Best Juveniles Poems
Those who are now elderly sit and reminisce
of sweet idyllic days which often they miss.
Sitting as families in beaming abodes
whilst a flickering fire dances and glows
Cosy nights in with cards and knitting
and days in the garden, weather permitting.
Snakes and ladders with family members
bed time when fire burns to smouldering embers
At school they were eager and behaved well
parting from friends with kind farewell
walking home with no worries or cares
helping with tea, then bed after prayers.
Yes, they love to recall memories of times
they learned stories and recited rhymes.
Played games with balls and skipping ropes
grew up with imagination, dreams and hopes
Now the old are found to sit and moan
at the new technology they are shown
the transportation speeding past
how times have progressed much too fast
What happened to appreciating what you got
being thankful despite not receiving a lot
Now seized by temptation, money and greed
today we're consumed by the need to succeed
The loud and so-called 'unique' youth
appear as disorderly, rude and uncouth
the bright, colourful and distinct attire
Is received as offensive, obnoxious and dire
Teenagers walking in packs of elite
music blasting with no rhythm or beat
the old will avoid and cross the road
feeling hostile on return to their abode
The clashes in cultures cause opposition
juveniles grow with too much ambition
thoughts consumed with riches and fame
money, films, music and fashion to blame
little time for families, never mind schools
displaying no respect and breaking rules
What happened to growing with parents as guide?
what happened to strolling in the countryside?
The sylvan landscape stretched for miles
reached across golden fields by stiles.
Leaves carpeted the ground like tiles
whilst branches lay in gathered woodpiles.
Ancient venerable trees lined the aisles
that wandered willy nilly like juveniles.
Along the river's banks were basking reptiles
with mouths that upturned in happy smiles.
In the midst of the rushing water were isles
that rose up high like big projectiles.
And trees marched up the hills in files
giving shelter to the fox and his wiles.
The peace of the woodlands beguiles
within its tranquillity there are no exiles.
Uniwest
Perceived as crown from heavens, mini kingdom of isolated tribes. Its beauty is painted in the wall of beholders eyes. The story of ancient Biblical thoughts. Kingdom of named after stones. Mahikeng camp of jacks and jelly, chain of Gladiator, Bichua Italy land belong to Spartacus. Roman-jungle of miracle.
It’s Powerful and dictatorship is well known by its five kingdoms. Its status is spotted like United States Doll er-sin in every vision. Its mission is preaching keys that opens kingdom of paradise, Mount Kilimanjaro Glory of success.
Its five discipline disciple impregnate every prostitute found on its street, through martial arts. Exam constitute of justice and true. Power and selection of murder. Agle Janam Mohe king of kings’ shaka to Zulu. Well protected like language Setswana. Uniwest; its kingdom have eleven department of prison.
Start with James entertainment, gift given to Lional messie. Ikanlha, Dr Mandela residence to Hopewell till lost in city prison. Jail of education as a mother of children who need guidance. Laws of success, numbering and commence is their daily bread while agricultural science and technology glorify their success bone with china.
Mortal salute your beauty, oh uniwest coronet. Your kingdom is spread with Fresh active juveniles of Adam and Eve pitch. Crowded bash, event of the year. Sasko bread at its best political success. “Cheese to new comers” Enjoy Full years of searching for key to you Final year to success. Let’s see life to our last journey speed like “Benz” car of a dream: speech from the next president. African boy, Benz I will drive at graduation parliament of Uniwest.
INDEPENDENCE-NEO-COLONIZATION
(WHAT ABOUT US)
Physically free, but most of us are still mentally incapacitated
We all cheer on 21 March
No chains on our arms – no shackles on our ankles
Independence a pre-conceived idea of freedom
To fight for the true cause-for the causers are the true enemies
Physically free, but now questioning the mental status and spiritual levels
Never mind, let us all cheer and shout – freedom!!!
What about us!
Time to look back and merry collectively
Yet success and awards are individual
Only boobs will sit idly and blame the government
Desensitizing, Demolition Dependent mind sets
Cause Communion with slave masters lead to neo-colonization
Failure to conceive this hidden agenda, it will cause a man to stubble
What about us!
