Juggling responsibilities against the tug of gravity
in an effort to keep my head above the fickle tides.
Steering a true course by the examples that stars have set
by illuminating the preferred trajectory.
The dropped ball can’t be blamed on the ball.
I close my eyes on this Warm Summer Day
And slowly my mind is lead far away
Back to another time so long ago
And to melodies I remember so
The music of Surfin Safari to Surfin USA
There was no mistakin Brian’s talent had introduced a new
Music craze
Why there wasn’t anybody who didn’t take part in the songs, the cars, the Surfin, and the Girls
Especially the girl’s
Like the man said he wished they all could be California Girls
Why it was all summer long that they enjoyed all the fun fun fun
But don’t worry baby they always wandered back in their room until it was Time to catch a wave and once again they were sitting on top of the world
And now the time has come for brother Brian to join Dennis and Carl
All three united again
In the far distance one can hear music calling out like
A long lost friend
As those good vibrations gently fall from heaven on to the sea
Smiling down the three brothers see
In the far distance the Sloop John B
In Memory of Brian Douglas Wilson of the Beach Boys
Alphabetical
Nice simple pithy poems
Brian Strand contests
Your album cover
Anything for a Laugh
seems candlelight lit
arched churchways
and smoke from village Chimneys
sepia daybreak
angel clouds jettisoning
with yellow filter
You died in Newcastle
broken by the rain,
only one album
and a few credits
cherished by a few
Imagist poet
Prolific blogger
Father of footles
Contest creator
Emagi guru
Aural art form
‘As is moment’
“ichthyschiro”
YouTube poet
For he’s a
most jolly
good fellow
So say
all of
Us
ice-encased tree limbs
glisten in dawn’s stillness . . .
a lone fawn wanders
thinking of Christmas
we trudge through deep forest snow . . .
pine needles trailing
the sky glows in pastel pink as the wind whispers~
a song for Brian
zephyr breezes by
as I lounge in my garden
with eyelids heavy
Look at Brian the badger
Slinking through the grass
Sleeping Susan rabbit
Doesn't see him pass.
Hunting for his breakfast
Every single night
Brian's not very fussy
He simply wants a bite.
Finds a broken ladder,
Scratches on a rung,
At last he finds some breakfast
He licks it with his tongue!
Did that make you hungry?
Is this story real?
I guess you're looking forward
To tomorrow's meal?
01 March 2023
R recently, power outages takes us BACK - ward
E ven reading & commenting here is rare
A naya & Harry Horsman, Brian Sambourne, Lisa
D
Do remind me how comments feed poets' souls
P.S. This is a thank you poem to those who read and comment to encourage me. REQUEST: Please comment especially on poets who have few readers or fewer comments, or may be new. I encouraged a new PS Poet from Andorra last week, but I did not understand the poem or language (Celtic?). I don't expect any response, but I'm glad we have poets from so many unusual places with talent & Ubuntu. Deo
PPS. I could not fix errors in my post, or edit ( until now), because our power supply in my province in RSA,vwas disrupted ( by supplier ESKOM) for 6 hours: Stage 6 loadshedding. FYI or shock, Google, "RSA: electricity, Eskom, corruption, death threats." See?
I shoulda seen it comin’ my way -
The Judgment Day
Bears the brunt of judging as gold
Rakes piles of entries, old and new
Insists - "completely up to you"
As long as you do as you're told
Note, read the blog to make it through
Submissions, like lava, pour in
Tempting many soupers to win
Review as you give it a shot
Ace of Judges snubs dull and bland
No to acrostic, rhymed or not
Dare I disobey Brian Strand
Strand’s contests I deem Brian’s Blast -
Meaning high praise and no shade cast!
January 4, 2023
I Don't Want To Read Your Blog Brian Strand.
I just want to write a poem.
I'm done with instructions.
I'm done with obedience.
I'm done with the topsy.
Just give me the turvy.
Turvy, turvy, turvy all the time.
I'm done with repetition.
I'm done with repeating myself.
Give me two minutes and I'll make you a paper airplane.
Give me four minutes and I'll make your 2 paper airplane.
Our mouth is the hangar for all ideation sounds.
Then you have these vagabond words,
Escaping without an open hole,
Utilizing these stringy little fingers,
Doing some sort of Fred Astaire number.
Someone call the word plumber.
This be clogged.
Mr. Brian
You stun
Mr. strand
You stand
you judge
never misjudge
your poems
are gems
My rhymes
at times
are lame
and shame
you chime
all time
at whom
my boom
Aroze
with rose
words flow
it's no
done correct
you select
you read
indeed
too much
no catch
always stoic
no trick
will miss
your bliss.
Written: August 27, 2021
FOOTLE FINALE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
What will we do with the poems we’ve written
pampered and teased like a fluff ball fur kitten
ironed them out to conform to a form
a mystical mystery outside of the norm?
Where will we go for a question, a thought
insightful lessons, relearned and retaught
Who will we ask for a hint, for a clue
a debt for the muse that will never come due.
How will we fill those scribbles of time
doodles on paper with no sense of rhyme
answer the question in voice or in phrase
prepare for an eloquent end of these days?
It has been said “we take mentors for granted
Until we see bloom the seeds that they planted."
John G. Lawless
8/27/2021
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