them well

And priced for an easy sell.

Each soul will be blessed.


My Friend


He’s my good buddy.

Sometimes he comes in muddy.

I don’t mind at all.

Who cares about stains?

All relationships have pains

He comes at my call.


He’s there when I’m sad.

He doesn’t judge if I’m bad.

He is a winner.

When I offer food.

He’s always polite not rude.

He’ll sing for dinner.


He’s always ready

To keep me going steady

When I’m feeling low.

He is always kind

And able to read my mind

He just seems to know.


When I need to lean,

He builds up my self esteem.

A good friend indeed.

Whenever I wail,

He will come quick without fail

He’s there for my need.


If I get snappy,

He remains quite happy,

A rock to hold on.

If I have to leave,

He wouldn’t grab at my sleeve,

But mourns when I’m gone.


When I do come back,

He gives furniture a good whack.

His tail is quite strong.

When picking a friend,

Select a dog at the end

And you won’t go wrong.


Voices


I think I hear voices,

And each of them rejoices,

Driving me quite mad.

My agitation

Is not imagination .

It’s evil and bad.


Whispers like a fairy,

Quite Ghostly and scary,

Push me to my end.

If this crap goes on,

Even though it’s plainly wrong,

I’ll cowardly bend.


My watch was the first,

But it was not the worse

To addle my brain.

Right out of the gate,

It announced I was too late.

That started my pain.


Then my bathroom scale

Went further beyond the pale.

It said I should pray.

It had its nerve,

Throwing me another curve,

With, “Have a nice day.”


Then life got quite mean

When my blood pressure machine

Said my pressure was high.

My GPS moaned

When it got lost going home.

I thought I would die.


My I-phone’s the worst.

It was designed with a curse

To make me depressed.

It speaks out with glee

Saying I’m no longer free.

My life lost its zest.


My friends don’t call.

I’m stuck behind a wall.

My phone’s out of juice.

I’m forced to give up.

Surrendering really sucks,

But they’ve cooked my goose!


My Addiction


Some like fudge supreme

Some like strawberries and cream,

But I like jello

My friends laugh and scoff.

Trying hard to blow me off,

Goodbye and hello.


They became upset,

When they tried to intercept

But I would not heed

Their prayers and pleas

Begging me on their knees

To drop my disease.


I scorned them roughly,

Telling them rather gruffly,

Just leave me alone.

But alas it’s gone

It didn’t seem very wrong

No mercy was shone.


Then my pusher said

The terrible words I dread.

“My supply is out.”

I tried hard to find

A cheap supplier on line,

A different route.


The stuff that I found

Was colored dust by the pound.

I wanted to cry!

I let it all go

My pride, house and all my dough,

A pig in a sty.


My body did shake.

Every last part of me ached.

I needed a fix.

I beg on the street

With every person I meet

I even turned tricks.


I need jiggly food.

Then just watch my attitude

Get so much better.

Now I’m on a plan

To curb that awful demand,

Hooked on sharp cheddar.





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