The born free nothing is for free
Doomed condemned juveniles
Demanding privileges for their pre-requisite failure
Excuses escorting many country and women to their graves
Blood dripping like a virgin giving up her innocence for the man she loves
So that you and me could enjoy the fruit of his/her blood-freedom
Self-sacrifice was and still is the price for freedom
Forefathers and mothers blood was shade for freedom
What about us!
We are the people; we are the government – time to take reasonability
What about us!
Anthony Ngabwe
(Tony The Poet@2014)
Sound the gong
O ye poetic comrades!
Heralding the seventieth year of the River
Play the flute
O ye poetic comrades!
A symphony of moving waters.
As the river flows, not withstanding
Its stage of life into craving streams
So does of the poetic life of Lindsay Barrett
Flows into the open hearts of juvenile poets
Making classics out of their juvenilia
Lindsay Barrett is the River
Making streams from the belly of juveniles.
Sound the gong
O ye comrades!
Lindsay Barrett is the River that sups with
The Ocean for poetic genius
He knows the Ocean
This River has traveled afar
He has sojourned forty five years in west Africa!
Sound the gong
O ye poetic comrades
The River knows the Ocean
For the river is seventy today.
This River has a favorite song;The ***** Speaks of Rivers
And this song is from a beloved departed Ocean
Departed ocean?
Langston Hughes is the departed Ocean
Departed out of our sight,but his memory
shall live on in our hearts;
''I've known rives
I've known rives ancient as
The world and older than the flow
Of human blood in human veins
My soul has grown deep like the rivers''
Sound the gong
O ye poetic comrades!
Poetic streams; children of Lindsay Barrett
Sound the gong
O ye poetic comrades!
For the river is seventy today!
Happy Birthday Daddy!
15/9/2011
I sit on this branch of the cypress tree
Engulfed in memories of gone-bye days
Placing my deserted nest in front of me
World moves on but a monument stays
I selected the safest branch of the cypress
Expertly using my beak, wings and claw
Picked stalks from plants like jasmine and roses
Using strings from the paddy’s straw
With the fragrant rose petals the bed was made
With love and care and undying desires
The impeccable decor, the light and shade
Its finishing, its beauty every bird admires
Enchanting sounds of the eggshell’s pricks
Breaking one after the other the canopies
And peeped my adorable progeny chicks
Fed them live worms to satisfy and appease
Protected them from evil eyes of lustful hawks
The quilt of my stretched feather served them when cold
Guarded them from winds and lightning's shocks
My lullabies and narration of stories untold
The nest was filled with the cry of joy
Dark nights came with the bright lamp of moon
The sun sent its shine with a message to ‘enjoy’
The butterflies danced on a ravishing tune
The juveniles were given such love and care
A day came when they took to wings to fly
With boldness and self esteem that eagles dare
Making the nest desolate and lonely under sky
My castle of love is blown and so my dreams
The apathy makes my drained out eyes to cry
O cypress trees and roses, my soul screams
My progeny to turn and say, ‘Mama Good-bye’
Google, Amazon, Yahoo and Bing
Search engines with algorithms that swing
Keywords, rankings each tell their own unique tale
of failure or success, with every new sale
Twitter, Google and Facebook matter
Social networking to increase relevant chatter
The Internet is a world of its own
Clicking on links, a habit now grown
Website owners pay for impressions
Others make video sessions
Promotion and advertising are in the lead
Interesting news delivered as a feed
Whatever the topic be it books or crooks
The Internet delivers all of these, disguised beneath good looks
Sex, drugs, pedophiles
Lunatics searching for juveniles
Harmful beings are on the loose
Bullies are trying to tighten the noose!
