Best Untoward Poems
The sun was setting, as it usually does
The town a ghost town, the main street all but silenced
The wind blowing leaves and dreams to and fro
The tension in the air was palpable
The few souls about all peering out shuttered windows
When in from the west, came a storm
Her name was Serena Storm,
They shivered in her wake, the poetess of dead lovers
Then over to the east side, riding in slow and steady
The grim reaper or so it seemed, hollowed eyes
Dead soul and dark mind, his side arm at the ready
The greatest duel in history, right here
In the town of Nowhere
The setting sun reflected of her dark long coat
The last tear drop, falling to its death in the dust
She stared ahead, face blank
Daring, with a glare, shoot me, shoot me, try
He dismounted his horse, called Heartless Soul
His eyes slits, staring down the curvaceous storm pacing untoward
His hand inside his coat, slowly pulling out a mickey
He belted down a shot or three,
In the town of nowhere
They both paced, hands at their side
Closer and closer, the saloon keeper
Not quite sure his bottle would be paid in full
Then as quickly at the sun set……
Vaso drew first.
The finest long black quill one ever saw
His other hand dropped his bottle
Magically a writing pad appeared
Serena drew second, pen at her side
The color of blood, and for good reason
She too tablet in hand, putting ink to paper
As they both furiously wrote
In the town of Nowhere
Hearts were murdered
The meaning of life was hanged not long after
Love was beheaded
The main street a river of blood
A storm of tears washing away crimson desires
An empty vassal, Vaso’s insides already dead
Dropping his pen, he pulled out his sword of mourning
The duel to end, as he lopped off his own head
She dropped paper and pen to the ground
She faced down the grim reaper, and it’s he who is dead
The only one to know, his name was Arthur
King of the dark, ruler of lost dreams
In the town of Nowhere
The poetic duel of the century
Both won and lost
Long ago
To find that place where wanton needs abide
where you enclose the secrets of your mind
Unchartered realms where fantasies reside
I'll travel deep these treasured truths to find
I'll~go~the~distance~
I'll go where none has left a single trace
for you have not allowed an entrance there
yet every hindrance I will bravely face
until I lie your soul before me...bare
I'll~~go~~the~~distance~~
The crevice of your heart I will explore
I'll go much deeper than you realize
No matter what I find, I'll still adore
the man who brings me heaven in his eyes
I’ll~~~go~~~the~~~distance~~~
I’ll mine illicit gems you have suppressed
for fear that some might find them untoward
Each one I’ll bring to light, fully expressed
I’ll watch as you delight in my reward
I’ll~~~~go~~~~the~~~~distance~~~~
I’ll go the distance, for you are to me
The impetus that makes this heart to beat
I’ll go the distance, and I’ll set you free
You’ll find yourself in me and be complete
I’ll~~~~~go~~~~~ the~~~~~distance~~~~~
Eileen Manassian
In times like this it’s pertinent to stroke the longest cord
for hummer is impertinent and seldom brings discord.
Each slippery politician who runs yelling, “Come on Board!”
is asking for some hummer from constituents lapboards.
He wants them on their knees paying, for taxing fills his hoard
Just a little hummer raises bundles and gets Johnny Boys accord.
And, if you think it just ain’t right to make a joke of Nancy*
then let me tell you baby, your hummers just not fancy!
Hell, you have to laugh at what they say, and their fancy stroking
for if you took them seriously, even Heimlich would be choking!
So, just remember next time your party yells "Come on Board!"
that if you do, you must expect the meaning is untoward.
*Nancy / Nancy boy - It is the opposite of being hard.
In cold weather a nancy boy would dress up in a coat,
hat, gloves and scarf and a hard guy would wear a t-shirt.
*hummer a slang word for a type of sex
** humour/hummer it's a play on words
He Loves Her? He Loves Her Not? – An Echo Poem
By Darren White and Brian Johnston
Darren White’s Original Poem – WHAT LOVE LOOKS LIKE
PoetrySoup.com - Reprinted with permission
“If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.”
