Dear A,
“Do you remember old John McLean?” you asked
“He died of an overdose this last week past”.
If I remember him, John McLean? Yes, I do see
Faint among fractured shadows of memory
The edges curled with whisky and cigarettes
Our midnight quests, sleaze and side-effects.
While we talked of escape, and sought new thrills
Beyond the tollgate and home’s confined hills
When you parked that night so determinedly
For pills in the nervous light of a pharmacy
Perhaps the adolescent talk was already dim
With destiny that even then struggled in him?
Like Eve’s fossil footprints pressed in the dune
On the mustard shores of Langebaan lagoon
Our choices leave trails and the faint remains
Of petrified memories in our time-hewn veins
So the blue-black susurrus of his dried blood
Are like Eve's footprints before the flood
Ending so sudden, abrupt, quite unforeseen.
But yes, yes, I do remember old John McLean.
Yours sincerely
M.
Listerine
a strong mouthwash in green and red
however, she was not always a mouth wash
Listerine was invented
to sterilize bodies during surgery
she was also used as a floor cleaner
and a cure for dandruff
I will never look the Listerine bottle in the eyes the same again
Lemuria was a holiday celebrated by ancient Romans
May 9th, May 11th and May 13th
these were days they gave offerings to their deceased relatives
the goal was to appease them,
in order to discourage them from haunting them
Lemuria, a word derived from Remuira
a festival named for Remus
Romulus’ Twin brother
murdered by Romulus
Another theory is that Lemuria was derived from Lemures
Lemures were Roman spirits
The next time I run into an ancient Roman
I will ask him for his opinion
However, it might not be the opinion of the others
Throughout the ages, women born
To face the wicked woes of scorn
Expectations often vary
With those around remaining wary
Conformity is what is needed
Rules to life that should be heeded
For if you try to break the mould
Your spirit swiftly will be told
To fall in line, to not stand out
To fear a God, stay quiet, don't shout
Differences they will not tolerate
Seeking ways to which eradicate
Dunking those under suspicion
Rumours of their own fruition
Whipping, hanging, burning souls
Celebrating life's own goals
Have we learned our fickle fate
When we continue to berate
Those women who speak aloud
Standing tall within a crowd
Challenging our expectations
Often missed as desperations
A different place to cast aspersions
Quantifying different versions
Of how a woman should behave
Be she timid, be she brave
What have we learned, what have we gained
Of destiny still preordained
For women should fit in a mould
To nurture, care and to behold
The rules that govern in our mind
Ensure we stay a step behind
Later than the Witchcraft's wonder
We still are judged and casted asunder
High above the cobblestone and mud,
The first church towers began to rise,
Not just for bells or stone and wood,
But chasing something in the skies.
They stretched like fingers through the air,
To bridge the ground and holy height,
A quiet, lifting call to prayer,
A sudden catch of morning light.
From pointed arches, bold and new,
To sweeping curves of Baroque space,
With every age their beauty grew,
Adorning each cathedral place.
Above the streets of Paris grand,
Or standing tall in Roman air,
They anchor all the quiet land
And hold a city’s history there.
More than just timber, brick, or spire,
They mark a spot where neighbors meet,
A steady point of shared desire
Above the busy, crowded street.
And though the modern world moves fast,
Their timeless silhouettes remain
A gentle whisper from the past,
A touch of peace above the plain.
