So much promise "Green White Green"
So resplendent were you as the;
Union Jack was being lowered and
The Green White Green as foisted
That glorious evening of
October the 1st. 1960.
So much promise, Green White Green
From the North to the South were you cheered
The East and the South also cheered you.
You were a symbol of nationhood so craved.
Partitioned in 1884 in Berlin a destiny created
Amalgamated the Lord Lugard "Niger area"
a coinage
An Amalgamated so despised by by all
Yet Green White Green Nigeria carved by destiny
Still trying to come to grips with its destiny
Ethnic colourations a parallel across the Niger area.
(Written 10th of March, 2015)
There've been moments when 'twas courage I needed
like the time I climbed to the crest of a mountain
to overcome my fear of heights. It was superseded
with bravery I found in myself to give me credibility
instead of wishing by throwing a coin in the fountain.
Quarters, nickels, pennies wasted, tossed in futility.
To Rome's Trevi they flock as if that fountain was magic.
Closing their eyes in hopes that wishes will come true,
but crushed when their dreams were lost... how tragic.
Coins beneath the water's surface, glinting in the sun...
Coinage collected for the poor that fountains accrue.
It's tradition to share the moment with a loved one.
Over my shoulder, I've thrown coins into waters of a fount,
but not naive enough to think my wishes would find fruition.
Perhaps we've all lost more coins than any of us can count,
but serves as the perfect whimsical setting for picture taking.
Not a means for making dreams come true, nor an ambition,
but tossing a coin in a fountain is a fantastical undertaking.
Florid banshees recoiled, neck and hankering sneer.
A succinctly exuberant suggestion when selective.
Came on, fell flat with laconic ornamentation.
A miniature jaunt, interment; glove comparted.
Pin-striped foxtails attuned tune maddening clairvoyants.
Precisely predisposed, wine-flavored latten tobaccos.
A wooden-tipped juxtaposition, stilling waisted.
Bygone midge nonguarded, slunk olive drabbing on bayou.
Thicken handkerchief lightly dabbing brow.
Darkness entrapment, fiat practice gymnastics.
Money management, coinage magnet, honored in mathematics.
Backflipping,
Backtracking,
Backpacking.
Super-Soaker moisture, quickie; quickly, socks on prickly.
Sloped incline, inside Mount Saint Helens' Slip 'n Slide.
valuable coinage
rolling dough
in paper capes
2/22/2023
*Image of New Level of Morality by CharN.
The March of Us
A time that possesses my introspections,
contributes a pastime,
noting parents made donations,
~The March of Dime.
That coinage seemingly flipped from then to now,
new technology prime,
trials social media vow
~The March of Time.
Hollywood legends are noxious, paid, and made
silver screen pantomime,
chaos begets morals decayed,
~The March of Crime.
Protect the innocence from the innocent,
offbeat nursery rhyme,
as to culture spiral descent,
~The March of I'm.
The motivation for our rebelliousness,
increased in our lifetime,
reversal roles to righteousness
~The March We Climb.
2023 January 22
*RZ & HMS; following Constance format
Spoke to a cloud today –
the usual conversation
about shape and size,
lows and highs...whether
my need to tote a handy, spring
loaded umbrella...or a better chance
to go without pants, dance
on the beach ~ showing off
thighs, widening sockets
of older generational eyes – he
told me of clouds who gather and
threaten, causing ships to leap into
salty lather, sailors beware!
take battened-down care! – schools
of fishes diving to ocean depths
they share, with ancient vessels (and sewage),
a seafloor covered with sandy
coinage – a diver's delight; when
stormed into sight –
more subjects of our chatter
and debates, were those of tides
and tectonic plates; also of bony-splatter:
living shrapnel, from a well aimed cannon-ball
against a wooden hull, or artillery shell,
man's modern perpetuation, of that never
settling, always heartening seafarer's knell –
I went on to ask, if in all his travels, had
he ever seen anything truly divine?
Like an angel passing...or a saucer
flying...perhaps some mythical dragon
soaring, trying to lasso down a tasty
moon ~ bring him brightly closer,
doing some dragon flips, salivating
for cheesie fondue lips....
'Tis a Dicken's prayer to arouse
Tired masses from their slumber
With an expectation born of trust
Leaving all in righteous wonder.
Hope travels light... a treasured friend.
It clears the morning air.
Hope brings forth the restless lion
We know is waiting there.
No regulation or coinage to
Pervert its shape or size.
No earthly way to strike it down
Or give relevance to its demise.
A shield against the coming storm
When the winds of chaos blow.
Hope creeps upon both fair and foul
As it permeates their soul.
The bedrock of a Christmas wish
With a courage born of reason.
Fluttering the hearts of young and old
As in keeping with the season.
So make merry with friends and family
Knowing our future remains unclear.
But with hope just around the corner...
We may yet survive another year.
The End
She was a slow spoon type of woman who did not rush
Unhurried even if her kitchen curtains were in flamed
We tried to get a rise out of her, but she never overreacted
Amazing those of us who were experts at it.
She was a quiet soul, a gentlewoman who understood things
She spoke with the trees, the wind, the woodland creatures
They enjoyed her enthusiastic meditative ways
Her strength was apparent to them, and they flocked.
She dressed simply, keeping her funds to herself
We never knew how much she was worth in coinage
But in the ways of the wise, she was priceless.
Unhurried, yet commandingly confident and strong.
1.
I think love be quite fastidious
With a priggish clear intent
To fester hurly burly
On whom it should torment.
