Best Brian Poems
A sprinkle of sage enhances the flavour of rice
A sage enhances the flavour of life.
. ~~~~~~~~~~
A Tribute to Brian Strand
Written: December 30, 2009
An Emily:is a 2(or sometimes 3) line paradox form of poetry created by Brian Strand
(labelled thus, inspired by Emily Dickinson poem 1732).It may or may not have a title,uses a
word with separate meanings,(or one that sounds the same,with a different spelling) with the
intention to mean several things; thereby, to enhance the thought's ambiguity/enigma.
Today there are no rubber ducks, no flawless hues,
To hide behind, as we once did.
This day is dark, and gray and dreary,
Air thick with the scent of decay and mold,
Dull light filters in through the window,
Casting a somber tone across everything.
Even the freesia suds have gone bad,
The water in the tub is murky, opaque and grim,
Waves unseparated as the day that holds them.
When we were good kids, peering out,
From behind our good mother,
We got good glimpses, sucked on butterscotch chips,
The new neighbor, the smell of fresh sunflowers; it was fun.
But the old neighbor, who finally stopped coming around,
He was not good,
Over steeped dandelion tea, a benign-sounding thing,
Bitter and dry, sometimes salty; it was not fun.
As gray as this day, as this water, when I knew him,
He knew me, too.
I sink deeper into the swirling, whirling, and I think of things,
Dirty-water cyclone, the brightness of our childhood,
Harder to recall, I still remember the rubber ducks though.
Splashing them about, their cheerful colors and silly grins,
We knew joy,
But that bright spot is fading, and soon it too will disappear,
Down the drain, with this gray water and my leftover filth.
Mixing it all together,
In the stillness of the moment, I am struck,
The heavy inevitability of happiness; the transience of loss.
As bad as this day, that man, with his dreary gray hues,
I hang my head back and give a loud, guttural laugh at it now,
The memory of those yellow, plastic birds.
Especially since today there are no rubber ducks, no flawless hues,
To hide behind, as we once did.
To Brian From Mandy
My gift I give to you is more of a character inspection
I give you permission to leave your ongoing introspection
Stop worrying your artistic self with form and stanza true
Let yourself, really go and lets find the real you.
You are educated and artistic but that’s what your blogs say
Just express you yourself, and not quote other poets for just one day.
My gift is given in love, I would like to hear the real you
Not the man behind the educated artistic, and the formal poet too.
Please take my gift as it is given in love, and let yourself really go
I can’t wait to see the real you when your artistic juices flow.
You study form and stick to it but the more that you try
To get it right, which you do, I feel the real you pass on by.
For your excellent poetry and your artistic talent too,
I know you will give thanks to God, for giving them to you
.
Use them once for you, be selfish, don’t worry about form one day.
And lets the words flow from you, and not what other poets say.
Born from the heavens
Radiating Gods light
Investing in this life
Answering to the soul
Never letting go
He Loves Her? He Loves Her Not? – An Echo Poem
By Darren White and Brian Johnston
Darren White’s Original Poem – WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE
PoetrySoup.com - Reprinted with permission
“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.”
- Rumi
***
Darren:
I lift my face to you, my anyone
my only one, my love,
And see your question
unspoken but screamed
all over you
This is what love looks like
What it looks like with
only that one person
I see you read you
every line of you
words without any
meaning full of meaning
I read you I see your face
I taste the sun and the moon
and all the stars in all the
fireworks.
Darren White
***
Brian Johnston’s Echo - I Do Not Doubt That Love Is Real
PoetrySoup.com and PoemHunter.com
I do not doubt that love is real,
Just shy to offer up myself
As shining gem that you might steal
Or place in glass case on a shelf,
Holding to the selfish view
That somehow I am just for you.
I know I cannot love like that
There is not ONE that I desire
My temperament is more like cat,
But, looking still, I don’t conspire
To say that I cannot be yours…
Just “Love” is not that which secures.
I doubt that Rumi showed his face,
To only one and kept this vow,
For “sexual wanting” has no place,
No love it may not disavow
“Like this” is just a moment’s urge
And untoward thoughts may quickly purge.
In love though lives a higher plane,
Where jealousy is just fool’s gold
And even dolts like me can gain
By seeing it is just blindfold!
Integrity’s your only friend,
It might just save you in the end.
For sun and moon and stars all fade,
Like vows that promise you’re the one,
Like promises made in the shade,
The truth will out though your heart’s won,
So chose a mate beloved by folk,
Don’t let your future be a joke.
***
Brian Johnston
April 9, 2017
Brian is "Just someone who cares" 1
Responsible about his thoughts; writing
In compelling words, and he shares
All his knowledge if asked; his answers are inviting
Now he also believes, music will "dispel my disquieting thoughts"
Footnotes:
1. "Everyday Everlasting" poem by Brian Strand
2. "Count It All Joy" poem by Brian Strand
Contest: Capture The Essence
Sponsor: Margarita Lillico
Date: 1/31/2021
Twas a lovely day in May.
A red-haired Grandmother, with her daughter and
grandchild strolled the soft, still grass.
Under a large pine tree, she unwrapped a beautiful pot of flowers.
In the center~ a flag waved softly in the gentle, Midwest winds.
They proceeded to a marble headstone with a gentle walk.
