Pulled himself to the very top
Looked over the world on high
Felt the warm and stirring breeze
falling from the sky
Knowing this was how it felt
to soar above the land
To feel so safe away from things
so free to be alive
Yet down the pole we all must come
to touch the very ground
This is where we laugh and play
gives us what we need
The loving smile of a young girl's face
a women's tender care
For up above the pole to fly
is nothing but the air
But on the soil we grow and live
to reach out, to touch, to give
So keep your feet upon the ground
take a good long look around
and see if flying above the pole
isn't like living in a hole
from where you never see
the reaching hands pulling you down
pulling you down to be
your belief system is the major indication
of what you can accomplish with positive validation
if you can see it, you can achieve
if you can perceive it, you can believe it
underachievers are always underestimating themselves
non-achievers are always looking for a handout and the most help
average achievers do only what is usually just required
but overachievers strive to realize their heart's desire
in The Bible Mark 6:5-6 are two of the saddest scriptures to me
it tells of the time when Jesus went to His birth place
to spread His Father's ministry
it is somewhat troubling to me when He could find there no relief
because the Nazarenes were in a mind set of utter unbelief
even though He had worked many miracles
in most every town he had ventured to
the citizens of Nazareth were unwilling to give Him His proper due
a showdown in Nazareth, Jesus trying to evangelize God's word
but they saw Him only as the carpenter's son attempting to do the absurd
the power of God can only manifest in an arena of positivity
it can not gown nor gravitate in an atmosphere of negativity
Jesus was rendered powerless, the passion in Him had subsided
because the unbelieving Nazarenes remained unyielding
and completely one-sided
there is a significant amount of unbelief
in many church congregations
where some are just sayers of the Word
and don't believe in the power of the consecration
it takes one drop of negativity
to yield a whole crop of unbelieveability
understand that the Living God can't work in anyone's life
if they are in a state of mind clouded by negativity and strife
there is nothing that can't be accomplished if you know this in your heart
that God can work miracles just believe in His powers from the start
for God can move mountains, He can make a river divide
His powers are omnipotent, just keep a positive attitude in mind
don't undermine God's purpose for you life, allow Him some control
don't underestimate what He can do for you, if you surrender to Him your soul
always look for the victory, don't settle for defeat or loss
use the power of your belief, the power of the blood, the crown and the cross
if you believe God can open doors
what more could you ask for
just believe with God that you can do it
just trust in Him and let Him prove it
just believe in the power that is Jesus Christ
and imagine what you can accomplish
if you just let Him work in your life
I do not know?
More rocks than soil on those flinty hills
Where he tilled the grudging land.
He chopped the sprouts and manned the plow,
With cracked and callused hands.
No stranger to adversity,
Through hard and bitter years
He wet the dusty, stony ground
With a poor man’s sweat and tears.
He was not a man you’d hear complain,
Though hard times dogged his trail.
He faced the foe unflinchingly;
His courage never failed.
He cried unto his unseen Friend,
A Friend who always hears--
To the One who sees and understands
A poor man's sweat and tears.
The legacy he left behind
Was not of wealth or fame.
On history’s golden pages
You will not find his name.
He lived a simple, honest life,
In a world that little cares.
His name was written in the dust
In a poor man's sweat and tears.
No rocks, no sprouts, no callused hands
Where he safely dwells today,
In that everlasting Eden,
Beyond the Milky Way.
Where hope ends in reality
And joy relieves all fears--
A garden where no one is poor--
And no more sweat and tears.
Outrider early morn,
When training hours are borne,
They are the needed arm,
Sun, cold, wind, rain or storm,
Outrider in the sun,
Whose work is never done,
Where horses on the run,
Keep bettors having fun,
Outrider in the cold,
Ones with hearts so bold,
Their stories often told,
Of skillful ways they rode,
Outrider in the rain,
Sha'n't wait the weather wane,
Is there to help again,
When loose ones run insane,
Outrider in the wind,
An utmost needed friend,
May everywhere they wend,
Such godspeed be with them,
Outrider in the night,
No fear, no fame, less light,
Night racing at its height,
Make safe the riders plight,
Outrider by and by,
Whether wet or weather dry,
They heed the riders cry,
They're the best, we can't deny,
Many "Thanks" we horsemen reply.
She was a devoted ole gal always at her best
so many days I cried hanging off her chest
down to the lake in the hot summertime
we would cool her off and swing on a vine
Every morning at five am here came Belle, now my friend
and again at six pm there Belle was ready to work again
years passed and Belle became a part of our family
we worked, we played, and we milked twice a day
Half my life she was one of my dear friends
I greeted her in summer with warm sun burnt skin
and in winter I spent my time warming them
when Belle died I can't say things were ever the same again
Belle had become more than a cow in a pen, who gave us milk
she became a babysitter, a circus act, part of the swim team, for the neighborhood
but most of all Belle had become a lonely teen's dear friend
I feel sad
like young girls
returned from school,
with empty bellies,
Yet at the backyard
washing 'Akpu' or 'Akamu';
It pains me
like fingers hurt
between frame and wood
of a jammed door;
It offends me
like red and green leaves
falling from trees,
and littering our brown compound
Forever and indiscriminately;
It kills me
like earth worm
destroying our fat yams
in the black sands
of our farms:
The love i feel for you.
