Best Young Blood Poems
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Hey!! wake up!!
you don't wanna miss this!!
The soft voice that woke him,
he didn't know.
Opening his eyes
and seeing two grim faces.
Along with one that was
angry and beautiful.
And the startling fact
the last thing he heard
was the hammer
being pulled back.
Click Click Click
None of them
were family or kin,
never mind the question
of how they got in.
Waking up to cold steel
touching his skin.
But wait!
...
This is not where the story begins.
A young no talent Rapper,
pimp wanna be,
just turning twenty-three.
Running the streets
trying to be somebody.
Not a member of a gang
speaking nothing but slang.
using every four-letter word
except B-E-L-T.
That he needs to hold up
the jeans hanging off his behind.
Thinking he's fine and in fashion
and always looking for some action.
Got the hook up
and now carrying
a black 38 Smith & Wesson.
The young blood is in need
of a good lesson.
Saw a beautiful young lady
and not wanting to miss a chance
for a little romance.
He showed the lady
the caliber of his conversation.
Of course, she was not impressed.
But ask for his phone number.
Saying playfully,
you'll be hearing from me.
And well you know the rest.
Hey!! Wake up!!
You don't wanna miss this!!
Click Click Click
I slash with my sword and I push with my shoulder. Every muscle and every tendon is screaming in agony. I can feel every pressure when my blade makes contact. I’m grunting with passion as I push every extremity to the very breaking point. I let my mind wonder to the past, where my family was butchered and mutilated when I was 10 years old. I lost everything I loved and anything that mattered to me, but my passion. Revenge echoes in my mind over and over, like the rumbling of thunder in the summer storms when they pass. Revenge against those who could do the things I’ve seen, beasts that slaughtered my whole family. I have spent years here, learning the warrior’s way, feeling the grunge and toils from everyday training.
My sword is now a part of my body, so swift and true. I can draw it sharply and silent to bring it up my enemy. I spin my body and crouch down low, dodging my enemy and thrusting my sword into his chest. My body has become one single weapon for me to use. My mind is sharp and ready for the challenges of all those who oppose me. I will fight for honor and what is right and damnation to those who are evil and selfish. In the distance a voice echoes in my ears, “Piiid!” “Pid!” This sound grows louder as I strain my muscles and sharpen my skills. “PIIIDDD!!!” “HAULT!” and then I realize that master Baracus has been calling me. Turning around, I see Baracus standing there with a puzzled look on his face. He is a tall elder man with a chiseled chin and scars across both cheeks. His skin tone is deep red from the Sun’s scorching heat of the day. His balding head has traces of white hair around each side and the tunic of a trainer is all black with gold trim. His deep blue eyes gaze upon me in frustration, “You must focus on all things around you Pid, you will leave yourself open to attack without it”.
Baracus turns to walk towards the shelter as he mumbles various curses at me. “You young bucks have no attention and focus” as he slowly walks to sit down. “I was focused on my training you old goat” I persist. As we both sit down, he makes his brittle response, “Damn young blood makes poor fertilizer for our fields” as we both bellow with laughter. He is my mentor and trainer, but most of all he took me in and called me his son. He has trained me in the way of the warrior and what it means to be honorable and noble.
…Cambodia, Rwanda, Syria…
Wars never cease
on the earth. Peace is pulverized.
Each battle drags children into a
vortex of anguish
in the front line or at home. They
lose their butterflies among bombs
and bullets.
Pure rapture curls like mango peel
in tension. Tender lives tarnish.
Lullabies are
lost in the death rattle. Scattered
young blood stains history. The
voice from beneath
the headstone is not an auditory
hallucination, but a doleful echo
from a little soul.
The orphans get food in the refugee
camp, but where will they seek their
lost mom and dad?
Childhood charms are mutilated.
They’re prisoners of trauma. A
platoon of terror marches
through their mental corridors.
First published in "The Humans in the Wild" anthology by Swallow Publishing, US.
To the forgotten soul that have ever lived
For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived
For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed
Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved
Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved
Their cowardice disregarded but courage believed
Their fears covered by their bravery revealed
Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed
With their bodies torn, one nation they weaved
One anthem they sing for lives they screamed
In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed
As our last line of defense, this is how they lead
Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand
In the war-torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery
As every mournful tear, they wept is not a locked mystery
‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory
This simple gesture is a constant ministry
That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale
The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail
To cover the brave
As they salute, march and wave
Not knowing so sorrow they will cave
With their blood, they will pave
And our salvation they'll save
Now on our hearts, they'll engrave
“WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE”
Now we say:
“LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”
Their destiny, or whatever was left of it,
Was shown to them in black and white print.
Their property and earnings were neatly split
"You kids can't wait till we are dead, now isn't it?"
The old man's words were laughed off by them, although they were not a jest,
The words carried utter disappointment, and a dash of regret.
They would be carted off to a shelter for the old and weakened,
Live in separate wings and meet each other every second weekend.
As the kids and lawyers reeled off on how it was a wonderful opening,
They asked for some time to reflect on the dealing.
As the young blood left for their plush homes,
The lady scribbled something on a note.
