Best Gad Poems
SMITTEN OLD MAN
High school year book, 47
I’m not a gad looking guy –
Short hair, sport coat, tie
This remembered as I gaze across the room
She’s sitting at a table near the wall,
Lap top open, ear phones, late and all
She wears a sleeveless blouse
On a cookie now I’m nibbling,
But, my God, her arm! What’s that scribbling?
From distance the appendage looks solid black
Is she weird, some sort of voodoo?
“No, you idiot!” I laugh. “Just a tattoo.”
Through her tangled blond hair a streak of purple,
No cosmetics improve the sallow face,
Clothes, by 40s standards, a national disgrace
I’m smitten – chair seat a bed of nails,
Arthritis rebels, bony hands clutch -
This modern generation, it’s just too much!
Dave Austin
I.
In the year sixteen hundred and thirty-five
I was a fool young man known as Ludwig,
back from the wars and flush with new money,
spent it on fine whores and copious drink.
One pale lady led me out into the street
where her pimp stood in shinning moonlight,
he smiled at her, said,”How nice of you,
I was thinking of feasting tonight.”
Before I could even start to react
his fangs had sank deep into my neck,
she joined in too, this woman I had held,
I black out and don’t recall what came next.
When I came too I was in a dark cave
and cried out, thankful that I was alive,
yet when I tried to walk t in the sun
it seared and sizzled my ghost-pale hide.
I’d never believed the legends were true,
but I now had no breath or heart-beat,
and when the sun set, I went out for food,
no meal would satisfy my deep cravings.
I made it six days, or should I say nights,
before the hunger overcame my will,
stalked a poor post-rider in the countyside,
recall the screams that came from my first kill.
I felt something within crumble that day,
a hollow emptiness grew deep inside,
knowing that with every kill that I made
meant another piece of my soul had died.
Before long I fled my Bavaria,
the peoples were getting restless and mean,
traveled across Europe, moving often,
forced to ‘live’ by acts heinous and obscene.
It was in Scotland three long years later,
hiding in the highlands from an angry mob,
unable to come out for days on end,
the growing hunger, it painfully throbbed.
When turned a vampire loses their blood
which causes their bodies to shut down,
I was so hungry I was driven mad,
in my mania I drained dry a cow!
Then to my surprise I felt the hunger
fade away and leave me feeling all-right,
it was any blood that would slake my thirst,
I didn’t have to take any more lives!
You think this would improve my situation,
but in truth it hurt me all the more,
couldn’t help but ask why had I never
bothered to ask this question before?
All the lives I had brought to an end,
all the families I had let bereft,
gad I the wits to ask these questions then
not a one would’ve had to face death.
The truth of these failings hounded my heels,
there was to be no peace within me,
until one night in France I came upon
ancient stone walls of a monastery…
CONTINUES IN PART II
TIME THIEF...MUSINGS OF THE LAY..
I awoke an hour past mid-nite
oh what peace everyone is dreaming
made some warm milk cocoa
turned radio on.. tv on
am now multi-taskin..
stolen away by sweet sleep
right there on the couch...
couch potato now dreaming..
dreaming of strange lands
dream tourism is in vogue...
woken my house help preparing tea
she gives me a puzzled stare..
may be the boxer shorts am wearing..
have her vexed.. cud be.shes just sleepy
its already daylight.... already...
partake a luke-warm shower.
no time to get the water properly heated
rushing to the shuttle stage..
boarding a shuttle..engaging the driver.
alighting.... usual stage guru nanak hospital..
the guru ramgaria looks at me... or..
looks at the sky..we call him kalasinga
i ponder what the good guru was thinking..
staring to the sky..
idle thought.. short walk i arrive...
gad gados headquaters....
every one today is late..but...
but the hr ...shes already in..
i say hello she appears not to hear..
i sleek slowly toward my work station
TD B our receptionist arrives late..
we ponder over the why.. everyone's late
come up with the time thief theory
according to RU and TE..