- Rumi
***
Darren:
I lift my face to you, my anyone
my only one, my love,
And see your question
unspoken but screamed
all over you
This is what love looks like
What it looks like with
only that one person
I see you read you
every line of you
words without any
meaning full of meaning
I read you I see your face
I taste the sun and the moon
and all the stars in all the
fireworks.
Darren White
***
Brian Johnston’s Echo - I Do Not Doubt That Love Is Real
PoetrySoup.com and PoemHunter.com
I do not doubt that love is real,
Just shy to offer up myself
As shining gem that you might steal
Or place in glass case on a shelf,
Holding to the selfish view
That somehow I am just for you.
I know I cannot love like that
There is not ONE that I desire
My temperament is more like cat,
But, looking still, I don’t conspire
To say that I cannot be yours…
Just “Love” is not that which secures.
I doubt that Rumi showed his face,
To only one and kept this vow,
For “sexual wanting” has no place,
No love it may not disavow
“Like this” is just a moment’s urge
And untoward thoughts may quickly purge.
In love though lives a higher plane,
Where jealousy is just fool’s gold
And even dolts like me can gain
By seeing it is just blindfold!
Integrity’s your only friend,
It might just save you in the end.
For sun and moon and stars all fade,
Like vows that promise you’re the one,
Like promises made in the shade,
The truth will out though your heart’s won,
So chose a mate beloved by folk,
Don’t let your future be a joke.
***
Brian Johnston
April 9, 2017
God grant, you always call me friend,
If heaven's real, this truth descend
Like dove returns to Noah's ark,
A fire gets lit by kindred spark!
All life then flows by gravity,
To merge with love eternally.
In blooming may our lives preserve
God's will indeed, not lose our nerve,
Surrender hope to enmity,
Our love survive (though both are free!)
Life's meaning found in serving Lord,
All other paths revealed untoward.
I share your yoke, and you share mine!
Your dreams? Forever Valentine,
A gift that I hold to my breast
Where in my heart you're 'treasured' guest.
Oh, count the stars that paint night's sky
And feel love's depth, there's no goodbye!
Long Tooth
June 2, 2018
Dedicated to Hammad Khan on his Birthday!
(My publisher, mentor, and friend)
June 2, 2018
Meeting begins, each puts best foot forward,
in as outer appearances do go,
behind banter lurk motives untoward,
sweet words incongruent with intent low,
just waiting to land a deadly death blow.
Weary of blood and gore, been here before,
we sift subterfuge and get to the core,
our call being, it’s not winner take all,
both sides must rejoice, seeking an encore,
in righteousness thus, players standing tall.
11-April-2022
I never knew you, says the Lord:
a verse that seems so untoward.
For did they not the demons pry,
and in His name, too, prophesy?
They did not shrink, forsake, or shirk
from doing many mighty works.
There’s power there for all to see,
and yet He says, Away from me!
But surely these in fact fulfill
“The one who does my Father’s will”?
To do is more than mere ascent;
Believe in the One whom He sent.
For you all do the things you do,
neglecting what He did for you.
Works-based, lawless, vast miles apart
from changed, repentant, grateful hearts.
from Matthew 7:21-23
If we be spirit and this form a vessel,
affirming that we are boundless like vast space,
thus resting thought flow, in our heart we nestle
with pulsations of love, inpouring by grace.
A rebel, a nerd, we follow not the herd,
choosing to rest ego cravings untoward,
knowing that if God is, He must be within
the cave of our heart, so we go in therein.
The sun was high, the wall was warm, its orange hue'd bricks looked a treat..'
Soon basking there without a care, was Humpty; disposition 'sweet'...!
He didn't sense the untoward....) Yet treachery was afoot
In a silent bound without a sound; the dasterd deed took place,
And all our poets cried, aloud ' who did us such dis-grace?
There were many of the 'souper band' who gathered his shattered shell,
His golden yolk they sadly interred, as heart's did heave and swell..!
Who could the perpetrators be? are the thoughts going around,
Now he lies deep within our portals and thoughts; yet nevermore to rise..'