The sunset silhouette of the couple showed them kneeling,
Thanking Almighty, even after everything.
Next, when the neighbors found the old couple sleeping forever,
They saw seven words on the suicide letter.
With a will stapled to give everything to charity,
It said," We chose our own dregs of destiny."
the darkest hour in the pale bubble of the moon
cool midnight, lonely solvent for tomorrow
raking stars like marbled glitter
shade and shadow merge as one
all asleep, earth and hearth
my heart beats deep in mantle's drum
nightbirds chased by whispered death
silent fled and silent gone
slumbered in diurnal rhythm
a house squats dim, creaks and hums
filled with soothing dreams, soft murmurs
but it's our nightmares make us run
die a little in morning's light
dying to let born generations come
curse on one ignored in time's passing
my longing grown to repair the night
as smolt fed on sire's flesh, frenzied for pacific salt
young blood beat hot against the parent's net
tho' soft and green as summer's grass
windblown swayed with soft rain sounds
lit blazing fire-lance, bursting hearts
flared out into constellation's realm
cupped by fair Tethys, far above a dreamer's sight
and spent fathers rest below, weary now in mortal hands
wish I could open people's Hearts
And see what is inside
wish I could open people's brains
And see what is inside
wish I could know people
Understand people
I wish I could.
Government guns in robbery scenes
Shepherds prey on sheep
Priests preaching prosperity
Lord come down
For it will never be worse
Than it is.
Young blood in drugs
Leaders the thugs
slums and bugs
Only the haves with tags
The system it is
wish I could change all this
I wish.
Mirabella had a big garden of pretty Azaleas
and towards moon she started a tap dance,
showing her ballerina dress made by Chris;
young boys came around and stole a glance!
What was the secret that made
her so glamorous and famous?
What did Mirabella have to deserve
admiration and hundreds of claps?
Follow me and I'll tell you a great story,
her incredible beauty charmed tall
and handsome Harry instantly;
they met on the breezy Amalfi Bay;
he wasn't very young, a friendly guy
with a head full of aging grey...
and he came from Montreal!
No woman was lovelier than Mirabella when she was laughing;
it must been the Neapolitan sunshine on her sun-tanned cheeks,
it must have been the mandolin's hard trap beats
that raised her young blood as she began singing!
And Harry couldn't help smiling and throwing another flower,
she became the undying flame of a true soldier's heart;
and that flame burned until the war was finally over:
would he forget her and let their feelings turn into dust?
He took one step forward and whispered with the firmest voice,
" I've made a promise more truthful than I've made to any girl,
wait for me and don't count days, or nights, not even once:
have faith in me: because tomorrow is a wish I can fulfill! "
And Mirabella remembers her sweetheart who's too far away
and cries by the dull garden of withered flowers looking over
the foaming sea where dreams are created; do they soar faster
than the boldest eagles, or do they end in misery before midday?
Through all my changes I was a dreamer
and lived a trepidation and a ruse,
but when she lay bare and I between her
I lived the dream in my puberty blues.
In a rush of young blood in curves and curls
between the sweaty bales of Percy’s barn,
where tales of turgid boys and bare-arsed girls
spread like the clap village rumour and yarn!
With a skinful of beer hard to conceal
I became a caricature of me,
and when you live a lie faking it real
nothing sobers you like reality.
Thus I in my DTs and detox lay
sorely truly fu-cked on my bed of hay.
Written: April 2000
Of cotton candy and candy apple’s crunch
I remember the circus tent and dusk
The smells of donkeys and elephant dung
And heady smells of smoke that hung
In the air almost suspended
Up in the air trapezists flew
Catch and grab as we sat with gasp
Trumpets blared and clowns blew hooters
At the man that was shot from a cannon
The man with the red jacket boomed and joked
As bored fathers sat and smoked
Our eyes were wide with wonder
At the horses run and elephant’s thunder
The thrill and glee of young blood pumping
Through our young veins as dogs were jumping
And the smells and tastes and colours merged
Into memories and dreams and golden moments
As we sit and reminisce, wondering why the past was bliss
Whilst the now was dry and dusty, crusty with rigid thoughts
What we lost was more than the circus
What we lost was our sense of wonder
As the age trampled us with its relentless thunder
As we stuck our head’s in life’s lion’s mouth
Our sense of fun just slipped away
Like the circus tent was packed away
And the site is empty now, silent and cold
Even the elephant dung is dried and old
But all is not lost, all is not gone, ride after the circus, find the tent
Find the wonder in candy canes bent
Find the life and the love and the smells
Find the children with their gasps and their yells
As they live on in wonder, jumping to cannon shot’s thunder
Shouting at clowns and clapping for dogs
In awe and wonder
Daniel Human
21 September 2014
A canticle I think I'll be,
A rimed thought, hoary and ancient,
Stinking as the dust heaped up empyreal on the hills of
The Judean sands;
And as dulled and dimmed as an archaic coin tarnish'd.
This is what I think I might be.
I'd as lief be this as any other you might care to name.
Valid is this, my remote and removed claim,
And it all began hereon.