May be the good guru knows...
the guru on the poster
daily trains... trains his creamy red eyes
to the heaven in artistic communion....
the believers in him.. call him-enlightened one
us.... we find all of them weird.. intolerance?..
the artistic guru was there when
the superhighway was built...
when the terrorist bombed a shuttle
when our countries CEO was acquitted
by the imperialist court..
the artistic guru must know
must know.. who stole our time
he keeps looking to the sky
they say hes enlightened..
i say ted.. the guru knows.knows time.
of time thief's and time snatchers
here at gadgados we watch-out
watch out against.. or for
a different kind of thief
who has a very long hand...
Lewis k Nyaga
eastern african maritime.. 0915hrs
There's nothing like a TV ad.
A crass intrusion to a play,
It shreds my nerves and makes me mad.
And some of them are really bad
The products too – they'll make you pay;
There's nothing like a TV ad.
The use of animals is sad :
Chimps “talking”, drinking tea all day !
It shreds my nerves and makes me mad.
But Russian meerkats make me glad,
To buy insurance ? Well, I may –
There's nothing like a TV ad.
A bicycle pushed by a lad
Up cobbled street with brown loaf, aye,
It shreds my nerves and makes me mad.
And now I'll take a break, by gad,
A drink's the tonic, so they say,
There's nothing like a TV ad.
They shred my nerves and make me mad
LIFE’S COMMODITIES ©
Nails and screws ‘mate’ together
But nails puncture tires when misdirected
Another’s love loss is another’s gain
Love bites break hearts into little pieces
Commodities here today, gone tomorrow
Replaceable parts are ‘outnumbered’ one to none
Do or die in the here/after--- ‘suicide’
Life will rot to its very core
Thrown aside ‘punted’ fore-ever more
Rebirthed and planted it will grow big
And perhaps will be saved for another year’s commodity.
KEEPSAKES ©
Fishwife’s tales
Poppy dog tails
Fairies in storied ‘lore’
Fly and gad about no more
Lengths of twine saved thrice
Wrap on today’s keepsakes!
Treasures are memories held
In minds, hearts and pretty boxes
Brought out to remind once again
Keepsakes of puppy dog tails and fairy lore.
If i could retake my life to bake again,
I’d say exactly where, what and when,
To my family and fundamentalist church,
To those with importance as a crutch.
I’d take that offer of life and health,
By taking that clinic of great wealth;
Carers set out all just for hurt, torn me,
Who could never openly climb the tree.
I would just decide to take that blow,
Which my society could directly throw,
If the police couldn’t constrain my dad,
If the social work couldn’t stop the gad.
If the doctor couldn’t prohibit my parents,
From their motorway journeys and vents,
When they wanted to visit me at Uni,
Every month, which was not of beauty.
To accept that rehab right and fair,
To become functional to toot and blair,
Would’ve been against their beliefs,
‘Cos they wished for me Christian motifs.
But that clinic appointment firmly offered,
As Hereward College would’ve proffered,
The ability to leave my parents straight,
To cold shoulder ‘em with my atheist gait.
So I’d change that, that day at college,
When an honest answer i didn’t manage,
To the question of whether or not i did wish,
To see the doctor, for a needed clinic swish.
My parental guardian would’ve agreed,
To that rehab, possibly, ‘cos she did heed,
That normal script of life and its doors,
Which opened to me any path on my shores.
She told me i could do just as i pleased,
And life any life i wished to, she greased;
She was fighting on my side, in my corner,
For my dignity, happiness and honour.
This index finger of mine loves discothèques,
Amber sunsets, pretty faces from heaven, wanderlust hybrids & violets,
Those are just few of my fantasies surrounding me,
Now let’s share some of my secret language, the B-a Story!
That will entail no point of return,
Let the Herculean games begin,
My heart will wade with only dominics’ who are wired for this evening spree, Tetsuo”
That’s why I’m always losing my old brooms that make several detours & pit-stops,
So who am I?