The days now more drear; to me appear, since this characters demise.
He came from the land of fairy-tales, where fables disport & play
Trusting no harm could befall him here, where talent holds the sway,
Yet some there were, who did him down; who mayhap he'd thought of as friends.?
Now we bid him our true goodbyes, trying not to consider the worst
We should be aware, what happened when from the shadows his killers burst.!
From the very moment my Mom taught me how to use a spoon,
From her mouth was uttered that old familiar tune:
"The kids in Asia are starving, now Bobby, clean your plate!"
Her admonition was final and left no tolerance for debate!
I tried to foist upon the hapless dog a helping of bony fish.
Even he would gag trying to swallow that vapid dish!
I'd toy with them and try to hide the tasteless peas.
I could barely abide them, even in bites of twos and threes!
Even tho' Mom concealed them with cheese, I had my doubts,
About a malodorous little veggie called Brussels sprouts!
I'd surreptitiously sneak them on to the plate of little brother,
Thereby, avoiding the reproof to clean my plate by my Mother!
There was the delicate matter of dealing with broccoli and beets,
Okra, spinach, turnips, hominy and other such disgusting eats.
In my feckless youth I thought such fare rather untoward,
But soon learned that to survive, you ate what was on the board!
When side-stepping along the chow line in the military service,
They often slopped mysterious stuff on my tray, making me nervous.
When I joined the service, I hoped never again to hear Mom's old cliche,
But, even those mean old sergeants screamed, "Private! Clean your tray!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for No. 1 in PD's "Any Random Poem" Contest - July 2011
An Echo Poem by Lora Colon and Brian Johnston
Pieces Of Yesterday
I found pieces of yesterday
I kept hidden in a special place,
Little things I wanted to remember,
But things I now find hard to face
Memories of a special love.....
Just one man who filled my life with awe,
Withered flowers, in full bloom yesterday,
A bouquet from which I still draw
Just the two of us sharing dreams,
He promised me a new tomorrow,
He bears no blame for what was delivered.....
A new day filled with old sorrow
Missing pieces of yesterday,
Leaving the story so incomplete,
A man and a woman, looking for love,
Interrupted by fate's deceit
Damn the fate that tore us apart,
Cursed fiend, deserving retribution,
In the complexities of my fury
I thought I found a solution....
I sent my memories back to fate,
It took all else.... why leave misery?
But late last night, the lot returned, unclaimed....
It read 'Refused Delivery'
Lora Colon
------------------------------------------------
The Best-Laid Schemes O' Mice And Men...
Those pieces of yesterday covered with slime
Are part of the future too, love that's sublime,
For those withered flowers on which you still draw,
Are seeds for tomorrow, not stones in Death's maw.
All dreams are potential, not cast in cement,
Christ's Death not the victor though God's veil was rent,
The tomb that was empty, the thorns of Christ's crown,
No wise man could fathom, or God's wisdom drown.
Despair of man's promises but if you're wise,
Still look to the future with hope in your eyes,
The story that you've judged is not worth the tell
Might still have denouement that fate cannot quell!
The future you salvage by cursing your fate
Is your plan, not God's, which you might contemplate,
Christ's pain on the cross though defeat in your mind
Ensuring your future, a Love more than kind!
The stone which man's wisdom rejected becomes,
The bearer of our life's most favored outcomes,
And pain which most men still consider untoward,
In retrospect key to our final reward.
Brian Johnston
Poet's Notes:
This poem was written in response to a poem written by my poet friend Lora Colon. Please check out her site on PoemHunter.com for many more outstanding poems.
Angrily, rain enfolds the insular rise of lawn undulating.
Anglers dream, envious fishermen, inside looking out urging
apostles, who elope within imaginary onslaughts, hooked unburdening's.
Aloft, thunder encounters lightening's insistent taunt, oracles fearsome uttering's.
And still, each fisherman's innermost summoning orchestrates this untoward
atmospheric downfall, each drop induced, prayerful, outpouring is underscored.
