Best Cropping Poems
Not friend of man or beast, or kind to any soul,
not even their own.
Perhaps compassion deserted them, along with reason
leaving not even an even-tongue..
in a dangerous clouded head.
Or maybe found under a curse from a long ago wrong.,
cast at birth or last dawn' cropping season, ill thoughts
impure to many.
Maniacal in gaze. Sees.. but doesn't see,
no feeling left..
if ever there was any.
When encountering something perceived to be weaker,
don't respond the way most would.
As I write this, feel so sorry..
for all smaller creatures in wrenching hands..
crushed without a twitch of remorse.
Talk in whispers, don't wake their ire..
you can't outrun or outlast them..
not in words, or mannerisms, no chance.
Don't cross them, or fall hard in love..
they're already jealous., quick to anger,
always seething, like a kettle ready to boil.
One with nothing left to lose.
You are a player in an unfamiliar game..
tilted off balance of normal,
just a prize for them, all the same.
It's easier to be anyone else than the others.
Standing out in a cold dark night looking..
at the warmth that true companionship brings.
Life's best to live, and to give, though sure and not sure,
were it your neck so close to break.
Be the soul of leniency and mercy.,
send prayers, show kindness, and in kindness judge..
if you must.
Though never invest, or feel too sorry..,
nor trust what you hold dear..,
and never turn your back on
the others.
~~~~~~~~ Dedicated to Stephen King ~~~~~~~~
My mind is always running like an overflowing faucet
Like a never ending bouncing ball that someone took and tossed it
Paid for with attention that I forgot how much it costed
As my mind will sometimes lose itself and I forget just where I lost it
A mind is that a beautiful place yet it can also be very scary
As those with sight to read the mind all readers be wary
Like the venom of a beautiful plant flaunting poison berries
Poison thoughts can rot the mind and the perspective that it carries
What would it be like to explore another mind
Is it like a whimsical circus from thoughts of different kinds
Or would it be a calming stream to help leave troubles behind
Perhaps reality is an illusion conjured from the thoughts we find
As my mind sits in mental slumber
I sit in a corner and sometimes wonder
How I allowed myself to be pulled under
By my own mental blunders
Still thoughts run like a marathon with no intent of stopping
Time would steal a moment's notice while seconds continue dropping
As time sheds into the past the present continues cropping
For time is neither round nor linear but explodes the moment popping
Times combustion blinds the mind stealing that which it most wants
Memories reflecting the past with the regret that serves to haunt
The present steals the frown from the past wearing a smile that taunts
Reminding thoughts that the confidence it bears comes from the pain it flaunts
In the past, when the present seemed to be facing a downward slope
As if the foot of reality lost its traction slipping on water and soap
When falling to an inverted sky reality extends a rope
Some may call the extension luck while others call it hope
Or maybe faith, hope and luck stem from the same fibers of thought
Like time catching us in the moment thinking it is time we have caught
Reminding us of something we don't know but ought
Control what you can control for time we can not
Not a wood yet, just sapling trees
with the circle of friends around,
mostly plots still unfilled but here
and there a freshly turned mound.
And it’s here she rests
where she asked to be
under wide open skies
and the shade of a tree.
And it is such a peaceful place,
a pleasant walk
when I visit every week and
just sit and talk.
There is a small herd of deer
that I’ve never ever seen
but by their hoof mark tracks
I can see where they’ve been.
They graze on the roses
cropping them low
but the roses fight back
and in time will grow.
In this pleasant place I sit
and think of my wife,
all the good times together
in our long married life.
I know in my heart her going
was for her a kind of release:
in this not yet wood with the deer
and sapling trees I leave her at peace
in soft outline
strokes
whorls&
stains
cropping close
piercing black
upright
&
informal
imaginary &surprising
ambiguous
perhaps
an allusion
something from
nothing
refined
evocations
of
minimalist
tracery
In a perfect world
Mesmerising sunrise
to effulgence of moon,
Mysteries manifold
unveiling nature's boon,
Morning hymns
and melody of chirps,
Vibrant colours of flowers
as butterflies flutter,
Calm oceans depths
while rowdy seashores,
So much to cherish
to thrive and nurture,
Endless love and emotions,
His immense blessings,
We indeed are living
in a perfect world !!
