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Long Jealousy Poems | Long Jealousy Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details |

My Ring Trilogy - The Poems

You Know Who You Are! 

I know that you probably know who you are...
Abusers who prey on women (or men) .
Your aberrance mostly extends to the weak, 
Your generosity just serves other's pain
And, of course, their misery's your only gain.
Do not think that you'll find me turning my cheek	
For doing so would just encourage your sin.
I'd rather see you in a specimen jar, 
Or displayed on corkboard impaled with a pin, 
Some place where your psyche has no powr' to mar.

Some say that it's likely that you were abused, 
The sins of the parents passed on as it were, 
God forgive me, if you're not really liable, 
But your friendship's not the company I seek
God grant you don't find fellowship with the meek
And your progeny all be un-viable.
It's not that I curse you, but I would deter
Your excess on innocents already bruised, 	
My prayer's not for you but for those you injure, 
God forgives but your deeds cannot be excused.

To see people like you removed from the earth
Would most certainly fill up my cup of mirth! 

Brian Johnston
January 12,2014

___________________


The Wages of Sin

The bush in which you hide
Reveals your cowardice, 
The wall, behind which you speak, 
Testifies against you, 
The seed which you so blithely sow, 
Grows bitter fruit that does not nourish
Or weeds that suck soil dry
So that good seed barely feeds the birds, 
Does not take root, 
Imagination insufficient, 
To wet the soil.
Bad intentions blow
What good soil there is
Across the sea to waiting deserts
More deserving in Africa, 
The rocks left behind, 
Only bruise your feet.

Brian Johnston
Sept.23,2014

____________________


The Troll

‘An interesting guy I think, '
People might say on meeting you for the first time, 
Oh yes, I've come to know you too well.
Thank God for the Internet, 
Although there are bodies in your wake, 
And stench follows you like a garbage scow
There is protection for many in distance from, 
In the miles of wire, the waves of wireless
Communication, and so like a deer
Caught in the headlight of your amazing ego, 
[Fashioned by the fires of Hell (like Gollum's ring)     
And as empty as the devil's soul], 
They stand frozen for a moment, 
Throwing it off finally, the vision of their own death
Shaking their heads in wonder, ‘What just happened? '

It's like the first lesson your mother tries to teach, 
‘Be careful who you choose as a friend, '
A cautionary tale for adults too.
‘Fire does burn' even when you reach adulthood, 
All that sparkles is not gold, my friend, 
And a ‘nom de plume' like Talvia Sprinkles, 
Just one more bush the troll hides in.
Sometimes that strange feeling that you have
Is actually another human? being? peeing on your soul
The golden shower they offer, however, 
Does not assuage your guilt (which is real, so what?)     
You've just been sold a bill of goods, 
Dr. Killdeers Magic Elixir, a not so benign fixer.

If you have been in this dark place of the soul
And saved by Satan not in fact being God, 
Then rejoice my friend in God's provision
In youth or childhood, you did something good? 
Do more, bear witness of your weakness to others, 
Not to mortify your own flesh (God knows you're sorry)     
But so that those with ears to hear (also God's gift)     
Perchance will themselves not feel so alone.
Remember that half-truths strung together like pearls
Are still sh**, if you'll pardon the expression.
‘If it sounds to good to be true it isn't, '
Remember only God knows your soul, 
Satan is just a very experienced guesser
And revels in our penchant to deny our own sin.
His wisdom does not serve the greater good.
Do not look for truth among the cold stones
Of the temple that once stood at Delphi either, 
Or trust any oracle that does not bend his knee
To the living God, the creator of us all.
It is your life, it is your responsibility, 
Don't parrot Cesar's surprised last words
As a ‘friend' slipped his knife into Cesar's heart, 
‘Et tu, Brute? ' You have been warned! 

Brian Johnston
September 26,2014

Poet's Notes are listed separately because of space limitations on Poetry Soup. Sorry for the inconvenience. I hope that you will take the time to read them.


