A chain of misfortunes.
A chapter of disappointments.
Dreams broken and many bereavements.
This is their daily bread.
Their worries never seem to fade.
What's their next choice?
Please hear out their voice.
They drink merely for effect not taste.
Then for a couple of hours, their minds will be at rest.
They say that they are now strangers to themselves.
But they don't know that the whiskey is a danger to their health.
They don't know that sanity is deserting them.
And upon themselves they are bringing shame.
Please help them stop.
And find a way with stress to cope.
After winter comes summer
After rain, sunshine
Life's complexities are entangled
In an unending race
Laced with sorrows, bereavements
From the fields of sharpville
And the ruins of Biafra
To the burnt, harrased oil wells in Kuwait
Every day is a puzzle, hurdle
Which we, made in the creator's image,
Must unriddle
Our shame does not lie in failing
But in not trying
Our strength lies in our continued hope
That the crowing of cock at dawn
Holds a brighter future
For our generation and generations after!
Let us not singular sinfiltrate our
over dosed mind measures
of all our predisposed socio-patterened
downfalls we have domesti-inherited
from our DNA dumb nulls un an
appreciated elders of **** ascent
beings of a post/past anointed anomalied
bereavements pushing presumptive
present tense postured atrocities
future follied fornitude frenzies to
cry contain those all ever after brazen
generations to live sideways in tune
to ever realize a coaxial junction
a dead conscience to staid to survive,
to sly to reveal and to nominal to be normal
to contain/re-contain those all ever after
gonad generations. Maybe a sideways pill pattern to
open me up before xmas, a corpse closed purpose
concentric of nerve present equal-eulogized
venture void with empty filled shakers of self.
It’s been drummed into our heads,
ever since we were little males:
Boyz to Men don’t cry
But Jesus wept
Seeing my grandmothers crying at night,
sitting on their beds,
made me feel so sad and helpless inside
I wanted to wipe the tears away
from their damp, moist eyes
Why they were crying was a mystery to me,
all they ever did was make me feel happy
Society said a man had to be strong,
show no weakness, no wet display from pain
Keep intact his macho respect
But, I would come to learn real men do cry:
Even the bravest man ever, Jesus wept
As an older man,
I now better understand
why people cry
Not always necessarily from physical pain,
it’s deep emotional hurt
that prompts the tears
So many scars on the soul,
from so many falls suffered over the years
Disappointments, unrequited love ...
Acts of hurting others, bereavements and such
These are some of the reasons why real men cry,
watering the bed where sorrows slept
I’m not ashamed nor deny
that I often cry, for I was taught:
Even the only man without sin, Jesus wept
She sits in her worn reclining arm chair
her chair that doubles as a bed
face full of pain, her heart full of despair
recalling the past, thoughts of dread,
photographs on out dated papered walls
memories of her past her achievements
now she's worrying about trips and falls
lost family members and bereavements,
television volume at maximum,
she lies there with eyes closed, mouth open wide,
yes this wonderful lady is my lovely mum,
how to spend her last days I must decide,
unable to care for herself, dignity lost
skin pale, sallow and wrinkled, hair white grey,
talks of her funeral about the cost,
can't tell her how I dread that awful day.
(Wimpole Street, in the West End of London,
has been the scene of many interesting events,
from the elopement of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
to The Beatles composing "Help!")
The Long, Unlovely Street
It’s such a straight and long, unlovely street,
not quite the retail zone, not quite the mouth
of Regent’s Park. It plumbs a line north-south,
where Mayfair and more middling London meet.
Come walk with me on Wimpole, feast your eye
on blue ceramic plaques, as thick as leaves
that strew the brooks so loved by Freddie Treves,
where tall town houses shoulder out the sky!
Elopements, easements, songs of yesterday,
bereavements, human elephants and more:
we’ll see enchantment pour from every door,
and find a little help along the way.
Where legal precedent meets Mersey Beat,
come tramp the straight and long, unlovely street.