But for the upcoming greed
cropping up selfishness,
The anger and animosity,
enmity going malignant,
aftermath wars.
Till we could awaken
incite kindness of hearts,
Rise above inequality
and shun digression,
Whip wild thoughts out
and embrace humanity.
To be truly living...
In a perfect world,
And in perfection !!
Written Feb 17th, 2016
Awarded N/A
Entered for contest"Second chance" by Broken wings
Entered for "Premiere contest no 13" by SKAT A
Mother Africa,
Gather your sheep like a good shepherd.
Teach them morals and guide them rightly,
Educate them on African Values and culture.
Protect your sheep from the hynas and lions
That parade more in the forest of life to kill.
Remember the community begins at home.
I know you are not irresponsible like the Goat
Who has three breast but gave birth to four kids;
What will the fouth kid suck if others are sucking?
Guide the boys to stop looking at the Ladies lustfully,
The girls must bring their husband home as it is
Stated in the tradition of Africa, no under tree love.
Cover your children with your wings like
Mother Hen covers her chicks against the kites.
Do not go loose in front of the young minds;
For when mother cow is cropping giant grasses
Her calf watches her from behind the scene.
Act like the mother you are not like a child you're not.
When a child misbehaves in your presence,
Hit him with a rod of correction and bring him
Back to your side with a sweet flavoured left hand.
Educate the ladies how to close their legs while sitting, and the boys, you must not leave behind;
Teach them that Africans never pregnate a lady before they marry her and the younger ones,
Tell them that Africans don't put their trouser
on their waists.
See her in skimpy skirt and drive the skirt away from her waist, African women don't wear skimpy skirt.
Those whose wrapper always untie because of civilization, padlock the wrapper to their waists.
Those boys whose pants flip up and down publicly,
Tie their pants with ropes to their waist, Africans have a face to preserve and protect in days to come.
She lust after money when in love and lost her value, show her what love means to Africans.
Father Africa, leave all not in the hands of Mother,
Bark when you needs to bark in front of your sheep.
Roar like a wounded Lion when the sheep goes wild,
All should not be left in the hands of Mother Africa
Nature has made us two, two together, two hearts beating as one can preserve many lost dignities.
You and you can save the you that stray away in shame.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
All Right Reserved 2016
You can not force me to sit at the back of the bus!
I was born after the 1960's Civil Rights Movement.
My grandfather barreled through the Share Cropping Era.
I refuse the force of your Human Capitalism.
I will sit right here before these steps and rest my feet.
You can not force me to sit at the back of the bus!!
Take your handcuffs off by way of police brutality.
My great grandmother was born a free woman of color.
I refuse to sit at the back of the bus!!!
I did not ask you to run a gynecology on my bloodline.
Keep your cameras that force scandal off me.
Cause I refuse to sit at the back of the bus!
He lives there, where people love
Land as mother, worship agriculture
People of his nation, after independence
brought green, white, yellow, blue revolutions
to meet with the crisis of food
to wipe out hunger
to up root poverty.
He tills his mother earth
carries plough on his shoulder
sheds his sweats
turns himself into soil.
After a year of severe flood,
several children of his homeland
are at risk of death
due to lack of proper nutrition.
He returns from his polluted land
carrying a basket on his shoulder
full of golden harvest.
Flood stricken cornfields
Harvests destroyed, paddy fields washed
yet he carries food grains on his shoulder
The cattle Kraals are empty
The goats gaunt
No protein food for children
but he is carrying a basket
full of golden harvest.
In his motherland
where people worship food as god
Through away it and feel proud for it
where some people also search dustbins
madly hoping a handful of stale rice
to do away with their hunger.
