Best Schoolboy Poems
To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves –
played all at once with concrete fingers
on diamond in the rough strings.
To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn,
ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure –
one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas
with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky
raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That
is far too much for the eyes to bear.
To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into
a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath
the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths.
The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a
dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager
as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side!
The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under
the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you
were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden.
And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue
as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool
tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused
as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like
tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending
that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void.
But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all
this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond
the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders –
than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond
against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size;
see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.
*Inspired by Nathan Leccese's Diamond in the Rough, contest. :)
II
And did his rash actions give this prince
Cause, in moments of troubling quietude,
To ruefully ponder on all which could not
Be rewound?
A lamentable lack of honourableness and
Uncemented fortitude
Which brought those crashing towers down;
An inevitability borne from the desperation
Of his passions...
So unlike her own desperate passions contained
Inside the hapless extremities of a single gaze.
Her obvious compliance; the tawdriness of this
Sordid contract enabling an old-fashioned
Demand for dutiful obedience...but still betrayed
By a resigned sort of hopelessness. The futility of a
Guilt; his schoolboy-pawing of the tensioned strap;
Your revulsion; his constant bolstering...the
Belittling with that inane, maddening, witless chat.
Her laugh is so melodious, a siren song, crashing ships and stealing hearts.
She's stolen my heart.
Yet you can't steal something that's already yours.
Her body is a mystery, one for the history books.
Her lips, so pink and kissable, taunt me like a schoolboy.
She is a goddess,
a true Aphrodite,
a creature of immense and unexplainable beauty.
Yet beautiful is an insult.
She is not beautiful.
She is a work of art, a true Picasso.
In her eyes, I see infinity.
I see stars.
I see the Devil himself.
What I do not see, is her.
She wears a mask.
She hides herself from others like a frightened puppy in a thunderstorm.
And yet, she could not be any more perfect.
Perfect.
You look up the word perfect in the dictionary, and you will see her face.
Perfect.
Perfect dark brown curls, curls darker than my soul.
Perfect.
Perfect smile, a smile so killer it deserves twenty-five to life in the local prison.
Perfect.
When I see her, I'm a deer caught in headlights.
I'm frozen, turned to ice, turned to stone.
Her beauty could stun Medusa.
When she smiles at me, I see Heaven.
I talk with God like he's an old friend.
And when she says my name, I melt like the wicked witch,
and fall deeper...and deeper...and deeper...
In poetry’s fond verse we save
All matters of the heart,
Our thoughts that may be sweet or grave,
With which we’d hate to part.
Our fears of what may come to pass,
Our sadness at what has,
The desperate state of pain's impasse,
A human Alcatraz.
The lessons that pain teaches us,
Road signs, in fact to joy,
Our God’s reforming animus,
Love’s armor for schoolboy.
Remembering that pain serves man,
Is always hard to do,
Puts limits on outrageous plan,
Helps vanity subdue.
Our owning of the father God,
The highest we can reach,
Releasing our own dreams slipshod
For what He has to teach.
Brian Johnston
December 18, 2014
Makama, Funom
a creative, precocious phenom
wrote the Canterbury Tales
whilst on a schoolboy vacation in Wales.
I used to pass an empty house
On my way home from school
I was only ten years old then
I heard that older people lived
There
But I never saw them.
Found old photos
Showed them to Dad
Where’d you get them he asked?
Found them in the old house I said
Then he and mother spoke
In the privacy of their bedroom
I saw the shadows of their arms
Move
And point toward my room
This was the 1950’s
Times were different
And some things
Were just never talked about.
When the old house was torn down
I went inside
To look
And to explore
Kicking an odd piece of dirt
The soft rotted wood moved
And something flipped up
Bones
Some as big as my leg.
But it was the damp smell of decay
That I remembered
Vividly
Even at that time
When anything new
Was always exciting
This was different
I had not experienced anything like this before
But I would years later
Ten years later
A decade to wait.
I was In Country
Two tours
Separated from my group
Never found
Missing in action
But really I’m dead
Been like this for years
All that’s left
Of me
Are bone fragments
Part of a femur
And a scratch of faded cloth
Scattered over a vast green landscape
At the edge of a jungle.
Occasionally I hear digging sounds
Not the heavy shovel kind
But a gentle probing
Of earth
Someone intent on finding something
But not wishing to disturb
They haven’t found me
Yet
So I still wait.
I never got used to the damp smell of decay
But just the same I take solace
In that smell
Because it reminds me of
Long ago
When I was just a schoolboy
Coming home.