Not one of them had the need to talk.
Kneeling at the headstone~ she placed her head upon it.
Telling her husband, his family was all here for a visit.
Assuring him that they missed and loved him.
She then spoke....angelically:
" Brian, thank you for keeping our country so wonderfully free!
But alas at breakfast now, it's only me!
Brian, my Airman and eagle of my soul.
I miss your dark eyes that sparkled like anthracite coal."
She kissed the headstone as if herway to say,
She would be back soon~another day!
May 30, 2020
7:30am PST
Poem# 1,306
Brian bared his bare buttocks because Barry his buddy bought him a beer and bet him his bare buttocks to bare. The Bobby on beat was not into bribes, He
busted "Brian bare buttocks" and put him behind bars.
Heroes come in all ages and size
They are of a common thread
A heart of gold rules their essence
Showing love beyond expectation
For others, they will run the extra mile
No matter the need or cause
My hero's name was, Brian
No superman or batman was he
Just a big brother who championed life
With much wisdom for a boy of fourteen
Some claimed that Brian was an “old soul”
With talents beyond his years
From repairing broken wings and things
To his genuine commitment to caring
For siblings and friends alike
He rescued many friends from trouble
When adults could not be found
Amazing bravery and humility
Would shine through many times
His math skills were quite impressive
We marveled at the tree house he built
Where we enjoyed his storytelling and jokes
The perfect child, Brian never got a scolding
One day I escaped an uncle’s wrath
Carried to safety upon his shoulders
Walking for miles to a neighbor’s home
I admit, at six I was not always sweet
After he had made sure I would be fine
He returned home to await our parents
Assuming they'd be home by then
Sadly mistaken, Brian took the punishment for me
That unforgetable year, God called Brian home
~*~
©01/11/11
Brian William Haw stood strong
He never quit his whole life long
His principles oozed forth peace
He strongly believed that he wasn't wrong
Brian's life was influenced
By his dad's suicide incident
After serving in the war
Brian now for peace convinced
As a Christian believer
Haw worked with young non-achievers
Troubled youth who needed change
So that society not griever
He soon began his campaign
One man political reign
A political protest
For his children's future domain
He was supported by some
Many saw him as just dumb
Friends of his cause fed him
Parliament gave him a down thumb
Parliament did not like his scene
Nothing tried stopped the routine
Arrest, court dates didn't slow
He survived on poor cuisine
His protest only by death ceased
Lung cancer his life did seize
Tobacco the enemy beast
Soon from this life gave release
Domain_a particular environment or walk of life
Sponsor: Joe Maverick
Contest:One Against Many
Written: August 25, 2014
Brian brings beauty
Aligning adorable alliteration
Strands of syllabic symphony
The Ghost Soul
I’ve always been a ghost soul
Existence is my lot,
What you call life is simply pain,
And love, I know it not.
Life’s boundaries are lingering
My train it never comes,
And hope to me a paltry gift
Just dried chrysanthemums.
If God were real, He would do more
Than leave all in a lurch,
Myopic patrons of the faith,
Pretenders to His church.
And Hell is not that different
From my life’s daily bread,
Relieved, from what I think I see,
The dead are simply dead.
I’m lost in my imagining
Control of love that’s past
The rotting dreams of what could be,
Thank God they didn’t last.
-------------------------------------
Giving Up The Ghost
My dream is possibility,
Not what I think I’m owed,
My expectations not in sight,
And love my only code.
All feelings are a gift from God,
Intended just to serve,
His loving lessons to His child,
When life throws me a curve.
And daily are His gifts bestowed,
Confirming He is near,
My antics bringing Him a laugh,
His laugh fills me with cheer.
Content with what the future holds
No fears of early chill,
I joyfully step into breach
A lamb unto His will.
My shepherd in the storm’s tumult,
And shield from all alarms,
The wonder of His saving grace,
The welcome of His arms.
Brian Johnston
December 21,2014
Poet's Notes:
This is another example of what I call an Echo Poem. One poem takes the lead and the other poem responds to it.
I Don't Want To Read Your Blog Brian Strand.
I just want to write a poem.
I'm done with instructions.
I'm done with obedience.
I'm done with the topsy.
Just give me the turvy.
Turvy, turvy, turvy all the time.
I'm done with repetition.
I'm done with repeating myself.
Give me two minutes and I'll make you a paper airplane.
Give me four minutes and I'll make your 2 paper airplane.
Our mouth is the hangar for all ideation sounds.
Then you have these vagabond words,
Escaping without an open hole,
Utilizing these stringy little fingers,
Doing some sort of Fred Astaire number.
Someone call the word plumber.
This be clogged.
April 9th, 2014
He calls his work "Storypeople"
His words his art and all.
I've bought so many paintings
They are hanging on my walls.
The beauty that each story tells
puts my mind at ease.
Each poem has an illustration
They come to life as you sit and read.
He can turn a slice of a conversation
into a work of art.
I marvel at the way he touches
everybody's heart.
Some of them can make you laugh
so hard that you could cry
Then you read another
and gently sit back and sigh.
So so many masterpieces
to choose for any occasion
You'll always find the perfect one
to give, releasing all frustration.
Books filled with all of his work
you can buy to read each day.
I turn to a page randomly
Leaving me with a smile to light my way.