Long poem by Maurice Yvonne | Details |

Yesterday Love Was Such An Easy Game To Play


Yesterday, I went home for lunch, I never go home for lunch. When I got to our apartment  I don't know why but I didn't reach for my key.  Francine was at work and I always leave last in the morning.  I was sure I had locked the door but I didn't reach for my key. I reached for the door knob and turned. The door was open.  I don't know how I knew. The moment I entered I knew.  I froze. I could feel it, smell it, hell I could taste it. I started walking but my muscles wouldn't move,  my lungs were grasping for air  for some oxygen  some sweet, sweet oxygen but I could barely breathe. “Leave!” I told myself but I kept walking. Not really walking,  it was like moving through mud,  like a slow motion scene in a movie.  But this wasn't a movie.  This was my life and I could feel it slipping away  from my grasp. I heard noises! Francine.  I had heard those noises a hundred times before,  they were the sounds of an Angel  but this was no heaven  this was my own private nightmare. The moans traveled through the muck in the air  amplified like the hiss from a distorted speaker.  It mocked me over and over again. Climbing a mountain might have been easier  but I finally reached the bedroom, and there they were, and there she was. I knew, I knew the moment I entered the apartment.  Why hadn't I just turned back?  I could barely see, my eyes were blurry,  covered in layers of my own tears. I could see her  I knew I had never seen him before. They were naked and in our bed.  Naked in OUR BED! How do you that? How do you cross the line to that extreme? You'd think the green eyed monster  would control my actions from here on in.  I did see green! I was insanely jealous but I didn't want to end up the morning headline in the newspaper. That monster jealousy was by my side but I took charge.  I'd have to keep him at bay, at least for now. You'd think I would be mad, I wasn't. You'd think I'd curse and call her whore. I didn't! Being cut open alive must be lest painful than this.   This hacked away at my spirit,  tore away at my self worth. I felt like a pile of worthless shreds. I spoke I mean my lips moved and words came out... I think.  I think I said,  I'm not sure it all happened so fast, she never spoke. I could see the shame on her face  she didn't need to speak,  but, but I think I said 'Sorry... I said Sorry and I left. I wandered for what seemed hours,  it was minutes.  It wasn't like I was meandering to a different drummer;  there just wasn't any music anymore. I was moving to the rhythm of the beating of my own heart.  Like a broken record it was skipping, like a broken record it played  in a loop of repetitive monotony. I suffered in my circled steps  until I couldn't stand it any more. I found just enough strength  to return to the apartment. I knew she was gone  I already felt the emptiness in my whole. We'd never see each other again. We had been so much. She was a big part of my life. She was the love of my life. I would never love anyone like that again. So much of her was me. I thought she was my soul mate. We let go of all of it. There is a feeling of betrayal. A feeling of disgust. A jealousy that takes over. I'd never look at her the same again. Everything she ever did from that day on would always make me suspicious. Jealousy would rule me. Jealousy should never rule anyone. If you can't trust the people in your life, friend or lover, you need to remove that person from your life. You have to remove that person out of your life. Trust, is the only gift we can offer. Friend, lover or stranger! People can trust me. My word is my bond. I let her go,  I really didn't have a choice I would never be the same again. She was gone. She had left a note. It said Sorry! Sorry! We both were. Maurice Yvonne 11~30~2014 Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker Contest Name: The Green-Eyed Monster 
 


Long poem by Langeni Mate | Details |

The Rebirth Poem XI - Black Painting On A Black Wall

Black Blood was used to paint a picture on a Black Wall. Black Blood was used to paint. Black Blood. Blood bought from the very same people who stood side by side with you 25 years ago. Now that their kids have been given the Freedom you have fought for, all of a sudden that same Freedom must be taken away because they are taking land that is considered to be free. Not yours, free. So what do we call this? Xenophobia or Stupidity? Cause it was King Zwelithini who commanded for his former friends to be removed from this land now he has disappeared because he finally realised that Black Blood can't be used to paint a White Picture on a Black Wall. 

So what has happened to South Africa? The most diverse country in the world can't accept a few foreigners. People look down on South Africans saying that we are too lazy. On average how many South Africans would rather choose to sit down and complain about the unemployment rate instead of being innovative and creating new jobs? How many foreigners do you see on the streets with their piece jobs? Thousands. That's because they understand that they came here to work not to sit around and expect Zuma to visit your home and give you a job. But who am I to address my own country. Will they kill me too? After all, Black Blood was used to paint a picture on a Black Wall. 