I’m Bryan, the Bye! Bye! Butterfly with good enough wings,
Who is espoused to his career and talent for now!
But today is another day away from that,
Now let’s go spinning with what placates me on this amazing day,
Music alone placates me, because it wades me down to the river bank,
Regardless of any genre!
I listen to Rock music, Cause’ it’s the music for the Darby kids like my Sis #Liz!
I heed to Trance, Cause’ it uplifts my animal ecstasy,
Trance music alone makes me to transgress my 99 problems one less #DjProvocation!
Hip Hop is for us the wordsmith & my brother #Pak Seeker,
We Hip Hop fanatics, we are the G.O.A.T, 2Pac Lives.
Soul music melts my soul and spurs along my entire love to rest besides my violet,
So #Seal, shall you croon again that “Kiss from the rose”
For the love of my gad dam birthday!
R&B is my affectionate music genre for my precious Venus!
Dancehall & House music cloaks my club house with #Joan,
Dj Guetta & Dj Novelli can you please stamp my house party,
So that the electrons can mingle with atoms!
Tell the storm that this is my B-a Story.
T.m.TS ©BryanDePoet
A Pungent Pang of Proof or Pooh
I had walked into the woods and sang my song of songs
As the autumn leaves lazily blew them lazily away,
Slowly and cautiously, I walked to the edge of the
woods as you came one day
I dreamily thought and looked savagely and vaguely for so long,
But in an instant thought I'd better not enter for I did not belong.
I instantly saw you as you shook your pensive head and heard
you say
I'd better not enter it might be too far; you might hear my footsteps stray,
If anyone may even see me, he may be much stronger than I
Fear was not or must not be one of my unknown foes which I'll deny.
From my view, where I stood still and thus saw it all,
All the lowly boughs upon the trees right near outside,
Smelling all the pungent sweet pangs it did will me to call
And tell everyone to which I had viewed and still abide.
For this is not a true tale which I have talked and walked aloof
In the woods, they lay awake and are here for nay they have no proof.
In pure happenstance, there may be a person to tell you, you’re a goof.
Any way I’m nearing the end of my fable of a tale
Can you not see the offensive smell of that elusive wail?
I thought I had seen it all, over many a year I’m still smelling
That gad awful smell, or is it a putrid smell of someone’s pooh.
Oh, oh, now you can see just how fast I can really run away from you.
Written: May 9, 2014
Theresa Marie W-C
Let me……….Let me … Let me in….. Let me in,
I want you, I miss you…… Mum!
Let me... Let me... Let me... Mum Lead me!
As something inside me is burning,
Let me be, let me! Be me,
Face of Stella get in and be with me!
I want you tell me everything is gona be okay,
Now let me write the spectrum between death and life of my mother,
I’m clement about my mum even when deceased and vanished.
I always heed to her spirits even when I know it’s a myth.
Mum without you, no me, no words, I would have transcribed,
Nothing is synonymous to you, mother
Because the love I feel for you is eternal.
I’m one lucky guy, my mum is in heaven, I, am still in haven.
There’re flashes I remember,
I remember talking to my mum when I’m a sleep,
And then, when dawn ruptured, indeed I recollected everything she had told me,
She told me, “When you start from nadir, you can glimpse zenith.”
My mum holds my hand and fills the gaps in between my fingers, when no one else can,
Gad dam it, that was just a hallucination but I fondle it.
My mother played her position,
I’m playing my cards and My numbers are bingo!
I perceive and heed to her voice every nightfall,
My mum whispers to my ears saying, “Cling on to ecstasy my son.” I’m with you.
She may be gone,
But her soul is wiggling with God, mine mingles with hers!
Let me accolade my mum,
Even when evil always wheels from North to south, my aegis is my mum,
My mum is my afflatus in my acreage.
