Best Saint John Poems
Yo Ho!, Yo Ho! The pirates life for me
The Jamaica Jewel’s sails are full on seven seas
Skull and bones flying high on the main mast
With a trim bow and keel my flag ship is fast
At both starboard and port, my canons thunder
heard from a distance, time to pillage and plunder
My boots and vest are leather black with buckles gold
When the sunlight reflects, landlubber’s blood runs cold
A gold and turtle shell handled sword slung to my hip
A stylish full brim black hat with a subtle dip
I dress all in black except a plume of vermillion
A chest full of treasure and pieces of eight by the million
Just the sound of my name sends shivers to timbers of all
I am Capitan Blood Head, on mermaid lips and ports-o-call
On sand and beach Capitan Blood Head wanted alive or dead
Where rivers become waterfalls posters for bounty is what’s read
So the legend lives on, from Key Largo, San Juan and St Kitts cay
From Trinidad and Tobago to Saint John and Montego Bay
Don’t you cross Capitan Blood Head and his Scallywags
And don’t even think about his favorite Sea hags
‘cause if you do, they will make you walk the plank
Down to Davy Jones Locker, blub, blub, blub you sank
YO HO!, YO HO! A PIRATES LIFE FOR ME
Warner Baxter for contest "Sketch a Character"
This is not Miami, the real site
of the sea grape. This is a wannabe--
a biker town, a speedway town. Not
the fabled city of Dream Whip clouds
expressed into a flawless sky. Not
the cool Technicolor dawn when an aging
chick like me could still do her morning
run on Collins, come back home
to the high rise on the Intercoastal,
where in the mirrored lobby,
retirees lined up in their wheelchairs
along a wall to socialize, see
who comes and goes.
Here, in this faux paradise on a Friday,
morning mass is celebrated in anything but
Ordinary Time by a Bahamian priest in
a chasuble the color of winter rye. There are
no flowers anywhere, only trailing tropicals;
a graceful spider plant with its dangling
tentacles. An acolyte brings sacramental vessels
on a tray, as if to dinner in his own home
to an altar covered with a simple tablecloth.
Simplicity...in the elaborate setting of
the Saint John Basilica, Daytona Beach.
The real home of the sea grape
with its leaves like tennis table paddles
is where a husband hospitalized in Mia
with a failing heart valve lay in
the pre-surgery ICU fighting for breath
as an insensitive nurse brought food
on a tray no way he could eat.
The sea grape is a hardy tree
that reaches for the heights. My son
in Halifax Hospital is like that: a survivor
of surgery for a metal hip to replace
the one that failed. Bones---
nemesis of our family, meant to last
but do not. Unlike the sea grape
whose limbs grown longer,
stronger. Fail not.
Beneath Australia’s expansive sunlit sky, I recall the patchwork quilt, where my life began
12 provinces united, one country created; uniformity resists when anthems unite the parochial clan
From staunch Overijssel in the north, to Limburg’s laughter in the south
From Drente’s eastern reach renowned, to Zeeland’s exalted river mouth
Friesland’s fair and twisted tongue, a language apart
Her “Tjalks” adorn the “Ijsselmeer”, binding forever a Fries heart
Groningen’s Martini towered capitol sits amid Europe’s oldest man made scenery
While Utrecht at the countries heart, the nation’s birthplace abounds in greenery
The Hollands next both South and North, give us cities which compete
For world renown, both Rotter- and sweet Amsterdam, with tulips are complete
Gelderland’s unfortunate claim to fame came from war
When allies forced a German retreat; they aimed a bridge too far
North Brabant lies beneath southern skies, a friendly place where life is good
Before Lent with carnival spent round old Saint John, is where, my cradle once stood
Limburg land of promise, of fresh fruit flans and singing nightingales,
Where clear streams cascade through oaken forests and silence prevails
Flevoland, the last, where fishing boats of Urk once sailed the Southern Sea
Now reclaimed land doth arise as each polder dries, thanks to the vision of Lely
Fatherland, motherland, though far away now, if truth be told
A warm place in my heart, “Je maintiendrai”; I will uphold
When I didn't know how I was going to pay my bills;
It was already done.