So if I was to ask a fellow South African what picture did they paint I wonder what they would tell me. It's either you Black or you White they say. Whether you're Black, White, Indian, Coloured, Nigerian, Zimbabwean or Kenyan you're African I say. Imagine if all the South Africans in different countries were killed because quite frankly they are foreigners too. Please don't come tell me about being Black or White because Xenophobia is the result of confused people trying to see an invisible light. I can't believe we are having a repeat of Apartheid with our own kind. Those who fought for us are now considered to be the ones against us. If I could, I would change my race to Grey because sometimes people don't know whether they are fighting against Black or White. The picture is so clear you can tell that Black Blood was used to paint a picture on a Black Wall. 

So what are we becoming? Humans that can't love each other. Why aren't the Chinese being killed for opening up their China Malls occupying more space than the thousand of equivalent foreigners and their small place? Whether you're Chinese or Indian, diversity makes you South African. We are so busy disturbing the peace and equality within ourselves that people who enjoy inflicting pain have even turned around in shame. Tell me what would happen to all those families that have lost their sole breadwinners, fathers, friends and most importantly, lost the reason to pursue a dream to make the very same country that took his only parent away, a better place? All these innocent people have now passed and I simply applaude you and say. Well done. You've earned yourself a job, salary, happy family, home, car and all of life's treasures. And all you ever did was finally stand up, walk out and increase the unemployment rate. Then next year you will walk in, sit down and complain about the unemployment rate. So infact you don't know what you really want. That is a result of a Black Painting On A Black Wall. 

2015/04/17


Long poem by Brian Johnston | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/my_ring_trilogy___poets_notes__603195' st_title='My Ring Trilogy - Poet's Notes '>

My Ring Trilogy - Poet's Notes

Poet’s Notes:
This is what I call a 'Poem en Duo,' a collection of related poems which when grouped together serve to illuminate elements that they have in common. They can be by the same author as in this case or by multiple authors.

The Troll now joins what I am calling ‘My Ring Trilogy’ and completes this cycle very well I think, though I had no idea I was writing a trilogy when I started it many months ago. ‘God is Great!’ Hope that you find it interesting too! All three poems while not written to attack Merov Tachgovirian specifically, do in my humble opinion describe him all most perfectly by accident as it were. Maybe because he uses my verse as a sick goal for his own life, lacking the imagination to come up with his own game plan for a truely evil life.

On PoemHunter.com there is a poorly implemented rating system that if allowed by each individual poet, allows visitors to the poet's site to rate each poem from 1 - 10. Used in its intended manner, this allows visitors to my site for example, to easily see which of my 200+ poems have been the most popular so far. This can be a nice tool for a visitor when he/she comes to my site for the first time. I use it myself quite frequently in this way, not really a gauge of true quality but at least a crude measure of popularity. What Merov and his like are doing are doing on PoemHunter is to, without regard for the poem at all, to give the poem MULTIPLE VOTES of 1.0 which can bring the 'average rating' of a poem that has been given 4 votes of 10.0 for example whose average rating should in fact be 10.0 down considerably. I had one poem like this that Merov gave 8 votes of 1.0 to (in a 24 hour period). So doing the math, 40 normal points + 8 Merov points equals 48 points in total. You divide that by th number of votes cast 12 votes and now the poems average rating is 4.0 and not a perfect 10.0 that it should be. Merov can do this because he joins a site with multiple false identities and then uses these membership votes as a base from which to launch attacks on others.


A note in passing to honor the 'Walking Dead' among us (Hi Merov):

Well apparently PH has banished you from it’s halls and once again because of your amazing ego (your greatest weakness and most devastating weapon), and, of course, the pornographic language you use to comment on other's poems. If you have not been attacked by people like him, count yourself lucky. If you do not care about the pain that he brings to others by this behavior, then count yourself his victim already. ‘Talvia Sprinkles’ and  ‘Jimmy Tuhans’ (nom de plumes he used recently on PH) may be history, but Merov certainly is not. There are an infinite number of internet ‘nom de plumes’ for him to hide behind, more sites will be attacked, more sites and feelings damaged by his misinformation and scurrilous comments. Do not dream that evil is not real. Good men may lay down their arms, even admit defeat, own that they were wrong. Evil never does. The suffering of others is its only goal.