My Spirit You
How you came to be here
I just don’t know
But now it feels like
You were always there
A stranger in the darkness
Waiting for the light of love to show
How you’ve always been there
Someone I have always known
Now you are like a blue girl
Dressed in summer clothes
Laughing in the sunshine
Playing on the swings of my heart
Rising to the heavens
And out beyond the stars
A picture of my freedom
Flowing in your flaming auburn hair
And I want to run, run right to you
But I can only stand and stare
At the beauty that surrounds you
Its recognition in my eyes
Has always been there
And I am a timid little schoolboy
Who’s bravery slowly grows
Captured by the sweetness of a southern rose
Surprise myself by kissing your cheek
And fumbling for the words
And all I can do is take your hand
In the middle of my life’s old playground
Placing on your head
A daisy chain crown
My Princess with her golden arrow
Cupid shot straight into my soul
Seems you’ve always been there
Playing on the strings
Breaking on my tears
For eternal loving
Lifting in my spirit you
And all I can do
Is love you
And all I can do is want you
From a distance
Like an inept teenager
Confronted and confounded by your loveliness
And can only think of what he would do to her
Given half the chance
His flushed blood leaving him immobile
And fidgeting alone in anguished prose
Of flashing eyes
And swelling curves
And the sound of her voice makes his head spin
And all I can do, is be the man I am
And tell you
How much I love you
And how this did not come to me
But grew inside me
A seed planted sometime and somewhen
That new its conclusion before it ever began
Seems you’ve always been there
Seems this place was made for you
Seems my heart always belonged to you
Seems I am irrevocably
Uncontrollably
Irresistibly
In love
With you
Morning glowed, Phillip.
A purple fire burned beacon bright
against the stinging stench of napalm.
A thick thistle - two feet from your head,
wordless in speech, watched
with dark misfortune
curving letters of prayer
above your bleeding valor.
A crumpled martyr lying there,
innocent as a schoolboy
amidst the blare of gunfire -
asleep in our country’s eyes
dormant in the arms of an adopted comrade.
I held you - lost brother - tucked inside my soul;
nineteen and breathless.
The tears inside my empty lungs
spilled so softly onto your forehead
as I knelt in the center of August’s cancerous garden;
staring at the mud stained badge
nestled peacefully above your silenced heart.
I slowly ingested and tasted your
bullet-ridden honor, as I was viscerally blinded
by the sickening, piercing strobes
of a delicate mourning's
glow.
He was only a puppy
A golden retriever
I would whistle and beckon
but he wouldn't leave her
For she was his owner
His only true friend
and he stayed with my sister
Right up to the end .
In her early twenties
She found that lump in her breast
In the fight for her life
She must now invest
I remember so well
The tears in our home
Dad bought her that dog
That she so wanted to own .
She must find the courage
To stand and to fight
Sandy made her smile
Much to my parents delight
Only a small boy
I wanted to play
In her moments of darkness
My sister pushed me away .
He was only a puppy
A golden retriever
I would whistle and beckon
but he wouldn't leave her
For she was his owner
His only true friend
and he stayed with my sister
Right up to the end .
I played schoolboy games
She fought like a tiger
I climbed little tree's
She was climbing the Eiger
Sandy was there
To help her recover
I know he understood
Much more than her little brother.
I remember the doctor
Claiming she was in remission
Now I played with Sandy
With my sisters permission
I took him for walks
Because I had energy to burn
but I knew something was wrong
When the doctor returned .
He was only a puppy
A golden retriever
I would whistle and beckon
but he wouldn't leave her
For she was his owner
His only true friend
and he stayed with my sister
Right up to the end .
Sad realisation
No more can be done
Tearful birthday
As she turned thirty one
When I close my eyes
I still see sandy's head on her knee
My sister finding the courage
To smile for me .
Bed in the living room
She can't climb the stair
When the lord called her name
Sandy was there
When I heard him whimper
I knew my sister had gone
Up until that very last moment
He had helped her stay strong .
He was only a puppy
A golden retriever
I would whistle and beckon
but he wouldn't leave her
For she was his owner
His only true friend
and he stayed with my sister
Right up to the end .
I used to pass an empty house
On my way home from school
I was only ten years old then
I heard that older people lived
There
But I never saw them.
Found old photos
Showed them to Dad
Where’d you get them he asked?
Found them in the old house I said
Then he and mother spoke
In the privacy of their bedroom
I saw the shadows of their arms
Move
And point toward my room
This was the 1950’s
Times were different
And some things
Were just never talked about.
When the old house was torn down
I went inside
To look
And to explore
Kicking an odd piece of dirt
The soft rotted wood moved
And something flipped up
Bones
Some as big as my leg.
But it was the damp smell of decay
That I remembered
Vividly
Even at that time
When anything new
Was always exciting
This was different
I had not experienced anything like this before
But I would years later
Ten years later
A decade to wait.
I was In Country
Two tours
Separated from my group
Never found
Missing in action
But really I’m dead
Been like this for years
All that’s left
Of me
Are bone fragments
Part of a femur
And a scratch of faded cloth
Scattered over a vast green landscape
At the edge of a jungle.