My mum left me callow,
She vanished during my juvenile stint,
But I’m pursuing and so far opened new leaflets and lucrative I am now,
The canons suggest that the dead are not dead,
They just switched to the phantom zone,
So her soul is mythical in my presence,
But In the back of my mind, my mum is animate.
Face of Stella is me.
Mother, these are my words to you.
In loving memory of my Queen Mother #Stella
©Bryan De poet
©Tsi
ARTE MAYOR*: Neither Cricket nor Football
Is this the way to prop A-first
Sock not oval ball overhead
Slam not round ball with drumstick dead
Cut not corporate tax: the worst
Hundred millions sweat till tv burst
Swamp Super Bowl cheer-leaders' tights
The day England scorned Wales' rights*
Would arméd football rugby durst
Catch not ball in leather-gloved hand
Watch how slip-fields pluck balls from air
Out-fields brave boundaries debonair
That's what cricket's in any land
Trumped-up charges make no A-men grand
Nor soft base balls stop eyes grow sore
A-1 Nation must make World soar
Hail Rugby! King Twickenham brand!
Throw missile back You Quarter-Back
Take no step beyond the Red line
Referee draws to keep the front-line
Push no further than ball in pack
The Golden Rule's not to kick back
Unless you're in scrum cheek to jowl
And lick the foe if he must growl
Block those horns in grid-lock Am-track!
Curve ball's By Gad no in-swinger
Reach first base sans one lone strike
Home runs no match sixes through dike
Stop runs coming through huge bouncer
Best way to take the World over
Scrap apéd games from lean memory
Learn to play ball gentlemanly
You'll need no Vinson carrier!
*Arte Mayor (Sp. Major Art) stanzaic form, the art of Archiprest de Hita (12th-13th c.): eight syllabic lines in eight-line stanzas, rhyming abba acca.
*England beat Wales in epic match at Cardiff to win Six-Nations' Rugby 2017 Trophy; the same day the Super Bowl was watched by 125 millions on TV. If the same audience could have seen the match at Cardiff, I'd wager that would have been the very last Super Bowl event in history.
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Love, calumniousness and my calmness.
Caste, colour and religion, castrating me pish.
Pitiable placability, pendiculation and scurrllity,
A scullion leads ashtray, arrogant, juggling kiss.
In funds gainsay gad about, execute fustigation,
Fulsome excelration and Ju Ju, jest misconceived stress.
A gawk but gallant frizzled fuddle and frolic,
Exert pickings pick some picaroon phrenetic bliss.
A cry diverted diversion, a dither distrusted hope,
A burning light touched a grand heart becomes bless.
Our guns were pregnant with bullet
Bullet pregnant with desire to eat bush meat
Our hunting dogs roamed up and down
Pregnant with desire to eat bush meat
We went as a group we were three and a half
Three strong men and me the half
I handed a cutlass and a bag
What need of me, but with them I did surf
I was so small then
At times, me, they did shun
But many a day the oldest of them said
the boy be shunned none
After a long walk we reached a fearful bush
Our hunting dogs soon spread, a marathon in the bush
What animal caused this run? None knew
But sure, our hunting dogs were smart, no trash
In a farther distance the bush was shaking
We crouched with gun poised; it is coming
Appeared dogs chasing a beaver; hissss
Bellow expectation, well, after its, our legs was running
Run and run and run, the beaver was stubborn
Our bones were weary, the beaver was stubborn
It went into a hole; we dug and dug and dug
For the day, all efforts were barren
Our hearts wore agbada of gloom
Our mouths said no world nor hum
The audience birds gave a mockery smile
As we made our way back home
In a farther distance along the way
We were almost reached home, our stay
Appeared a gad grasscutter
With fury all hunters gave it a slay
Easier to kill beneath our full force for
Killing; then, downed to us the work of the creator
Achieving a goal is not by one's ability
We went off, the days joy was sure
This was a real life story. It happened when we first relocated to our house in Ifeoluwa Fiwasaye area. The area was busy then, and hardly a complete building in our surroundings. For we, my parents were first to build house there.