Long poem by Maurice Yvonne | Details |

When Jealousy Rears Its Ugly Head

Yesterday I went home for lunch I never go home for lunch When I got to our apartment I don't know why but I didn't reach for my key I was sure I had locked the door but I didn't reach for my key I reached for the door knob and turned The door was open The moment I entered I knew I froze I could feel it smell it hell I could taste it I started walking but my muscles wouldn't move my lungs were grasping for air for some oxygen but I could barely breathe Leave I told myself but I kept walking Not really walking, it was like a slow motion scene in a movie But this wasn't a movie This was my life and I could feel it slipping away from my grasp I heard noises Francine I had heard those noises a hundred times before they were the sounds of an Angel but this was no heaven this was my own private nightmare The moans traveled through the muck in the air and were amplified like the hiss from a distorted speaker It mocked me over and over again Climbing a mountain might have been easier I finally reached the bedroom I knew the moment I entered the apartment Why hadn't I just turned back I could barely see my eyes were covered in layers of salted moisture but I could see her I had never seen him before They were naked in our bed Our bed You'd think the green eyed monster would control my actions from here on in. I was insanely jealous but I didn't want to end up the morning headline in the newspaper. That monster jealousy was by my side but I took charge. I'd have to keep him at bay, at least for now. You'd think I would be mad I wasn't You'd think I'd curse and call her whore she wasn't She was just sharing, sharing her body with someone, someone who wasn’t me Being cut open alive must be less painful than this I had done the same countless times before That was so different it felt so harmless the other way around You excuse it rationalize it away But this hacked away at my spirit and tore at my self-worth I spoke I mean my lips moved and words came out I think I think I said I'm not sure it all happened so fast she never spoke I could see the shame on her face she didn't need to speak but but I think I said Sorry I said Sorry and I left I wandered for what seemed hours it was minutes It wasn't like I was meandering to a different drummer there just wasn't any music anymore I was moving to the rhythm of the beating of my heart Like a broken record it was skipping I suffered in my circled steps until I couldn't stand anymore and found just enough strength to return to the apartment I knew she was gone I already felt the emptiness in my frame She was gone She had left a note It said Sorry Sorry! We both were.
Maurice Yvonne Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker Contest Name: The Green-Eyed Monster


Long poem by Cona Adams | Details |

Justice for All

When Christmas comes, we hope for rebirth of truth and love, man for man,
from the story spoken time after time to children who hear other (hate) words 
and wonder if it's true that Jesus Christ is the Savior and King of the Jews.
Throughout history, the world despises and slings venom as dung for every ear. 
Truth matters not; that God held Jews above every man. Jealousy reigns and 
envy turns to bile. During that "War of all wars," one man, blinded by hate 
and driven by evil, screamed death and power.The German people were victims
of lies, repeated ad nauseam, that force creates a perfect race, a just cause for
 killing the Jews, the lame, the old, the blind, "useless humanity," he called them.

But destruction snares those who hate and justice reigns where hearts are true.
Heroes are born and demons are crushed. After the horrors of war, a peaceful
era when many learn to respect the Jews and deplore the deeds of one vile man.
Only fools applaud evil or excuse atrocities fueled by hate. NATO restored 
their land, re-established the Jewish nation in 1948. Some resisted, and fought 
against them. Why can we not embrace the truth - that every man deserves life, 
free from wrath? The time has come. It's long overdue, Let us see it for Jewish
and Christians alike. For now, the misguided hate us too. We stand together 
against prejudice. 

   When Christmas comes, we hope for rebirth of truth and love, man for man,
from the story spoken time after time to children who hear other (hate) words 
and wonder if it's true that Jesus Christ is the Savior and King of the Jews.
Throughout history, the world despises and slings venom as dung for every ear. 
Truth matters not; that God held Jews above every man. Jealousy reigns and 
envy turns to bile. During that "War of all wars," one man, blinded by hate 
and driven by evil, screamed death and power.The German people were victims
of lies, repeated ad nauseam, that force creates a perfect race, a just cause for
 killing the Jews, the lame, the old, the blind, "useless humanity," he called them.