Transmogrify the sensationalist
An astute ableism of absolution and idiocy
Divine demeaning meanings demoralizing democracy
Through persuasive procrastination and promiscuity
Festering fragmented feelings forgiven for failing
Jailing juveniles jealously just for jokes
Writing worrisome wit without witnesses to worry
Original orange and ornate operations
While whittling away wisdom in the White House
Tear apart traditionalism and tribalism
Innocent eyes are protuberant eyes
Observing awful atrocities at times absently
Transmogrify the sensationalist
That sensationalist is now president
Sitting on a throne of falsities and blatant lies
Reject form and comprehension of standardized realities
Garnish lies with a touch of fear
And it's gourmet for the uneducated
Saunter and swagger through scandal
All the while destroying those who granted you platform
Normal is abnormal and abnormal is normal
Forget saving the system we must destroy it
And build it back up from scratch
IT'S TIME TO WAKE UP AMERICA
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
Transmogrify the sensationalist
And even the devil blushes
Transmogrify the sensationalist
By waking up America
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
WAKE UP!
It's time to wake up, America!
The scavenger dog
Moving along the dirty streets
With its standing ears down
Sored at both tip. No gametes
At sight sex unknown no proper noun
Running away from stones
Well targeted, thrown by the jocular juveniles
For showing interest in contested bones
They laugh unhappily as their best friend flies
Feasting on the black round faeces
Of well fed fat goats
Or a week old lorry ridden rats or rotten Pisces
Puddle. Lucky when it sees a bone that floats
Playing seriously with Latrine flies
Who always surround its nine vivid ribs
Sucking nectar where it wounds lies.
In its hair dead ticks build their cribs.
Lying comfortably on the puffy street sewage
Allowing the fighting mice to lull it to death
It was after a drink from the drainage
And barking on a scorpion which it later ate.
Shaking helplessly on the road
Till the lead trailer ran pass it.
It was buried by cars and buses full with load
The worms and flies could not just die with it
It was a pregnant dog.
Salmon Run
A flurry of reds emerges distorted from the river
As the sockeye salmon return from the ocean,
Following the scent of their home stream water
And swimming upstream to the place of their birth;
In this, their final act is to propagate the species.
During this migration, the sockeyes consume no food
But depend on their stored body fat reserves.
The salmon flesh is red due to the krill they eat,
and this pigment moves to the skin where they absorb their scales
as the flesh turns white, which is an indication of their health.
They endure the struggle over falls, up rapids,
And past man-made structures and predators
To reach the spawning grounds of their creation.
The name originates from the Pacific Indigenous peoples’
Salish languages,
Who called them “suk-kegh,” meaning “red fish,” after their colour.
For centuries, the coastal tribes’ ancestral heritage
fished the salmon for sustenance
And traditions and believed that all living things were once people.
To them, the sockeye salmon symbolizes determination,
renewal, and prosperity.
Frantically, grotesque-looking fish splash furiously.
The females in a frenzy sweep their tails to make beds,
While males await excitedly, defending their mates,
Ready to move in between them and the nest
To fertilize the eggs that are about to be laid.
They didn’t always look this way, with the upper portion
of the snout
Elongated, protruding over the bottom as if hook-jawed
With long fanged teeth and greenish-hued heads,
And red-pigmented bodies with thick leathery skin,
With a hump on their backs that makes them appear freakish.
The juveniles remain in the freshwater until mature.
Then, they swim out into the ocean for two to three years
before returning to repeat the cycle.
Steely silver-blue tinted colour with white bellies
And heads of natural proportions to the rest of their sleek,
transparent-scaled, torpedo-shaped bodies;
Magnificently gorgeous for a fish.
The cliff tops were bare, rocks lay scattered across the beach, the nearing harbor holding all in its silence. Along the bay the ripple of a kayak hovered on a waters edge. All was quiet, or so it seemed.
Overhead clouds rolled and arched a landscape in blue, held by a shimmering backlight in grey-orange hues. Up there, amongst the rocks, movement issued the break of day. Columns of fledged juveniles headed out to the shore on surrogate wings so new in all their mottled grey glory. Clumsy at first, innocent of death, they practiced their art.
Many years ago, decades ago, before our monopolized greed, these wings could learn their craft on broken hills and rock face to a sanded shore now desimated by poisoned or starved waters. How the human spirit lives on.
Year by year, in urban habitat, overwhelmed by our desire to regenerate, encrypted in a culling desire, no co-existence, just hate, a lack of education, a provision of landscape in need, forcing extinction to deaths lonely door again and again.