The experts do research on cropping
Those with power keep their power.
Only he, the nominal farmer
trusts himself with earth’s treasure
is carrying a basket full of golden harvest
on his shoulder.
The sun does not dissuade him,
nor the water logging
that blows against him
as he ploughs barren land,
grows golden harvests
on the other hand,
drowns into the deep sea of loans
beaten by poverty.
He feeds the nation,
cannot feed his family.
He trusts his hand for his countrymen
what they used now,
but cannot do his family and himself.
Between life and death,
he is carrying a basket on his one shoulder
full of golden harvest
carries fear of suicide on his other shoulder.
Black mystic clouds
forever engulfing my life.
no one knows what I feel deep down inside.
unlike a cyclone, I'm taciturn and calm on the outside.
yet within I'm a thundering storm, blistering cold.
conflicted and confused..deluded and betrayed
my future ain't bright, somebody please hand me a torch.
I don't even know who am I.
For real , who am I?
been faking smiles,changing masks.
Cropping,resizing my mind.
tryna fit in their box ...
can't find my original shape.
Soul searching, I only hear demons talkin...
Satan approaching,
my goals abandoned.
Dreams shattered.
I am a puppet, strings attached.
I live not my life, but of others.
I am shadow .
A living ghost, no one hears my lament.
Even god turns a deaf ear, when I pray.
I'm dead by design.
Black mystic clouds engulfing my life.
lost inside my own mind.
snake in the eagle shadow,my death is inevitable.
One-Two
Life from a differerent view
Open ur eyes- to these lies,
From the world,
Thats underground curled,
Askin questions,
Wantin mentions,
To plant the bead,
Not to evils deed,
For a need,
As a small city girls lead,
Part I now believe,
With all my heart ,
In my dream,
We come together,
Banner/ stream
Cuz im growin,
Getin to knowin
All the worldly problems
Walkin round like sims,
Strings attached,
Moneys got all latched,
Relationships matched,
With all the wrong meanings,
Now we're all leanin,
In the wrong way,
Becoming astray,
From the real life,
No more stabbing the back with a knife,
Real talk,
Walk the walk,
That you say,
Don’t be hidden, be the suns ray,
Now build and don’t break it down,
Be the cities ground, building from bottom to top,
Cropping out the ones with the wisdom,
To seek the unknown,
No more meek times,
Were at a grimy time,
I try my best,
To make the words sink in at rest,
And the beat of the drum,
Get the people thinkin,
Lookin all around,
Out the window-to the sound,
As the rain falls,
Through the thick walls,
So plain, cars movin like a show,
In a right lane, blank, hurricane,
In a rush as a controlled pushed by a mane,
But one wrong move,
Its not longer a game,
For all the wrong ties,
Nows lookin through the lies,
Given new day,
Every morning,
And Ill b me,
As you be you, stop the judging, don’t u see?
Im not better repeat this now,
Choose the letter,
Cuz lifes here so leave,
The problems behind,
One moment to grieve,
Then back on the bind.
WAKE UP AND GRIND.
haiku – senryu
JUST THINKING
********************
life... rife...
some strife...
it's reality
not all life is fun
get with reality
heed natures warnings
love thy neighbor
turn the other cheek
let peace prevail
no news today
for my peace of mind
how do others cope
rhetoric... why...
when quietness would suffice
have we forgot peace...
spring grass growing
near ready for cropping
ewes with early lambs
gamboling... a leap
the meadows hosting livestock
grasshoppers singing
the farmyard... alive
swallows... in and out of barns
their owls wait till dusk
dusk... bats out hunting
hedgehogs... door mice... meadow life...
dawn.. farmer makes hay
summer... watching... waits
springtime... explodes... fruition
Glastonbury raves
there is life on mars
why... did you drop it...