But destruction snares those who hate and justice reigns where hearts are true.
Heroes are born and demons are crushed. After the horrors of war, a peaceful
era when many learn to respect the Jews and deplore the deeds of one vile man.
Only fools applaud evil or excuse atrocities fueled by hate. NATO restored 
their land, re-established the Jewish nation in 1948. Some resisted, and fought 
against them. Why can we not embrace the truth - that every man deserves life, 
free from wrath? The time has come. It's long overdue, Let us see it for Jewish
and Christians alike. For now, the misguided hate us too. We stand together 
against prejudice. 


Long poem by Chris Boskovski | Details |

i am sick of love

i am sick of love
such words and such nonsense
when love does not envy
yet its hard to live and not be green,
     (for love is hard to do
and i am sick of losing such hard-time battles
that i can surely lose my mind before my next birthday
those young lovers(that young girl and foolish boy with his side-chick
that is not love, that is nonsense)
oh, i have seen nonsense come and go,
and i have cried my grief and laughed my jealousy
all those girls with broken hearts, i give them a standing ovation
for they are all fools, and i don't give a fly's bum for them.
      (my thoughts have jumped,
       up and down and up and down
       summer autumn winter spring,
   -love is destroying and i am not living a happy life
yet i sat there and took the blows and cigarette burns on flesh
and i smile, yet i sit and smile the nights and days away
and so-called friends say "why that way"
and I say "U and Me aren't friends... I have no friends-"
       long haired beauties come and go,
       chicks and babes and boys with egos bigger than their hot-air heads are floating away,
and back and forth and back and forth
       party after party after party,
kiss after kiss after kiss,
and chests being groped after chests being groped
legs in nylon and high heels all around-
are all gone, cause they don't care anymore themselves

look now the negro and the white girl
walk the night train together
waiting for the first rail car to take them away from all things and all ways that kill them
and do not let them live
and i sit smoking a cigarette with no one and its quiet and i hope that tonight is the last night,
because i am sick of love already,
i am just sick of love already,
i am just sick of the damn games
of broken hearts and broken promises,
blue-eyed death come and take me away
      (but first lets have a drink- a pink of whiskey or two or three or four
and one last cigarette before the night is through,
and i shall tell you before the clock sticks noon
how i am just sick of love
for i am a man out of luck-
kiss me blue-eyed death
      (take me to your dark angel girls- and tell them to kiss me goodnight,
love me tonight,
as mortality has run its last grain of sand out on me-
and take me and take me and take me
too a place where love is just a figment of an imagination
-only a nightmare, a bad dream (too sleep the night away,
       too wake another day, and be in a different place then this
and to know love is gone from me
for i am sick of love already... I'm through-)


Long poem by nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details |

Falling Rain

Falling Rain
We met on the dating site.                                                                          
I let you in and you trusted me.                                                                                                                                                           We built something that was ours.                                                                                                    Our lovemaking was serene.                                                                                                           You took me for pizza,                                                                                                                            I took you to the museum,                                                                                                                     we both stayed in a hotel.                                                                                                              Things all ended abruptly;                                                                                                                         I told you of my new tattoo session and asked you to go.                                                                      You went crazy.                                                                                                        Bang went our two days together.                                                                                                          No way would you be second best to my tattoos!                                                                                    I ended it.                                                                                                                                         Told you I wasn't being controlled,                                                                                                     like my ex did.                                                                                                                            Now I feel sad and confused but have no regrets.                                                                                 I'll meet someone new who understands me and my interests,                                                                      who'll love me for me.                                                                                                                        And I will for them.


