Oh, how my eyebrows seem to bow,
To mark where life has got me now.
Each furrow etched across my brows
Defies what my well-swept hair allows.
My brow is bossy, yet will not kowtow,
It tells the world what's here and now.
Before I've spoken, it's clear somehow!
With the truth written on my brow.
It arches high when dreams take wing,
Then droops down low, when doubt sink in.
It charts each worry, joy, and vow—
In life's diary written on a brow.
Some call me highbrow, some say not.
Some a lobrow, all tied in a knot.
Such labels rise, and fall to new lows.
My brow wears none — it simply shows.
Alas, my brow will never ever lie;
It speaks before I can wonder why.
My eyebrows rise, my forehead pleads,
Confessing more than my face concedes.
So I don't beat my brow in vain,
Or wear it smooth, with needless strain.
It lifts with hope, it softens with care,
I trace the lines onto where I dare.
So my brow-beaten brow of mine
That traces all my worries, line by line
Your furrows are not my fault, somehow—
But the quirk of eyebrows on the plough.
I've been browbeaten
by better than you
and turning a deaf ear
ignored them too
then again
it's easier for some
to follow the herd
than think for themselves
and take my word
standing on the shoulders
of giants is not the way
especially if they
have feet of clay
and as to date
I don't know
a song by someone else
I can chase or pursue
there's only
one right thing to do
allow me please
to get it off my chest
in simple terms
may I suggest...
you won't step out of line
(it's true for all not just some)
when marching to the beat
of your own drum
An alluring art of vivacious symbols and meanings,
Fig leaf has many religious political leanings;
Though apple was the fruit Adam and Eve had once eaten,
It's fig leaf that had hidden them when they felt browbeaten...!
Wrapping our physic we do; though not in pageant parades,
Psychic volcanoes we cover up with gold-gleaming shades;
Odors of festering wounds are hidden by fragrant scent,
Do all these, yet, grand to our hearts, aptly needed vent...?
Do all polished stones turn precious diamond or sapphire?
Do toy-guns in battles, like cannons and tanks blow fire?
When make-up peels off, physic would its true complexion show,
Though buried within darkest shadows, sun will, surely, glow...!
Hypocrisy was what Jesus hated most in humans,
In light of truth, he said, darkness of hearts should illumine;
Washing should be both within and without of the vessels,
Whitewashing the sepulchers? Values need true retrievals!
Shielding sins have been constituent of human nature,
In doing so, we turn hilarious caricature;
Growing out of inner deficiencies, is a must,
Fig leaves might fade off; Fig trees must grow, in strength so robust...!
29 March 2022
A being, whole and complete.
Not on this earth to be your treat.
Not for one second, to fulfill. your
perfect expectations.
Never browbeaten to meet societal
recriminations.
These clouds, ominous and forever
flying!
Blustery winds, without kindness.
A hurricane demanding that you be other
than you.
Until the very second of your dying!
1/10/2022
She never had to retract her words
or her ideas
or her behaviors
or her opinions
or her attitudes
because she had been goaded and browbeaten into retracting herself
trained into submission by an expert seclude-her and abuser a long time ago
I was a picked on,
bullied, browbeaten, buffaloed boy
from Buffalo New York.
I grew up on Buffalo’s lower east side,
the ghetto by another name.
The Frederick Douglass towers.
Formerly the Talbert Mall
better known as the Jefferson projects.
The home turf to a gang
called the Pythons.
It was a place
where angels fear to tread.
I had so many bullies
it’s a wonder I didn't end up dead.
I had more bullies
than the law allowed.
I survived my childhood somehow.
I can count one hand
how many times
I was saved by gang members. (5)
I join a bigger gang
right after high school.
The United States Army,
and saw the world,
Germany, Turkey and Italy.
I met the man who would be
my Kung-Fu master,
three years later he had made me
a very dangerous man.
Back stateside I became
DJ Bobby K “The One to Know”
For a little over fourteen years,
I played the music
that made the difference.
All the while I heard the voices.
In the year 2,000
I took a course
in creative writing,
and Bobby K
“The Poor Man's Poet was born.”
Now when I go out to speak,
I mean to be heard,
giving voice to the spoken word.
He rode her with a passion his tiller held high
He commanded her, but; never once did own
Calms her ardent waters; passions as subside
Giving respect, allows her to share his throne
He commanded her, but; never once did own
Forced within her; his very own perfect storm
Giving respect, allows her to share his throne
By willingness, then acceptance did transform
Forced within her; his very own perfect storm
Waves ridden, until nothing but; waning ebbs
By willingness, then acceptance did transform
As into calmer waters, her riled passion heads
Waves ridden, until nothing but; waning ebbs
Steered by the tiller-man in his direction lead
As into calmer waters her riled passion heads
He has all but now; put this wild storm to bed
Steered by the tiller-man in his direction lead
He was never, going to be browbeaten by she
He has all but now; put this wild storm to bed
Never fearing his mission, in claiming this sea
He was never going to be browbeaten by she
Calms her ardent waters, passions as subside
Never fearing his mission, in claiming this sea
He rode her with a passion, his tiller held high
The way the light hits the ground
leads to the sudden appearance
of shadows upon your frame,
and your wisps of white hair
are made whiter by the sunlight.
I stare at your silhouette,
realizing that the more years go by,
the more of a shadow
you are becoming to me.
We are distanced by generations,
browbeaten by past mistakes
and family secrets.
You've learned to keep your words safe
in the womb of your mouth,
occasionally making use
of the rolling "r"s
of your native tongue.
But,
we are also connected by
the language of poetry and ink stains
that courses deep through our veins,
by the Navajo stories I still see
etched in the corner of your eyes,
by the withered hands that have
forgotten how to use a pen.
And yet, it is not enough
to have you sitting so silently.
And yes, I crave more.
So I walk towards you now, and
reach for your hand.
Silhouettes don't speak,
and I don't intend them to,
but they are always there
to listen.
In a world of chaos there is no sense
In a world of pain no goodness
Downtrodden and browbeaten
In a world full there is loneliness
Shadow so long and dark
Scars run deep and bleeding
Hurting and scared
Confusion runs thru the night
Time stands still and hope is gone
Life is without meaning
Sorrows abound all around
Alone and lonely
Not willing to go on living
Death preferable to the suffering
Darkness envelopes lights fade
Gone forever more.
A mother's love may visit pain
If one child's hope looses its dream
A chasm deep in her soul screams.
Oh God, please let his faith remain.
Youthful goals and priorities
Can cloud love's path eternally.
Forgive forgotten boundaries.
Trust in God move onward boldly.
Lofty thinking, respect askew –
Browbeaten and misunderstood.
Before too long joy says, “adieu.”
Remember let not evil brood.
But seek the light and trust His Word.
Cherish life and integrity.
Be not afraid soft voices heard.
Give all for love and selflessly.
Fear not the loss of future fame.
But seek to melt your soul in love.
Success becomes an earthly game.
But families are from God above.
So when, my child you feel great pains,
Ask God above to show you dreams.
Be sure that faith in God remains.
He knows the path to love and gleams.
© July 26, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
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