Six months after, we had a companion, but the people in the house were hunters. So I did follow them.
Our effort on that day was immense to somewhat, we hardly walked home. However....
Agbada is big cloth, commonly wear during occasion. It is a Yoruba word.
Witness of God, worthy of His calling, wavering not; that's what
his name implies...
Indefatigable shepherd of Christ's flock is my Pastor: a good,
gracious, great influence to the believers...
Teacher and preacher of the Word of the Lord; steadfast in
discipling Christians with Scriptures...
Nourishes and nurtures lives toward ministry-involvement,
volunteer church-work pursuits along faithful stewardship...
Exemplifying by faith the "Ed*" whom the Lord wants him to be
with the power of the Holy Spirit...
Soulwinner who brings people to the Saviour Jesus Christ by
declaring the Gospel...
Servant-leader whom we pray for and follow as he perseveres to
be a pattern of good works.
*Joshua 22:34 And the children of Reuben and the children of Gad called the altar Ed: for it shall be a witness between us that the LORD is God.
March 13, 2019
N.W.A
Negus With Altitude
Children of Israel I have to floss the Jewels
the devil watch an since hell hot I exhale the truth an cough cubes
living in the artic zoo
Lucy lu polar bears loose
hell on earth i immune the fumes
Blue flames now im Super Saiyan Blue
against dragons
an witches an wizards black magic
but Im Aladdin created out of carbon ashes
to a Diamond in the Creators Image of a Black Man
from the Southern Kingdom of Judea Of Judah
An Gad while im Wise as Serpents to have Discernment of Judas
flames of God with fire of a furnace while looking in the eyes of Medusa
turning her into brimstone
Resurrected out the valley of dry bones
while i see the devil sitting on a throne of skulls
While i see flying souls around him thats been sold
and all he had to offer was lies and gold
i wrote this fire in hells kitchen on the stove
then the furnace pipes blowed
then a hole blowed open of the abyss
filled with a Spirit Bomb inside that doesn't tick
i aint the only one with the eyes to see the glitch
I shine cause of my Jeweler
you know it's scary an peculiar
when freddy kreuger has nightmares of your future
It's evident that im heaven sent with the testament with a bow an arrow in my fist tight grip
with a medal as my necklace my shoes reddish
make the devil sick
an which red represents fire as my element
the devil tricks was that he has never exist
while the poor poor an these devils rich
while the ghettos stench full of piss
but it was all pArt of the prints
lost who we were coming off the ships
according to prophecy it all makes sense
Im in Gods Army
She loves me she loves me not...
Just my luck that when juiced a lad
din grammar school, aye own every
rhyme and reason tubby mad
every friggin time boyhood fingers
plucked petals off flowered daisy...
just as well, a relief and more than glad
tomb hiss out on doing the wild thang
and be'n totally tube yule lore lee baad
yea, how boring squirreled away
voraciously reading 'bout some cad
oh my dog...I too could write story
"FAKE" steamy extramarital liaison add
chocolate flavored Glynnis (Msgeegee),
whereby celibate chap goes stir crazy - egad
yours truly drives back to her pad
within sketchy part of West Philadelphia
starring as chief protagonist
none other then... yupper this dad
until caught with pants down (figuratively)
thine missus both angry at me and sad
I immediately unapologetic longed to gad
about even jetting setting off to Vlad
divest stock to escape wrath cull bile
daily spewed phlegm at me - wad
off by bajillion miles wife got poor aim
cruel colorful epithets coarse expletives had
filled beyond capacity to resist or tolerate
hence, yours truly sought to skad
had dude dull married life awkward fit
analogous, incongruous, perilous
why dead men don't wear plaid
they make no bones about
nor act self flesh deathly quiet
oblivious toward latest fad
mouldering into dust
whereby gravesites sprout weeds
mother nature's couture clad
eroded tombstone disintegrating
vanishing without trace
unremembered story...
unlike Odyssey and Illiad.