Long poem by WANJERU KAMAU | Details |

Musa the village honey harvester

bees make honey-old news
and Musa,
yes Musa, the rugged, 
self acclaimed village bachelor harvests honey
his farm has a drone of hives,
bees seem to like him
and for some reason, the village women as well

this day, under a hot tropical sun, 
a bunch of old village men sit crouched
the agenda of the day awaits
on one side sits Musa the village honey harvester
on the opposite side sits Kaari, the village mason
his face furrowed in wrath
his poise crouched,
like a tiger about to strike,
eyes full of venom,
anger directed at Musa the village honey harvester
next to him sits Fatima, the third wife of Kaari, the village mason

in her youthful modesty, she is oblivious of the whole process
her face is puffy
she bleeds in some places
understandably since Kaari is the village mason
but she does not seem to care
far from it- she looks condescending
her actions have brought her here,
to escape the wrath of Kaari the village mason
and the passion of Musa the village honey harvester
to embrace the wisdom and council of the village elders.

as the sun ebbs off in the west
the meeting comes to a close
a few revelations have been made
that Fatima, wife of Kaari the village mason
and Maimuna, the village gossip
and Kabura the upcountry lady
and Mwende, the wife of village chief from far yonder lands
and Salama, the daughter of Muina village herbalist,
Konte, the village tramp
and Buura, the lady who sells mangoes by the roadside,
Lowe, the woman who cooks samosas using donkey meat,
Philla, the lady everybody suspects of being a witch,
Kamoni, the village model- the lady who knew how to tie a bandana first in the 
whole village
Kuba, the young nephew of Konge, the village musician who invented his own 
music
Blamo, the darkest lady in the whole village
and other ladies ladies not forthwith mentioned...
they all loved honey
and for some reason, they also loved the honey harvester

in his acute generosity,
Musa the village honey harvester did indeed give these women honey
a proof solid as day made by the protrusion of Fatima's stomach,
beings of honey sworn by Musa the village honey harvester
a farmer ploughing in wrong fields of land
but since the elders established that the crime was indeed committed
but the crime was committed by obliging parties,
a case of willing buyer, willing seller,
Musa the village honey harvester goes Scott free,
and his honey harvesting business keeps on thriving.

wanjeru kamau


Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

A Storm is a Brewing

Dragon and the Sheriff of CrazyLand are in competition, Whoa to all!
I think what they’ve developed, must be a macho, low key, kinda brawl.
Fighting became their way, long before The Wizard of Oz came to the Park.
And they BOTH wanted to be the Wizard, I expected nothing less, of course.

The sheriff’s brother was the director, so… you know WHO, became the Wiz.
But our darling Dragon got to wear that gorgeous, flying monkey suit. Amen!
And where do you think those flame’s for the Wiz come from, I pray, to say...
Yep, Dragon’s become very importantly ensconced… deep within this play.

He looks so great in his monkey suit as he sails into those illustrious scenes.
His penguins happily follow him in, hanging and bouncing from their strings.
Now, if only Dragons tail would stop waging and bouncing at those strings!
But they don’t care, cause they get to fly… a most coveted penguin thing!

The Wiz on the other hand, seems to have finally learned, of fireproof pants.
His drapes catch fire, nightly, but of course, he didn't need them, very much.
Gee, it’s peculiar, how his Wizard robes, keep getting shorter, with the sparks. 
And the Wiz gets hit nightly, with an extinguisher, to the paparazzi’s delight!

And who do you think does the special effects to drop that famous house?
The Wiz suggested Dragon under study, for the wicked Witch, isn't he nice?
But the best part is when Dragon gets to lift the wiz in that famous balloon!
The Wiz never seems to get back for the final bows, unless he’s drenched, too.

Dragon says he puts the balloon into the lake, to give the Wiz, a soft landing.
So Grandpa Troll, made an escape hatch on the basket’s bottom siding.
Next time, when Dragon drops the basket, and the Wiz, doesn't come up…
Dragon'll miss his bows, as he searches for his nemesis, the Wiz, No Doubt!

You can bet, that poor, dear, Wiz was tired of getting soaked, my friends!
But he was willing to do it, to make publicity for his brother’s play in the end.
The paparazzi soaked it up, giving the best free advertising, found anywhere!
The Wiz was featured in all, while Dragon appeared in his Monkey suit. Amen!

All in all, that crafty Director, made sure every body won in the end!
And Grandpa Troll's there, to keep everything safe, fun and pretend. 
Dragon will catch on, eventually, to what’s been going on… and I suspect...
Dragon and the Wiz BOTH will become, friendly, willing, partners in crime. 

Finally in… The End…


7-12-2014


Long Poems