When I fought being in the Master's will,
It was already done.
When there was no food on the table,
It was already done.
Didn't I know that God is able.
It was already done.
When I had nowhere to lay my head;
It was already done.
I serve a Living God, not one that is dead.
It was already done.
I should never have any doubt;
That my God had worked things out.
It was already done.
When Jesus died upon the cross;
It was already done
Not one that belonged to Him would be lost.
It was already done.
For the words He spoke in His last minute;
It was already done.
Jesus looked toward Heaven and said, "It is finished."
IT WAS ALREADY DONE!
Saint John 19:30
My Saint John flow on
Through forest, marsh and town's spread
Tablecloth of stars
Conquistadors gone
The blue herons walk alone
In moonlight's silence
River and lone night
Memory is a wind's hope
Rustling swamps for gold
Let us keep our thoughts
In slow meandering lakes
The salt sea invites
Less Timucuan
Waken find us new remnants
In Ferdinand's dream
Love wilts in salt tears
The heart snakes the bush of grief
Tense as beauty stares.
Waleka, Rio
De Corrientes, Rio
De San Juan, the same
A gaudy green thrill
Peace sanctuary of births
Life from life flowing
Still at Sawgrass breast,
The Seminole blood of strength
I from Afric's tent
We the better ore
Than gleaming figment of fort
Lovers on this shore
Sea abandoned child
Scarred and aching love consoles
Tributary feasts.
O otters swim deep
Beneath the currents I weep
But a shrimp of tear
What is gone is gone
The sun makes still day's new dawn
Oceans carry on
Ships cargo joy fresh
As pines from which warblers sing
Magics of today.
My Saint John flow on
O'er fertile grounds of sweet love
Blooming moonlight still.
The Inner Workings of a Clock
My Catholic schoolgirl
Denies my shadowy persona.
Costumed in
A navy blue uniform
A snow-white blouse,
A chest pocket embroidered
By Saint John Fisher,
Her youthful bearing ticks
Smoothly, quietly, piously.
My Catholic schoolgirl leads
The May Day procession
She crosses herself and genuflects.
Wrapped in rosary beads,
She pushes my golden orb,
Tilted and warped as it is,
Into its preordained trajectory
Toward saintliness.
Starships of jealousy and greed
Some dressed as childish lies
Others as adult deceptions
Pitch me into a blackness
Unnoticed by my angelic clock.
Hands circulate 360 degrees.
Springs unwind.
Inner pendulums
Swing madly.
Simultaneously, I am
Remorseful and gleeful.
Twelve o’clock is
My imagined sanctity of
Honeyed knowledge.
Six o’clock is
My known blasphemy.
I wear my hair shirt with pride.
Tortoiselike, I see only
Darkness or light.
My Catholic
Schoolgirl’s soul
Refuses to apologize
For my humanity
Nor does she brag.
I am God’s creation,
A jigsaw of sharp-edged pieces.
Never bug the Ug Wug, or he’ll be bugging you.
He lives inside a cold dark cave near Douglas Avenue.
Some people say they’ve seen him swimming in the tide.
Spinning in a whirlpool, he’s quite preoccupied.
Never bug the Ug Wug. Please leave him alone.
He’s been around since Water Street was laid with cobblestone.
Some say he’s prehistoric, half-lizard and half-seal.
He’ll look at you with big red eyes and make you his next meal.
Never bug the Ug Wug, especially not in Spring
When gasperaux are on the move in an endless string.
He’s gluttonous and greedy with a massive appetite.
When it comes to empty bellies, he’s very impolite.
Never bug the Ug Wug. He’s faster than you think.
He’ll swallow you in one large gulp as quick as you can blink.
When thunder rumbles high above; when rapids race below,
Don’t let yourself be swept away in the undertow.
Never bug the Ug Wug. He’s why the Falls reverse.