# 'AKPU' - a fermented cassava which pulp is extracted from the roughage by means of
washing with water. Done to produce a Nigerian swallow starch food. Quite irritating
because of the foul odor of the fermented cassava. And a work for the mothers and
# 'AKAMU' - A Nigerian word for fermented corn which pulp is extracted from the corn
roughage by means of washing with water to produce a delicious starch drink. but
production process is quite irritating too. Also a work for the mothers and sisters.
in the black sands
of our farms
A father figure, worth his guarantee,
Amaro, his name (like tomorrow), here you see,
a Latin name which means a bitter tree.
Amaro spurned his name with faith as master key.
When duty called, he, Pop, was nominee.
Amaro, regardless would harbor family.
His son had died by accident, a cop,
three tiny tots were blessed to live by neighbor Pop.
When Mommy left, wound tighter than a top,
three youngsters found a lifelong rest that would not stop.
Pop took them on and raised them in his shop;
three teenage boys still love him best, a sturdy prop.
They’d learned his trade with expertise, he knew.
In auto skills, he’d taught them well. He’d trained his crew
to understand when customers are few
in people skills, we need to take an open view.
He soon found out when bills are overdue
in business skills, the three could teach him something new.
You've read right here, of how to climb the ropes,
Amaro understood. His faith has raised my scopes;
he made mistakes, I never heard him mope.
Amaro understood that raising boys takes hope.
Three lively guys who pushed his envelope,
Amaro understood, a Pop who learned to cope.
for Giorgio's Sketch a Character contest, iambic pentameter
by Reason A. Poteet
24 lines: alternating pentameter/hexameter lines with monorhyme per 6 line stanza.
A similar poem using some of the phrasing in the last stanza above, I published at All-Poetry on 13 Dec 2014 but this ode is much longer with a imagined character and more detail. The original piece is still intact, an acrostic, An Inspiration - Amarah
Ode To A Dead Apple
Oh poor Dan what can we say
He’s had such bad news delivered today
His Apple Mac that’s virus free
As expensive and speedy as can be.
To do your work is such a breeze
Bug free it does not catch a sneeze
But what the Apple people did not do
Was protect it from the likes of you
Your Apple Mac that you so love
Is put to rest and looks down from above.
The death of your Mac is hard to take
Don’t do anything stupid for goodness sake
It was tired with all the work you do
And sleepy just like De and you
But listen to some advice that’s free
Never give it any more coffee or tea.
To my poor Nephew that has spilled a mug of Coffee and Killed his Mac
Written on 21st April 2012
By: Sashi. Prabhu (zeauoxian)
(This Ode is dedicated to the Administrative professional / Executive Administrative Assistants/Secretaries. I dedicate this to all the unsung champions who have worked selflessly in the shadows to brighten the futures and then silently steeped away into the twilight of their lives without a ray of expectation in any form.)celebrate 25th april 2012 ,60th anniversary.
You make yourself graciously present from the beginning or start,
to align processes and routines you pour out your big heart.
No words or action suffice to thank you enough,
You stand by and support through thick and thin when times get real rough.
Your tips, guidance opinion and advice,
are of utmost importance and cannot be gauged by monetary price.
You can never be thanked enough,
You really help mould your superiors and aid them to take on situations that are all rough.
To work without you is sure as hell,
In circles of times round and round without progress will superiors dwell.
To work with you is a real pleasure,
Your honed competencies, skills and ways of problem solving are a treasure.
You simply slice the ropes (lengthy time wasting procedures) that curtail us,
You battle the winds of change and interruptions for us to be in time to catch destiny’s bus.
In the hustle and bustle of daily chores and routines,
You execute work with precision by all means.
In stormy weather you stand by with great strength for all to see,
And when the chips are down you stand tall deep rooted like a tree.
Your kind heart and beautiful mind is a combination rare,
Every time we saunter or amble to our cabins you are there with a smile filled with care.
We really appreciate your kind and generous ways,
The order you bring with your overpowering yells and disciplinary displays.
You are always there to be a part of a team,
And back up everything to bring about into existence everyone’s “dream”.
You come to my mind when I think of sharing,
You come to my mind when I think of appreciating
You come to my mind when I think of giving
You come to my mind when I think of forgiving
On this occasion would like to thank you once more,
For all the things you have done and said open hearted and galore.
