Best Southland Poems
Irish accents quake my female southland.
Males 'neath Newsboy Caps stimulate dreamland.
Irish yearns may want touch,
Did not seek to feel such.
Ireland trips could stimulate mate's backhand.
In a house by a highway by a railroad
Eyes open to a self-set sleep-destroying buzzer
That waking mind impudently pretends
To ignore.
Penetrating the window barrier
The air conducts a heavy diesel lullaby.
Over wealthier suburbs slips a transport,
Supersonic, though no sweeter music,
For rich and poor alike a boon to sleep;
Heard only by more wicked insomniacs
For whom the watch's competent hum is a dirge.
Descending in a shower of metallic disintegration
Three men ignite the atmospheric blindfold, survive,
Do not plunge white-hot into the sea, a common meteor,
But drift coolly down on nylon wings
To the waiting Carrier of the 300 lb. Angelfood.
The mind shrinks
From the prospect of that confrontation,
From the phallic disruption of Christian paradise,
Then cries,
'Oh, let there be nothing on earth but leavings,
Nothing but star-ships on a photon sea…'
Now begins man's search for a Southland.
Yet, as light passes venetian blinds,
Like music through classical guitar strings,
Touching the softened form of familiar Love,
The rods of the eye wander adagio
Along the bars of a century-old sight before rising,
'Dethrone the convict from electric eclipse,
Redress the squalid in disposable, dust-free clothing,
Release the lovers to their denouement…'
The earth womb trembles in the last pains
Of the dark hour,
Heralding man's difficult birth.
We would like to
eat steaks in Alaska
or fry battered mushrooms,
but the there is money
to be made
in the Southland.
The irises bloom here thickly,
and roses bleed,
while tinkering hands
use up the day.
fall’s foliage wingless
man too longs for a southland -
future mist defined
Brian Johnston
December 19, 2015
So many lives lost, so many hearts shattered
Across the Deep South, twisters shook all that mattered
All over our nation, heads are bowed to mourn
A show of support for the weather’s war torn
The storms that have ravaged have changed us forever
The toll on our lives will not leave us ever
But from these dark hours and moments of pain
The strength of the South will shine through the rain
Tornadoes can rage, but can’t tarnish the heart
Their winds cannot tear the South’s spirit apart
For centuries’ past, our lives have trudged ahead
Through memories, we grow; yet, remember our dead
The South is resilient; her people are strong
From this time of hardship, our lives will go on
For hope is a compass that leads us to light
And faith is our sword by which futures are bright
The South’s twister outbreak left many lives broken
The toll of the damage and anguish unspoken
Our thoughts and our prayers openly extend
To the heart of the Southland, now turned on its end
Our thoughts are to show that we are standing by
Our prayers are the shoulders on which you may cry
Our tears cleanse the world through empathy we feel
May our show of support be your solace to heal
©2011- Jill Eisnaugle’s Poetry Collection
A melancholy fills my soul,
When Lady Northwind wails.
She lifts the waves and churns the foam,
As she fills the schooner's sails
While the clouds of winter gather
Across the lowering sky,
I feel a storm of loneliness,
As I watch the snow geese fly,
Their spring flight, now a memory
On this cold, October day,
On tireless, snowy wings they're bound
To my southland, far away.
I journeyed to this frozen land,
In my search for a richer life.
I left behind, my childhood home,
My friends, children, and my wife.
I wish I were on that schooner,
Sailing south across the sea,
But I'm stuck here on this island--
Prison bars won't set me free.
Form:
Well, I woke up this morning
Put my blue jeans on
Drank my morning coffee
Answered the telephone
Had another assignment
Another body had to die
No need to ask what for
It was my trades I go by
My skills are all they wanted
The pay was plenty enough
Just eliminate the problem
Play nice or play rough
My excitement gathered round me
My nerves calmed at last
Got into my vette
Cause that sucker was real fast
Rat’s I cried aloud
The battery was dead
I ranted and I raved
And then I scratched my head
The Volvo had to do
I was running out of time
No problem that I stole it
Just cause it wasn’t mine
The highway I left behind
The morning was almost gone
Then I heard the ring
Of my pink and yellow cell phone
Hello was my only word
Changed plans was all he said
That lucky so and so
Should really be glad
The police stopped and cuffed me
A stolen car I had
They took away my weapons
That was my bad
Serving time in the can
Gonna get out one day
Better find another line of work
Is what the fellows say
Free at last from this prison
I shook the filth off my skin
Headed for the southland
Gotta find me some kin
Well, I woke up this morning
Put my old blue jeans on
Drank my morning java
Answered the telephone
Had another assignment
Another body had to die
No need to ask what for
It was my trades I go by
Love this life I’m living
And the pay that’s flowing in
Yep I’m right back where I started
When I was sent to the pen
Form:
Oh, what a year this past year has been'
I hope we don't see one like it again.
First a tsunami in the Far East;
Thousands killed-to say the least.
Mudslides and earthquakes in diverse places,
We found out how fragile the human race is.
Next came the hurricane season,
When our own southland was battered beyond reason.