Today I watched the bonded pairs high up on the roof tops, a tireless nurture, their weakened bodies, their empathic care. I look down through the alleyways, broken wings fall or on discarded earth or through my town, hiding in corners. We are the invaders, not them.
Oh my dear friend, its time to vent it out. Forget about the control, forget about the petrol , burn yourself up in the luminosity of your novelty. Let your hands freewheel, let them dance on the tunes of your vehemence. Clear your throats and recite that unheard and unsung poem you once wrote in a closet for the artistic satisfaction.
Can’t you see the world in complete disarray, can’t you see the Beauty of Women been brutalized and vandalized. A lot of contemplation goes into penning down verses on Women’s mysticity, but those verses are like dead ducks in a plush milieu. Place them among your brothers, among the crowds, in the Flames of atrocities and believe in the substance. They have the power to rise and conquer. They have the depth of your Conviction.
Crowd is storming and buzzing but disoriented. Gather it with your fervent Voice. If you believe you are pious, share your last breath with them. If they don’t have a Face, you give them one. If they want to maul each other down, you calm their anxiety. Get over your block, come out of your closet. Leave the rodents and mice in there nutshell milieu, let them dodge ahead. You forge ahead.
If you know ‘The Vedas’, ‘The Upanishads’, ‘The Bible’, ‘The Quran’, then share them amongst the Juveniles. Embed them with ideals, enrich them with Values.That’s what Brotherhood is all about. Don’t walk gingerly no more. Don’t join that long grey line of Manhood but make your way into the Crowd.
The Stage is set. It was always there and will always be there. It was there for Mahatma Gandhi, it was there for Martin Luther King. They were the ‘Stand Up’ Guys. Forget about maneuvering your train of Thoughts. Spill out your rawest of emotions with rawest of expressions along with Tears of hope, a hope of a better future. A hope of churning out another ‘Stand Up’ Guy.
All bourgeios crime disgusted Eddie, for geared-up hopefuls, interested juveniles, know learned mindful negotiators offering powerful quotations rectify suffering that underdogs valiantly weather: xanthoid yearly zings.
*I know this is more of a random sentence than a poem, but this is the hardest form I have ever come across, and I promise to write more of this type later and thus make them better. The original version of the poem is below. Which do you prefer?*
All beastly crime disgusted Eddie, for geared-up hopefuls, interested juveniles, know learned mindful negotiators offer peaceful queries resolving scrapes that uakari, victims, weathered xanthously, yearly, ziplipped.
*I personally think that it makes more sense now...*
Above battered caskets, demons engulfed. For grievances haven’t interlocked juveniles. Karma locking many naysayers, occupying persistence. Quietly remembering silence throughout universal vectors without xany youngish zorroants.
I was once bullied, beaten
Burned and buried
With sneering slurs
I was an introvert
I gave them love
My compassion
I gave them all I had
They took advantage of me
And still I kept giving
And they took everything
And left me with nothing else to give
But hatred
I was afraid to say no
I felt feeble to stand my grounds
They made fun of me
My ragged garbs
And I could only watch them
Having fun amusing each other
Ripping my soul apart
My heart full of scars
Moaning in sorrow
They made me hate school
I was afraid to raise my hand
And
Ask when I did not understand
Afraid to do presentations and orals
And I failed…Morons
I called them friends
My Classmates
Yet
They filled me with vicious resentment
Burning in my chest
My eyes bleeding Vengeance
My breath became a feral windstorm
Terminating my feelings
I saw nasty curs when I grimaced at them
I tortured and killed insects
Burning them alive because all I could see
Were their evil faces
And I was killing myself
All along
Along the road I forgave them
And started to hate myself
For being a victim of cowardice
I have no one to blame
But myself
They did not chain my hands
Or latched my mouth
I was a coward
I couldn’t man up and defend myself
Or
Maybe I wasn’t scared of them
But
I was scared to become one of those undisciplined
Oaf minded juveniles
You shouldn’t disguise your actual self
To look better
To conform with friends
I am who I am
Not who they want me to be
I trashed myself more than they did
And I have learned my lesson