One thing is absolute...
'Tis that and that shall be.
Love's rudimentary motivation
Be to source my misery.
The End
2.
If ignorance be bliss, and
Foolishness the coinage of the realm.
'Tis dark the days that fade away
With an unknown spectre at the helm.
As we trundle through the shadows
Where pride and arrogance oft compete.
Portion out a spat of hubris and naivete...
Thus our abasement be complete.
The End
3.
A child may fear its shadow
And the perturbations in their head.
They dread the midnight poltergeist
Lurking menacingly beneath their bed.
They may fret about a spelling test
And abhor the dimming light.
They tremble at the boogeyman
Who torments them late at night.
The fear that haunts them most of all.
The fear that shakes them to their core.
'Tis the monster they both love and hate...
Outside their bedroom door.
The End
* Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's Your uncle.
TIGHT WAD
Yer cannie, as cannie be.
Nae sloutch, or frivolous, spend-thrift, ye.
Whose coin, to feered to leave the purse,
-in-case it’s ye’sd tae quench the thirst.
O, the ither, who just stood ye one.
Now sitting empty as a drouthy burn,
as he waits on you to stand your turn.
He taps his glass, he looks at you,
A bead of sweat runs doon your broo.
There’s nae way oot o this one noo.
Ye steady yer-sel, ye are resigned.
Then an idea springs tae mind.
You dig deep, you rummage roond.
The ither hopes its coin you’ve foond.
But you pull oot your watch instead,
his face is thunder yours turns red.
But not of shame, but by reprieve,
for the precious coin that’s now been
saved--to see the light of a-nither day,
as you prepare to go your way.
Jings is that the time, you will exclaim.
It’s time that you were getting hame.
And as you leave to go on your way,
I’ll catch you next time you will say,
As you pat you’re purse, well hidden away,
Your coinage safe for a-nither day.
A poem by john scott
There is nothing that I cannot forget
Neither the tides
Never the shores
Newer terrains
Nether ashes
There is a fever that I see ferocious
Here is a blanket
Here is a blank verse
Here is a blister
Here is a boulder
There is a slogan that I see rising
Urge to utterance
United hopes
United tribes
Ultimate miseries
It is, it is a mistake that is moist
It is, it is a whisper that is whistling
I am just a centipede waiting for the walls
I am just a centipede lost in lusty sands
I am just a centipede with null and void
Let hundred hunters hang me down
Let thousand thieves thrive upon me
It is all a coinage, concocted calculus of cash and carry !
The air fills with familiar tunes eminating from a flaking dusky red piano, it's master's majestic touch of mitten clad fingers are a sight to behold as they dance sprightly upon ebony and ivory with vibrant tonality.
Strangers amass to witness a crescendo of notes rhythmically blended to produce an ear pleasing multitude of genre encompassing numbers, each one with it's own story to tell as smiles are raised by reminiscing onlookers.
A gracious nod acknowledging the sound of assembled coinage thrust into a warped aged saucepan placed alongside a chrome thermoflask filled with aromatic African flavour, applause aplenty greet the ending of the show as the lid closes on another days play.
Oh dear, woe is me
After years of having money
That I can feel and see
I knew how much was in my wallet
That held the notes
Coins jangled in the pockets
Of my outdoor coats
I did not have to worry
If I overspent
I could see what was left in my wallet
And where my money went
I will miss the coinage
And the special notes
This different kind of payment
Does not get this old girls vote
How can you give children
Some coins to put into their pockets
This will not be possible
With a plastic docket
What will happen to the Mint
Collectors of coins and such
Employees will lose their jobs
That won't impress them much
I know a lot of people
Don't share my point of view
Please respect it and
I'll respect yours too
Too much change as we grow old
Seems to dramatic and drastic
That's why I hold the view
Back with money out with plastic
Staring into the bleak grey sky
Words cannot adequately supply
The reason... the meaning... why..?
I can only turn away and sigh
Much more out there to see
But how on Earth can this ever be?
Is there anything out there for me
To quench a soul that's so empty?
Just when the turmoil calms down inside
When my eyes seem more open wide
When I feel I no more the need to hide
Is when I discover part of me lied...
So turning again to the grey open sky
No more happiness can I buy
With coinage minted of hopes and sighs
I am still lost, is all I can surmise
They call us 'rents'.
Less kind than kin.
Their words obscured in part
Though their tongues
Are hinged and unpinned.
As if they could think,
But not fully speak,
Their minds formed--
Simple,
Mono-syllabic their words,
Concatenated words,
Puffing and cheeky words.
As if, tongues are burdensome,
Spared the effort spent.
Lips to move--hard pressed,
Breathing steady, no duress,
But a second syllable?
It is seldom expressed.
A decade back
Would we have, yea did,
Spew our poly-syllabic words
Coin of our age
Page upon blessed page
Until, by-and-by,
We had to stop, pause, breathe.
Ah-h-h-h.
And there is the rub!
We made those words last,
If last they could,
If last they would
Longer than we, ourselves.
And where is that language now?
The Next Generation speaks!
Soon Americans will be 'Cans'
Or is that word already
Rendered,
Or rent?
Eh?
Oh, not the 'rents like we
Nor rent once paid as fee,
But rent as rent
As rended, twisted, spent;
Torn in twain,
Until all that is left of the word
Is an honorable mention
A guttural intervention,
A single syllable
Meaningless
Incoherent.
Coinage for a lazy tongue.
Related Poems