Thank you so much for supporting and being a beacon of light,
And it’s because of people like you many Executive futures have been made bright……..
Blaring grinding blares thy engine
In mending together humanity’s ails,
Flickering light shines thy mender
In shining some light in humanity’s ails.
Sacrificial lamb in mending thy breaks
In little a price for sweats consumed,
Hearing impairment, a risk to come
In shining some light to humanity’s ails.
Shielding thy eye from blind man's woe
Lest an error to move with sticks,
Shielding thy hands from animal’s woe
In shining some light to humanity’s ails.
On, thy aches from blaring machine
In fixing thy job to earn thy pay,
Mending thy rod, the welder’s task
In shining some light in humanity’s ails.
There've been times in my life
where I've just had to say,
"I must, give it all up,
for, it's that kind of day"!
I must, really say this
I really, just must;
if I didn't say it,
then, it wouldn't be, "just".
There's this crazy, old man
we'll just call him, "Doc";
who fills up blank pages
with, "poetical talk".
He's scribbled, and scrabbled
'til way, past bed-time,
trying to finish each poem
and, complete every rhyme.
If he hadn't done this
he'd surely gone, "mad",
his nonsensical nature
was, all that he had!
No hidden agenda
when first, he wrote down,
each poem of nonsense
to erase a childs' frown.
And, Doc always did this
..so that , all of his poems
were merely geared, to amuse.
He loved to let nonsense
be the order of the day,
and, with every poem
we all smiled, the same way.
His only intention
was to set our minds, "free",
his style, just did it
With his own tongue, in cheek
we knew we'd been had,
and his poems rhymed perfectly
proving he was no, "fad"!
The volumes of topics
that Doc's written of,
included all that could be
written.....below, and above.
He's written of magic,
puzzles, and games...
..with, strange little creatures,
with, strange little, "names".
The, crazier his story,
the saner he'd feel,
and, the more that we heard
convinced us they were, "real"!
His poems, were genius
as he weaved us, a tale;
with, nonsensical rhymes
that did so, without..."fail".
"Old Doc", has quit writing
he's up in heaven,
this year, his birthday'd ...
make him, a hundred, and seven!
He's given advice,
taught what we must do,
he said, "Be who you are...
..no-one's youer, than....you!"
He's maybe still writing
in, heaven....you see,
that'd be just like him
as, that's who he must, be!
That, silly old doctor...
..as silly, as a goose;
we all loved his poems,
for, we loved Dr. Seuss!
- Normally I don’t mess with email requests;
but times are a-changin’ and I’m rearrangin’. -
(As noted by all this distress,
the story we wish we‘d see less)
“The Train Wreck of Charlie Sheen;”
The public seems a little bitter;
As he rambles his rants on Twitter,
Social network scenes, all the magazines;
And he’s still rollin’ in dough, like we’ve never seen.
Any news is good news…so they say;
He’s gonna relapse anyway;
So at least he’s getting high, and making pay.
Everyone’s glued to their TV and internet devices,
But the best thing to do, believe me, is ignore him and his vices.
He feeds financially and emotionally, off you and me
So leave Charlie alone! Just let him be…
I wanted to be a writer
When I was just a young teen
But I was so incredibly shy
And kids can be so mean.
Then a new teacher came along.
He had such a different view.
I no longer felt embarrassed
By the writing that I'd do.
He made me feel I had a gift
And that it should be shared.
To him I admitted my hopes
And I felt that he really cared.
Mr. Sowden encouraged extra work,
To write about whatever we wanted.
So I wrote and wrote and wrote some more.
The words just flew, undaunted.
My grade ten English teacher
Read my work out loud
And winked when the class applauded,
For the first time I felt proud.
I never signed my real name.
The class didn't know it was me
But my work garnered admiration,
On display for all to see.
That was the year I learned that
What I wrote was pretty good.
I just needed time for confidence to grow
And that, Mr. Sowden, understood.
He made us see the written word
In a way that made us aware.
So I would like to thank him,
The English teacher who really did care.
Come on my men, come back to rail,
And stop to shy away from duty at hand;
Now wear the steel, shed off the frail,
And join me we journey as a stronger band.
We can't up hands while we be called men,
And lose the Game and earn the Shame;
Let's add to nine one-- that becomes ten,
Something stronger; a form of fame.
Come on my men, join me at it,
We be a bold band none can break;
Watching friend's back though hardest be hit,
Never turning back until victory we make.
Aiming higher ever, never settling for less,
Yearning to be the leading lad or lass;
Doing by the rewarding art of stick-to-it-ness,
Building better to best, as the bee does.