More hurricanes than ever recorded this year,
Filling multitudes with terror and fear'
Katrina and Rita destroyed the most.
Why, there's still much destruction along the Gulf coast.
American refugees dispersed 'cross this great land.
Adequate relief help had not been planned.
But our people responded and the help finally arrived,
'Though many were rescued more dead than alive.
Lost cities, businesses, families and homes,
The impact will be felt for years to come.
Flooding even occurred in our tiny state-
Roads and bridges destroyed, and fields became lakes.
This whole earth is crying out for redemption,
But multitudes still are not paying attention.
Yet none of this caught God unaware,
Even though many folks thinks He doesn't care.
Now a new year looms before us,
And God's still on our side- yes, He is for us'
Someday soon we'll hear a trumpet blast,
And we'll be free of trouble at last.
In God's perfect timing, all will be fixed.
Perhaps this will happen in two-thousand-and six'
Happy New Year"
Arthur Ball(H.S.L.P.)
January 1. 2006
Jesse rode with Quantrill as did his brother Frank
They were soldiers of the southland before they robbed a bank
Quantrill was a hero to the southern rebels when
He sort of lost control of his senses and his men
His troop was made of hotheads who completely ran amuck
And anyone who crossed them were simply out of luck
They terrorized the boundaries collecting their supplies
Unmindful of the damage, death and neighbor cries
Were they ever here in St. Joe, the rumors say they were
But that’s not been documented and old memories were a blur
There was a barn just south of Bartlett we heard about when young
That really peaked imaginations – kept old Quantrill on our tongue
Did Frank and Jesse go there, did they hide what they had taken
To supply our rebel bushwhackers or were we all mistaken
You know it really doesn’t matter if it was or if it wasn’t
It’s in the mind of dreamers and that my friend just does it
Metronome heart beats in 4/4 time while mandolin chimes in staccato voice. In the background, guitar hums and banjo sings. Bluegrass echoes across southern winds; blues and mountain music force a dance from tranquil feet; it’s a concert fit for country royalty, at the Opry. The East coast clogs and smiles.
On the rolling winds,
Echo strains of the southland;
Gaia’s toe tapping.
The fall birds sing a sweet refrain,
The melodies from my youth
Surge forth to bind me to the land.
The darkened trail by the pasture vale
Comes into view as the leaves pass through
On their mystery tour to incase the dew.
The small fish pond in the foggy air
Is silent and still, no waves to dispel
The smell embraced in honeysuckle lace
Rises entwined with memories fair.
The pine trees grow tall and slender
And let their needles caress
The ground dusty and dry.
The sun slowly rises with few surprises.
I'll plow my acres today
And thank The God Who gave them to me.
All my mortgage years
This featherless gosling flightless
Kept chickens for peers
Suffering gravity's wretched pain
While dreaming of the southland
Coded in my bones
Like a chicken I circled
The pond of tears, while the lake
Brimmed with spectacled
Difference of salt ambition
O how the memory hibiscus
Withering seared my heart!
I did not know I did not have to pay
For home if I let it go again
To the bankers that count day's
In piles of cents, I shed
The modern chain and fled the shed
Of tumbling debt to joy.
I shed her savage memory
That held like a cyclops
Gripped my fledgling history
And all the goats there
Were too starved to carry whom I am
Protege of the risen lamb
It was after Mom’s dad passed her mom bought canaries.
Grams felt life less lonely, I think, with their singing,
and gave her idea that flying the coop to
live close to my mom could be Southland for grey birds!
Gram’s love’s stroke unexpected (he died in mid-sixties);
Today seems quite young to be housewife left winging
her way to new home. Kids in Woodward? (1) Gold grew two,
Mom’s brood and her brother’s brood, fledglings warmed innards!
My folks built a new home for her, right back of our house,
and yard had a garden with no trees to shade it,
sweet melons that bled, and tomatoes (stretched softballs).
And gold too were biscuits Grams baked for our dinners!
Plains folk quail at Thanksgiving and rarely enjoy grouse
or grousers that much, though their plates boast a surfeit
they’ve worked for, don’t shoot birds that run or trust windfalls!
It’s folks who will stay and work late plains call winners.
There’s collusion these days, watch Herr Trump stroke the Russians,
see Trump not pay taxes, pay off whores he’s ducking,
and huge corporations (for raping the planet)
will cede Trump free rein! “Guys, just keep me in power!”
But the caged birds of COVID now color discussions!
They die with our parents, our children! Hear sucking?
That’s Trump at his best as he deep throats a bare hit!
Please pardon! Methinks the whole world needs a shower!
Brian Johnston
July 8th in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
(1)Woodward, OK, was a small town in Northwestern Oklahoma
that I had the great good fortune to grow up in and escape alive.
Several of my close friends from there were not as fortunate, and
suffered more damage! No blacks were allowed to live in city limits
on either side of the track! There was a “shoeshine boy,” but he
had to leave town before sunset and lived in the country. Even in
college at the University of Oklahoma in Norman, fraternities
were whites-only. Approved off-campus housing was allowed to
discriminate against blacks. My landlady (in my 4th year) told me
that a ‘black skin’ was the mark of Cain! I still weep for our nation!