The Saint John River is afraid of this antiquated curse.
If you’re fishing in the current, and you feel a stubborn tug,
It better be a big striped bass, and not old Mister Ug ……. Wug!
Saint John of Rila
Father John –
I have no bread
(short is the bread daily)
And the Lestvitsa* -
so long …
Longer than a thought
and shorter than a peal
of a bell.
I’m ashamed, Father,
that today I am speaking
but not staying quiet like
a germ,
like a drop of a candle.
The heart holds me up.
*[‘lestvitsa] stairway to spiritual life
Saint John of Rila (Bulgarian: ????? ???? ??????, sveti Ivan Rilski) (876 – c. 946) was
the first Bulgarian hermit.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_of_Rila
January 7 — The Synaxis of St. John the Forerunner. This is his main feast day, immediately after Theophany on January 6 (January 7 also commemorates the transfer of the relic of the right hand of John the Baptist from Antioch to Constantinople in 956)
Hailey was so much impressed by Saint John that thinking of him was an eager excitement. She talked with him always stirred, becoming twice the lady she was, with the hand missing glasses and whenever close to him feeling idyllically calm and peaceful. No-stress. Yes, no-stress, this high-class and profound luxury. The surprise when he appeared was bigger than average as he appeared in her life rarely. And it was not important that not everything was as it ought to be- next to him the world was taken in slow motion. And in slow motion she could enjoy both the world and Saint John himself. Open, handsome, with bright smile but only a little shy. Her sinking in his really good-hearted look meant: Everything is well now. However corny that seems, it was real as the heat before the storm.
30.06.16
He is so very married.
My walk’s slow, but I’m in no rush my friend.
Day will finish itself, night comes so what?
I’ll stop by some ‘bo’s campfire at light’s end,
be with like men, share some humor or smut.
I’ll spend night with vacant space in my gut.
Rail walk’s no soft piece of cake but light’s dawn
may bring train and ride beneath car’s frame strut,
finding me next day at place of Saint John.
SAINT JOHN COLTRANE
Old Trane New Trane Coltrane
Stood on the edge of the avant-guard
Sanctified sax in hand blowing like thunder and rain
He acknowledged The Creator with Psalms in A love Supreme
A love Supreme... A love Supreme...A love Supreme
His horn screamed with pain
Alabama Oh...Alabama where our children died
Ka-boom!!
Expressions of rebellion as The Black Movement marched on through
Along came Joy and Peace yet he moaned and groaned
He ascended to a higher plane
As he sings praises in heaven his legacy abounds on earth and the spirit is still alive
SAINT JOHN COLTRANE
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Thanks
You came home from Quebec,
you were never alone;
your shadow chased you around town
like a dog in love or out of love.
They told me you have been to places
where flies sat conveniently on the ledges of your lips,
you've eaten ugali with your fingers, someone else's fingers,
soaked in saliva and the red juices of greens and beef liver
I remember you leaving Scott County to drive along the roads
of summer with green trees waving at you. You were famous.
You sent a picture of Niagara. Before a mirror,
I saw my eyes in the falls that should've lectured you,
then you sent Alberta dressed in flora and sunshine,
but before a mirror, I saw where sorrow dug trenches in my brow.
At sunsets, I watched the tired lights walked slowly westward like an old lady on quad cane ... and I forgot the sound of my name on your lips
When July entered our town with loud children, you were in Whistler. His mother is continuing in Paris,
and poor James, God rested his bones somewhere in London.
You killed me with Yellowknife when you spoke of the northern lights,
but not once questioned my lonesome nights in White Sulphur
where fresh winds licked the skirt of a White horse to ignite a horseplay
You say Saint John spoke proudly of Como,
so I searched the map to find you where you would sit to sip something
that spoke proudly of Campari Spritz.
I found Whistle Pig Stout.
Some nights, I'd search for you when my finger was tired of scooping peanut butter from a jar. I traced from Revelstoke to Squamish, then to Halifax,
but I found no lobsters big enough to keep you there.