O, that was an age ago, that remote and bygone time,
Rimed with hoar-frost and the whitishness of ancientness,
When as blood-soaked, cruciferous hills remote and circumvallatory or else
Perhaps circumferential to the great, walled city, itself circumvallatory;
When all this began.
When this particular beguine to which we've all been dancing lo this many score of years began.
It was as a woman bedecked in black on a Sunday morning newly kissed by the auriferous dawn,
(A goldener dawn than even that on which she met the man whose coffin she was now appointed to follow in a moribund processional, a macabre and solemn, ceremonial dance of death,)
Going down to the fixed graveyard.
That day was as the day on which I first deigned to join this,
And adopting unto myself the sobriquet, shibboleth "A canticle I think I be"
(For I was not permitted to use the full appellation I wished to apply to myself,
Owing to some stupid and recondite rule regarding and regulating the use and due conservation of characters: Yet not those as those of the mainstays of literature, no! I mean to say the characters that are synonymous with words and spaces and punctuation and the like,)
And here the tale ends, though 'twas not Moschean nor Noahide as
I perhaps meant it to be.
Oh, well: All's well that ends well.
(For was this not an idiotic tale, yet a harrowing one, whose lightest word would harrow up the young blood of any and all who saw it, read it, perused it?)
Flawless niche of superb air,
Blown into my traces of hair,
I sat on this sonic rock,
Counting all my memories at flock.
Glimpse of jovial clinch in the past,
Running with Lessie while playing dust,
Plucking mangoes that harvest never last,
Play hide and seek and all that crust.
When the early dawn awaken,
Mischievous me act like a raven,
All creepers and small creatures feel threaten,
When realized will be caught in hidden.
The bond between Mr.Green and me,
Bringing me much joy and care free,
Solidarity young blood active like a bee,
Without fear I'm exploring spree and see.
As times passes by away vividly,
Zone of childhood is always completely,
Diamonds of laughter that is so jolly,
I will forever keep this in heart solemnly.
Bob Dylan's french kiss
mixed with plastic soda
and beans.
Drinking solid newspaper
jeans young girl wants
to be inside the scream.
Fade to color
the scene
turns black.
Attack of the bees
honey singing to
the cows.
I want to be your
makeup girl we can
sing until the sun
blows pearls.
Bubbles blowing
the doors of candles.
Music flames for
our butterflies.
Wear the note
and the french kiss
danced from the moonlight
of your tongue.
Restless angels.
Love's arrows.
Swing to me again
and tangle the breeze
with your magic covered
stick.
Butter meets the melt.
Heat for the present day.
Summer hot babes
but your tongue is born
to rain.
Falling the swift stars
of earth.
Shining the lips of
silver wrapped for
presents of skin.
Piece by piece
young virgin sleeps.
Reminder you can dance
like a cat and lick your last
bones.
Lock up the chains and
sleep with the fire's night
light on.
Dylan the star of the belt
hold the tie and loop through
the fabric of teeth.
Soft like your hair between
the two chairs.
I want to be your shampoo
between your french kiss
young blood and perfume.
Fresh night moon shining
under the black sweet
truth.
Two blue shoes on your
last history feet.
Walk on the sun and listen
to your heart beating spots
of tragic age or a sweet voice
blessed us and we know the
last ride home is you.
An old cow Bholi and it's cub were running
Hard to save their lives from the flogging
A young boy having stick with lather laced
Was chasing them, showering flogs with mighty hand.
Bhola:
Mom, why we are beaten so bitterly?
What are our faults today?
My young blood is running hard in veins
I want to teach him a lesson just now
If you allow me to save ourselves
I can hit him with my sharp horns.
Bholi:
No! No! My dear ,don't do this mistake
For God's sake, Please
First run hard to save ourselves
After an hour hard race
They were facing face to face
Breathing hard under open sky
An angry ox not a cub now
Asked questions for proud now
Why did you stop me to teach him
A lesson in his method, poor cow?
Bholi:
My dear Bhola
Your name and my name were fixed
By my kind master who loved both us
The chasing boy was his only son
I didn't want to hurt my master
So I stopped to hurt him.
Bhola:
What a ridiculous!
Kind master kind master
A homeless foodless
Jobless timid cow
How could you justify it?
Bholi:
My dear son
The master and his son are not our real enemies
Our real enemy is UNEMPLOYMENT
Now i am barren due to old age
And you are jobless due to machineries
The few years ago i gave them milk
And bull helped them in farming.
I couldn't say how much they loved us.
NO WORK NO FOOD
This is the rule of Nature.
Bhola:
If no work, no food is the rule
I will fight against the rule.
I will raise my voice for dignity
I will fight till last breath.
The earth is not only for humans
It is also for us.
I will fight, I will fight
I will strike for sake of you.
Bholi:
Please don't do this nonsense
Nobody is here to hear
You will get punished, dear.
Some rebellious bulls
And their leader Bhola
Was standing in midst of highway
A loud noise for deaf ears
WE WANT JOB
WE WANT JOB
GIVE JOB US or BREAD US with honour
We are not lazy and crazy .
Theirs voices were lost
In crusade of traffic jam
Some cops came to solve the jam
Rebelion Bhola declared mad
Soon they shot down the bull.