decisive declaration
Einstein said it best
first class philosopher
generating intelligent observational directives
harvesting well thought out theories
“imagination trumps knowledge”
OLD SKOOL FOREVER
Needle drops/
dust rises from the ghost in the turntable groove/
Intro hits hard/ then the bassline thumps on your chest/
The move is old skool ’n’ raw with lo-fi beats that will jack your jaw/
Drums cracked like thunder/
Popin' drum machine is mixed under/
Rare underground jewels pulled up from crates of old skool wonder/
Boom bap soul beat, truth in the snare/
Street-corner poetry hanging in the air/
From Dre and Snoop to Pun and Fat Joe, Legends lit the path, where rare 90's hip-hop mixtapes go/
Obscure tracks spin in underground pop-up hip hop shows/
Mainstream kings, underground lords/
Sharp-cut samples and lyrical swords/
No plastic shine/just rhythm and soul/ that brings back the essence of real underground Hip Hop blow/
Classic beats making broken nights whole/
DJ Smokin' Joe Keep ’em coming/pure heat to their dancin' feet/
No disguise, trends may fade and die/
but the culture survives. Hands to the sky, let the whole world know—Real hip-hop and old skool never dies/
Time i see it not.' Yet its journey has yet not stopped' if two hundred years were
The span of your days.? You would read
Better, the woes of each age' failing this
Hit the history trail, if more did; could we have
Less seething, or tantying, or railing rage.? Look at 1853; 56.' You might get to learn of dark tricks, 1910 a time of Spanish flu, 1914 and a war just grew? Forty one years untill the second go.' To clear out
fachists is the way it did go.' 1965 we got
Into nam..' right after the Korean one
damn! con-vid has been and gone
If you were two hundred now you
would have lived through every, one..Maybe you can see a pattern now, old europe can be a greedy sow, many world leaders, on puppet strings, its not just a theory, things
Turn to similar in our timeframe again, convid has been and gone' old europe eyes Crimea again..For you see a stratagist, once said who rules there, holds the world, in a
pillory, Fred or charlie or wally? Or who.? Can't you see
On which foot is the shoe.' I suggest you find out really fast, or your jacksie, might
Get one up it? way too hard' and, quite fast.'
Production sessions of non-brewed soy sauce last just days with chemicals.
The darker colour is brewed for longer, and wheat is present in shoyu.
Weeks, not months, of brewing make it jiangyou —
Dark with molasses or some sugar.
I grip the Thin Boy bottle like un guidon,
Guide it to fried rice,
Finger over the under cap hole
To ensure no more comes out than nice.
Un guidon is French for handlebars.
If I could only have soy sauce or cycling,
I would certainly soylect.
Trees tilted,
Weighted by bodies hung,
The truth sits in the branches above,
The stench of death burrows,
Rotting the soil,
Growth killed by injustice itself,
Heavy is the tree who screams with no mouth,
Heavy is the tree with tears turned into a drought.
Swinging back and forth,
Onlookers filled with joy,
A Black body, a Black boy,
No more will he smile,
Just an empty shell -
Well, well, well,
A story as old as time -
A Black boy found dead in the south,
The story they will tell -
He hung himself.
The truth shall set you free,
And yet freedom only works when white holds the key,
The truth is ugly,
But dressed in a white cloak it becomes pretty,
The tree -
A silent witness to this tragedy
Under a wooden cobbled roof,
In the somber yard out back,
The full moonrise, misted in grey,
Legend memories flood of the ancient,
Of a knight long passed away.
A king of lineage noble,
That's whispered of through time,
And rooted in a legend,
faded warrior, of this rhyme.
Le Roi where is your palace now?
Le Roi, du chateau?
I pray you dwell in heaven,
And the True King walks with you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“The Wheel of Fortune” turns
as Kay sang – also the dead are
recycled some faiths believe --
circles upon circles, cycles of
time, history been that, done
that, still is that again and again --
I’ve loved you before, vowed
we eternal, just mouthing “Till Death
Do Us Part”...was it old age or war
our many separations? Is
love better the second time around?
The third, the fourth!? Count life’s
stock certificates, issues of reissues? –
those tears of Rome, of the cross, the washes
of the past are no different from
the floods of today...some do,
some pray...nothing changes!
Hollywood awards its counterfeit
films and compositions – I could
be rich, were I a dishonest mere
study. Imagination far deeper
than an Emmy or Oscar – a new
name means nothing to a recognized
old countenance. “When will they
EVEr Learn?”-- not yet apparently!
[Poet’s Note in Comments Section of Poem ]
two companeros sorting revolutionary literature
in spirit’s gap unwrapping gifts knowing fresh
labour ! sabre cops might have followed us hot
cops never come on Saturdays — they watch rugby* remarks she blithely
work births experience dissolving glib speak
stealthily arrived contingent of state security police stalking
books, pamphlets, writings, ephemera, poems
confiscated not lovingly touched again
never say never self-assured confident
Yes, the smallest things,
can control the outcome of,
the biggest events.
his story surpassed
the road behind him at last
historical path
John Burroughs painted with words
the Catskills beautiful hue
History Categories
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Definition | What is History in Poetry?
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Related Poetry Forms
past, yesteryear, yesterday, antiquity, good old days, ancient times, bygone times, days of old, days of yore, old days, olden days, story, account, tale, record, annals, relation, biography, autobiography, recapitulation, saga, journal, narrative, recital, version, diary, narration, report, epic, prehistory, memoirs,