You called about Ottawa, and I found Rideau Canal, a lazy river that still works for the people. You told me Tofino spoke proudly of Costa Del Sol,
so I searched the map to find you where you would drive along something that spoke proudly of Ruta del Sol y del Aguacate.
I found Chesterman Beach Road.
December drove you home, pulling down your dress
to cover the spots where the cold winds were touching you.
I am getting used to being single.
Written 03\28\20
Silent!
Open your Bible to Saint John 11:35
Somewhere at the junction of fate and survival
let's see the guiltless tears quaking this messed land!
Old sweat of the saints gathered
Ancient blood of the cross stood
And the curtain broke into two
Cracking the raven of the blind side of a
land pouring an old wine into a new bottle.
If there is a God, it is obvious he's weeping
for my country home.
Karma is home again &oblivion of its glories
Shall tame this burning flames of Christ tears.
Are the Saints still crying of their betrayed shadows?
Nigeria left us a sad song to be swallowed into our mouth like the body of Christ.
How do we spell genocide?
How do we write jungle justice on a paper?
Are the Chibokgirls back from Sambisa forest?
I never knew tears have voices too until
they are adapted in the chronicle of emptiness.
When we started from genesis,
We sighted those broken bridges in exodus
Parting the morals to see death multiplying.
And Jesus wept, not for sin but for a home like ours.
Yet, every night we burn incenses before sleep
Hoping that each dawn we'll see through those
illusion in the tears my home brings.
Yet, Jesus still weeps for a land my leaders
made a public forest of pleasure.
My home: your face is now walking behind a black sun!
We'll cease to make ourselves pillars of death.
©John Chizoba Vincent
A sister wants to reach out
to a brother who doesn't care,
about the way she truly feels
being drowned, she fights for air.
He said some mean things
she will never forget,
if their parents were still alive
it would be something, he'd regret.
They'd be rolling in their graves
and their grandfather would be too,
if their grandmother found out
her feelings would be subdued.
The sister is sad and angered
about things her little brother said,
she wishes the parents were still alive
he puts them down, after they are dead.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Jan.22/2014
I wrote this about my brother and myself. We used to be connected at the hip at one time, but ever since our Dad passed away, he's said some really hurtful things. It got worse, after our Mom passed away. After I found out yesterday, that he was in Saint John, at my daughter's work, I felt like calling him up tonight and cursing his ears off. I don't know if I would be able to forgive what he said about our parents. It isn't right or fair to defile somebody, if they are still alive. Or even after they are dead. :'O(
The Saint John River rolls along
Under skies of baby blue,
Touching lives of country folk
Just the way it used to do
Before the war to better times,
When steamboats churned and church bells chimed.
The Continental whistle blew
To barking dogs along the track.
At Sutton's Crossing, passengers
Would smile as they reached Ketepec,
Where noses perked to sawdust smells
And farmers fiddled in their dells.
Allie Bonnell had a dream.
He grabbed his hammer and a saw,
And raised a platform to the sky
Where people came to dance and jaw.
There were no TV shows to watch,
And only baseball bats to notch.
For what's a place without a song
That's played by some and sung by more,
Prancing princes, kings and queens,
All heels and toes upon the floor?
Accordions were quite a sight.
Fifteen cents to dance all night.
City dwellers cherished days
Of summer at the river's edge.
Campfire smoke still lingers where
Fairies flit through forest hedge.
Sailboats slicing, paddles skimming,
Anglers splicing, midnight swimming.
The KBM took center stage
For capital communities.
Ketepec, Belmont and Morna
Steeped in clubhouse memories...
Tennis, horseshoes, softball games,
It could be called the "hall of fame".
And when the flakes of winter sealed
September's corn boil in a dream,
The river made a skating rink
For silver blades and hockey teams.
Deer leaned against the nearest birch
As Christmas called from St. Anne's Church.
The Saint John River rolls along
Under skies of baby blue,
Touching lives of country folk
Just the way it used to do.
As timeless minstrels pluck their strings,
Now we must find the words to sing.