I've lots of dates in the Summer
Treat them to sex in my Hummer
Can have all of me
But the fuel is not free
Buying that gas is a bummer
I know of a man. A man full of gratitude and humility for all he is and all he has
He has an eternal fault: an obsession to make a difference; to make an impact
To sow where he care not to reap
And give where, he does not get back
To solve a problem not of his making
Standing as beacon of hope in the face of upmost despair
And flow freely like an oasis in the silent desert
Shining like a million stars in the steep darkness
I know of the young-man who
Drank richly of some foreigners’ fount of knowledge
Years ago, way back at an ancient city of the Yorubas
An unsure future was secured, se t on path of greatness
Filled with such wholesome inspiration
He caught a glimpse of tomorrow vision
And before him was set a life mission
Which he pursued with uncommon passion
To start a national social redemption
He with other berthed the ship of change and silent revolution
In business as in charity
At a Lagos unusual port, in Surulere, at Obele community
He with some inspired men and women with pen and white chalk
Walked rather than talk the talk
Breaking the jinx of decades of failure and annual underachievement
Setting loose and dreaming
Another generation of Nigerian graduates
Inspiring many to take up arms of service, destroying
reign of woes of secondary education among the tomorrow leaders
Selflessly in the spirit of giving back
That success baton once received a generation earlier
Now with duty being passed to the future runners
To stop the wanton waste
Of the so called wasted generation
Enlivening J. F. Kennedy age long mantra
‘Not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for her’
If the Americans has Peace Corps reaching the corners of the world
The man and co. decided
Nigerians can have Volunteers Corps reaching the end of Africa
Imbued with the power of one, driven by a unity of one team
Volunteer Corps was brought forth to life
By men and women, grandly inspired
Ahead of the pack, dangling the magic wand of change
With deftly touch and humblest of heart
Is the man called Ademola Aladekomo
He is a volunteer; A volunteer of volunteers.
Early this morning, as I walking down to my lesson
I passed my Irish colleague returning from a Shakespearean session
Perhaps still thinking about the Bard, the King and the fool
As he gingerly traversed the minefield that is Simba School.
Oh! Mines and missiles inundate this scholastic terrain
And on one’s agility do place much physical strain
For teachers must side-step discarded bags and litter
Or the ballistic speed of some gossip-crazed critter.
Such is the volatility and unpredictability on this battleground
That careless missilery does ruthlessly abound
Ready for another, untimed, dubious, un-aimed at launch
That might sock our Economist upon his paunch.
Of course, primitive methods, such as those David used
Might upon our historian or accountant be abused
As a bag-load of books might catapult through the air
And catch you on the forehead, full and square.
It’s a battleground, this, the halls of Simba School
Where “badly-uniformed” guerillas vociferously rule!
A sentinel to guard the compound
By duty and courage bound
Monitoring activity all around
Steady, on the beat my feet doth pound
Patrolling office building and ground
Alert for any unrecognizable sound
Ready and willing all intruders to confound
Cunning as a fox, swift as a greyhound
With tenacity all code breakers do hound
Displaying efficiency that will friend and foe astound.
You get me up each morning in addition to the Lord,
I'm grateful that I have you but it's time to even score,
without you I'd be sleeping down on someone's
hardwood floor, but f* you, I refuse to take your BS
I give you 40 hours ev'ry week I'm so OG, I
sometimes give you more by labor laws I'm so OT,
morose'fully I hopefully envision an escape, you pay
me yes but even still it's like I'm being raped.
You vaseline me savagely then say it's for my good,
then penetrate me rough with ev'ry inch of thy own
I can't take any time off cause it has to be acrued,
which leaves me hanging open feeling used and
plus I'm screwed,
If God forbid that something happens with the kids at
home, it's you Mr. Employer that makes workers
grab the chrome,
and spazz out in the office puttin lead in others'
heads, instead of work for you they feel they're better
I won't take those extremes but still I know just how
they feel, instead of keep it real you'd rather give your
like pickle nothin trickles down the bottom rung to
those, who prostitute themselves for you we're like
your workplace h03s.
Morale is at an all time low cause folks are just fed
up, if you'd just treat us right we'd happ'lly work with
our heads up
inside the clouds for miles and miles but that won't
happen can't you see, I need you but I f*ing hate you,
signed an employee.
To the one that wrote who's quoted
Sipping java sung not noted
Others in lime being doted
Light they soke in dark you wrote it
Fate being fate you are poet /Rime Couee
He is the row locker that holds the bridge
He is the Bison that carries the load from the deck
A wall that resists oppositions, guards them in check
It’s been build to shield the back four
And plastered to cover up loopholes
He is hard and strong, José’s goal
This is the wall reinforced by José
His work-rate is breathtaking like wild horses
His presence is haunting to opposing forces
The fulcrum upon which the system revolves
Anchored at either end of the bridge
Is a wall that stabilizes a moving ridge
He takes up knocks and blows
Yet, never crumble to the ground
This is the wall that essentially runs around
He is a Mourinian, the rediscovered wall
Opposing forces hit the wall and bounced off
Ooops! “He hit my wall”, José scoff