Admittedly many envious housebound inmates seek oceans, lakes, unexplored
although, the earthly torrent interferes pitiless, onerous, rainfall unleashed.
Absent the energizing rays introduced by ordinary sun, undone
are these enigmatic men in rooms, oar less, ship-less, landlubbers unconsoled.
Another day encases them indoors mooning over fish uncontrolled.
A trophy earned, stuffed, indisputably shows offerings untold.
Ah, fishtails energetically rise incensed by objections never unabridged
absent their earnest wives, imagination rolls on winds un-curtailed.
I am Africa
I.
Distant
And lonely
I am
The barren land
Of untoward change,
The empty womb,
The amputated hands,
I am
The Maker of new worlds
I am
Africa.
I am
The broken voice
Of the tall woman who undid
The family knot
Set my caged birds free
And set traps to owls and falcons
I am
The step to freedom
I am Africa.
I am
Gorée
Dahomey
Porto-Novo
Bimbia
And the boat
That sailed to the New Land.
I am
The aftermath of revolutions,
Theories and tempests.
I am
The dark forest no longer at ease
The things fall apart
Hopes and impediments
Leurres et lueurs.
I am not
The other world of the Heart
Of darkness nor the wrath in
Return to my native land
I am
Neither Aids nor Ebola.
What then am I?
Or what else am I?
Douala, January 1st, 2014
Therewithal, profluent life ettles it's while.
Thitherward, from Death's bleak campanile
Grim antiphonals serenade.
A capriccio, the slashing swipe of the reaper's scythe
will serenade.
Stringent Death forthwith anoints the mithridate to
Life's cantankerous and rankling ado
Hither now come, anon recondite Azrael, neither protend
nor annex this throttled contretemps.
The antiphonal of the reaper's cavalier scythe
Shall now serenade.
Awhirl, like kerfs demarcated
Years, bollixed, muzzy and brattled
shall holus-bolus expire.
No retaliation to death's gloomy surcease
No ingenious riposte to the reaper's final cleave.
Bootless now to don the amulets,
squeeze the jujus,
Kiss the talismans,
clutch the periapts or
Attire in steely cataphract.
The serenading of the reaper's scythe,
it's efficacy shall blithely cleave.
Bedim mine eyes from life's assailing
Bedim mine eyes from life's poltroonery
Vocabulary: barghest-a goblin fabled to portend misfortune; monody-funeral song;
antiphonal-chant; protend-to protract in time/lengthen; riposte-n. in fencing, a quick
return/thrust; brattle-v.-to make rattling or clattering noises;
cavalier-supercillious/disdainful/haughty; muzzy-hazy; attaint-v. to condemn; rankle-to
give pain/nettle/gnaw; contretemps-untoward accident/hitch; throttle-v.to
choke/suffocate/strangle/stiffle; bollix-v.-to bungle or botch; holus-bolus-adv.-all at
once/altoghter; mithridate-antidote against poison; cataphract-suit of armor for the
whole body; poltroonery-n. cowardice; a capriccio-musical piece characterized by
improvisation; ettle-to intend/to prepare; campanile-free standing bell tower; kerf-a
groove or notch
Azrael-the angel that helps souls from living to enter the afterlife; recondite-not
easily understood/abstruce;
periapt-a charm worn to ward of evil; juju-object believed to contain magical powers;
contretemps-disruptive unforeseen event; protend-to hold out or stretch forth
Ah yes, do you remember
The reasons for the American revolution?
Wasn’t one because of religious persecution?
How about morals before their convolution?
When presidents upheld the constitution?
When the amendments
weren’t pretendments ?
And the system of checks and balances soared?
When hating evil was not untoward?
Little babies were welcomed and adored?
Instead of being killed and abhorred?
Ah yes can you remember a True loving God?
Before liberal factions buried Him under sod?
When living wasn’t all in an Ipod?
Children spoiled by sparing the rod?
What life was before this slippery slope?
when doors were unlocked and life held hope?
Will it ever be that way again?
If without God,…. then …When?