MY CEMETERY
Where my cemetery is,
there my heart's waste products lie
Where my cemetery is,
there I bury my past
Where my cemetery is,
there I let go of that which bites the dust
I could dump them in a bin
But when I do,
they would rot and create a stinky environment
That environment might remind me to sin
For my past stretches my heart like a catapult.
So where my cemetery is,
there I lay to rest my disappointments
there I part ways with bereavements
there I betray my pains
there I break up with my emotional chains
My cemetery Is full of failure.
Their presence will flout the constitution of my future.
Hence, can't have a position in my life.
I know not where my cemetery is
But I know I own one, whether hypothetical or real
Do you have a cemetery?
If you don't , create one , for your life needs it.
An Elegant Editor
We start out with accomplishments and achievements;
When our lives are done we receive bereavements;
Then after we have finally passed away,
We hope to end up in heaven one day.
Our souls first started out on earth;
God placed them in bodies at our birth
Which are there so we can survive;
Know God's in us and will remain alive.
A child we became who learned to know
That eventually into an adult will grow;
Venture out and start on own career
Love living our lives while we are here.
Receive rewards and recognition will appreciate
While some others seem to like being late;
Maybe a great editor might end up being
Who with everyone wants to be agreeing.
Gave out great guidance and advice
And to everyone she has been nice;
Some she possibly would like to strangle.
She's an elegant editor and a perfect angel.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Bolivia, NC
Land of the Endowed
So I joined the crowd.
Last night I believed I saw three Witch Beings
relent and cast down from their winter moon
Orpheus, free riding.
Happy all he was with his magical lyre.
Not trapped with bereavements of old,
no lures set with any crying,
he called to me.
His sun-gold limbs were elegant intact.
Feet swift where night wind took him.
Blood red were his cheeks and marked,
telling where he’d been.
By fate or by chance that night he came
into my darkened room, my bed.
His whispered song tenderly to hold me.
Orpheus, my valentine, not dead.
W- Wisdom and enchantment
O- Organization and envolement
R- Read, Rate, review my poems on World Poetry Movement
L- Leader Board for you
D- Destination of your desires
P- Poems from your point of view
O- Opens the mind-
E- Envelopes and editing to do
T- Time lines and guidelines
R- Relatives invited
Y- Your all invited to read rate and review
M- My entry to the contest, hurry ends soon
O- Over $10,000 in prizes
V- Versed for you
E- Endless entries full of entertainment
M- Might be a good experience, something new
E- Epic arrangements put into view
N- Newly published bereavements
T- Testing to types of views, contest came and went
True democracy did'nt happen overnight
even the blue and grey did fight
revolution's began as political disagreement's
we continue to grow in face of bereavements
growth a matter of changing variables
our soaring intellect shall allow us capable
As great as our system
As great as our nation
must not forget,root's of fruitation
bitter sweet we may taste
concerning all how we relate
The melting pot,eventually
impuritie's discovered
then lay the foundation
of real gold in our street's....
A beauty of the finest splendor…captivating
Seizing the rooms attention on the inhale
Now a shrinking shell of her former self
Caught in a chemical coma to ease her pain
Murmuring fate in silences void…foreboding
Her eyes not seeing the milieu’s approach
Those illusory walls protection now ravaged
She stands naked before bereavements eyes
As the nights pass I sit at her bedside…steady
No corollary thought as the clock keeps pace
I allay the fear by a whisper looking for lucidity
While her random gasps for life squeeze within me
Soft regrets for the misery I’ve caused…repentant
Adrift in the words I bellowed in toxic anger
Yearning to drink of the venom washed over you
To share one moment in the clarity of forgiveness
The scent of a spring dawn’s beauty fills the air…mocking
Stroking your hair I stutter out my final goodbye
Ready to be chained to the morose you absolve me
Taking with you my weighted anguish with simple words
Mom opened her eyes one last time and said…I love you too…