Occasionally I hear digging sounds
Not the heavy shovel kind
But a gentle probing
Of earth
Someone intent on finding something
But not wishing to disturb
They haven’t found me
Yet
So I still wait.
I never got used to the damp smell of decay
But just the same I take solace
In that smell
Because it reminds me of
Long ago
When I was just a schoolboy
Coming home.
This 90th birthday poem is for my Aunt Jean Bates – she was in fits of laughter when I recited it on the phone for her today. My Aunt and her brother (who is 99) both used to write poetry and many naughty limericks so I guess it is in my genes
A schoolboy whose surname is Bates
Got terribly teased by his mates
He is MISTER not Master –
(That would be a disaster)
His surname he now really hates!
True Story …
When I was on the phone my aunt told me of a coach trip she took with her husband and son – the tour leader was reading out the names of the passengers … Mr and Mrs Smith and Master Smith, Mr and Mrs Jones and Master Jones …. My aunt was mortified when they got to their surname and it was Mr and Mrs Bates and Master Bates – why couldn’t they call him Mister!
08-06-17
[Line one is an old schoolboy version of the first
Line of ‘While Shepherds’. I wrote the rest of verse
one based upon it, but was then astounded to
discover ‘my verse one’ word for word identical
online. As such, I must claim this poem as a
collaberation.]
While shepherds washed their socks by night
And hung them on the line
The Angel of the Lord came down
And said those socks are mine
Fear not he said though they be red
You washed them not with whites
Glad tidings of great joy I bring
They weren’t in with my tights
If you see David down this way
He’s bound to say this line
I’ll separate the colours, Lord
And things will turn out fine
O laundry maid did you not read
The instructions displayed
I must complain, look at this stain
Don’t think that you’ll be paid
My laundry sack produced forthwith
A purple, once-white thong
I also think that thong has shrunk
Can’t get the damned thing on
O God my thong it sure is high
How it hurt my cod-piece
Good grief I can’t wear it again
It slips right up my crease
The general election fast approach, reelin lies,
The political jellyfish elite, pretend to have spines,
For a short period, no vague indifference, the illusion of ties,
Not that bind, we’re all blind, alluded by schoolboy arguments and whines,
Their spin dominates the headlines, whilst
Natural disaster victims rot amongst the flies,
Why is false economic promise more important than human lives?
These luciferian suits are nothing they try to contrive,
but a vacant lot, a vehicle for evil, running with knives,
so when they declare we all slaves or another war, who’ll be surprised?
The election, intelligence suspended in animation,
succumbed to their eventual procrastination,
their balls out nature beggars belief and captures our imagination,
thinking these toads can change our lives for the better?
They're just a criminal organisation!
Vote UKIP.
Long lines of vapour split blue skies asunder
Fly vengeful raptors, one thousand in number
Headlong they go, to brave death or glory
Stratosphere flight, part of war's brutal story
Last year a schoolboy but this year an ace
Did I see the twitch of fear on his face?
Fly like a God, so untouchably high
The monster of war, clawing youth from the sky
A thin shaky finger feels the button of death
A payload of sorrow leaves his care in a breath
A rain of destruction whistling down out of tune
As it plummets to earth snuffing life out too soon
Mortality strikes with a roar just as thunder
A maelstrom of steel slices metal from under
His world now in turmoil, at the end of a gun
Now a casualty, a victim, the fall of a son.
My brother David met William Geris
A former head of state of Utopia
Having dinner in the city of Paris
They talked about big things
David had plans to run for the state Judiciary
So he discussed it with William Geris, He said
Go ahead David, for me that will be beneficiary
Play the music and let them dance to your tune
Get to the poor folks and promise them heaven on earth
Woo them with sweet words of a better tomorrow
Breaking the cycle of poverty and a prosperity rebirth
Promise them free education and free health care
You need to go to all the churches
Promise them every valley will be filled and every mountain made plain
You need to be charismatic to show you are ready for service
And don’t forget to say your long prayers
You need to hang out with the drug smuggling gangs
To really show you are one of them
Tell them to give you the chance to emancipate them from death pangs
And know well, they love to break laws and ransack state properties
You need to link up with Organization for Youth Ablaze (OYA)
“A Change you can see! A Change you can believe in!!”
Now that is what I call the ‘advertising phase’
Promise them of gargantuan jobs and scholarships
You also need to hung out with the financial gurus
A kind of ’Dating’ before Marriage
Sound it aloud, they are the ones with the clues
Cars-Yes! Gargantuan contracts-Yes! Meetings at some posh hotels-Yes!
Pull the wool over their eyes, indicting songs of hope and peace
But when you lose the election insists on a recount
A diversionary tactics of getting the opposition votes cease
“I’ll slap you so hard that your teeth will come off”
Mr. Geris is this what is on the ground, you call politics?
It looks like I will be a schoolboy fantasy and a sketch cartoon
David, my son most politicians have with them a bag of Poly-ticks
I call it the absurdity of the absurd Poly-tricks