bacteria play too
birds can fly the sky
viruses can fly as well
no... not flew... flu
Jack and Jack
not as nature intended
but they are happy
my thoughts on paper
all spontaneous writing
think before you speak
********************
TIME - PATIENT HUSBAND
Time and tide for no man are stopping
But time can slow fast when she’s shopping
A one-dress day is mighty long
And a two-dress day is even longer
A pair of shoes day is longest of all
Patience for hair and manicure must be strong
For four perfume testers even stronger
New earrings - strongest of all
And my time-field is suffering cropping
As the time-barometer continues dropping
Passion Fruit
The harvest is abundant it’s rewards grow plentiful
on my passion tree swinging in stormy feeling desire
Gardening and nurturing words cropping some branches
here and there trimming body and soul in water and rain
A book then and now making love in so many senses
adoring the moon seasons and beaches’ reaches embrace
Six strings on a fretboard bridging the voice of lyrics and
harmonious tunes so far from perfection and yet ever so near
Like with Van Aken’s graft there are so many facets of passion
but plants as good people need kind intentions and practice
My tree was not born with ready made feverish cravings
attached by virtue of paradisiac grapes straight into my mouth
But practice makes if not perfect imperfectly sufficient
and thus the ultimate yield is the passion for passion
17th November 2016
Home
Cosmopolitan suburbs take shape
Form, not far from the metropolis
Streets bustle, enlist design, become cities
Drawn down the street, concrete solid
Buildings line up one by one
In the calm one structure at a time evolves
There on the outskirts of timid town
Rising from the dirt, from nothing
A flirt with creation on the street
Laid down on asphalt beds, no secrets
Familiar as a name not said, aligned
Not far from metropolitan streets
Enlisted are construction workers to create
Drawn down the road to concrete city
Blueprints sit pretty
There on the outskirts of town, worthy to build on
A home, a structure to call your own
Usual forms materialize with nature in layers
Seem to build themselves communities
Cropping up as large as life
Sometimes it is hard to find your way home
With so much going on
The road to success is always under construction
My house has a number above a wooden door
Such a detail can be useful to have to get inside
Steps lead the way on silent stones
When I go home, get in, my world slows down
Universe stops or shrinks in size, to be defined
There are many wooden skeletal chairs there
Fixated around a dining table when I arrive
Waiting for a holiday or family to come together
No prayers are said these days
It’s just a dining area, nothing else
A bed is hidden in another room
It keeps secrets but mostly it keeps sleep
Buried under pillows and quilts and sheets
Furniture remembers everything
The kitchen is the center of it all
It comes in reds and yellows with a sink and range
Fires from the stove ravage meats and vegetables
Such alterations make them manageable to eat
Ice cubes in the freezer trays stay there complacently
Waiting for someone’s drink, a friendly hand to warm them
Home has a shower down the hall
Cabinets full of towels and soap lie beneath the sink
Clean thoughts from wall to wall
TV turned up loud in the living room
To keep life serene and meek
An old phone in plastic black rings and rings out emptiness
Lies lazy on the antique table, stationary, waiting
Sits by the ancient sofa hugging floor
Listens for someone to answer the call
There is an echo running through the halls invisible
But no one picks up the receiver
No one is home
Only the ghost of a ringer
Tribute to Dawn of Day: Stories from the Underground Railroad
From
Tennessee
Virginia
Mississippi
Kansas
Wisconsin
To free states in the north and Canada
I grieved upon the grave of the slave
Tears circling the tomb
Securing his name
For their bloodshed
From whips and blows
By the masters and relatives
On the countryside
Down south
Oral histories and tradition passed down
Children
An investment
Field hands
Skilled labor
Textile production
Seamstresses clothed the slaves
A hovering over of threat of violence
And a whipping
Secret prayer meetings held on the plantation
The Underground Railroad
Station masters housed runaway slaves
in logged cabins
Conductors run the wagon
$50 reward for their capture
Images of faces with no names
Abolitionists regarded as extremists
A threat to the order of the day
******* fought in the Civil War
Share cropping
And Jim Crow
Then migration to city ghettos or slums
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
09/26/19