Long Blood sweat and tears Poems
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Dressed in a black suit
In fancy black loafers
In snazzy black dress pants
With a little handkerchief in my coat pocket
With my hair slicked back nice and neat
With my mouth in a wide fake smile
You'll find one thing not pretty and shiny
And that's everything in my head
But they say life is a masquerade
And I'm just part of the parade
They tell me to fall in line
I'm one among a million clones
Every utterance a regurgitation
But look at my suit
And look inside my wallet
That's what makes me a 'man'
But the facade will never reach my eyes
As life tries to suck the soul right out of them
Forgive me for shattering the illusion
But inside I'm crying and slowly dying
But I laugh as I watch the news
I laugh as I hand customers their change
I laugh as it gets just a little too hot
And I laugh when I look in the mirror
Alone I rip off the black suit
I throw the fancy loafers at the wall
I take scissors to the snazzy black dress pants
I wipe away my blood, sweat, and tears with the handkerchief
I ruffle my hair to ruin my slicked back hair
And I slap my mouth to get rid of the fake smile
It's only in complete isolation you'll find something truly pretty and shiny
And that's everything in my head splattered on the mirror
I wrote this for you, every letter that meets your gaze, every word that will replay in your head for days, I wrote this for you, I wrote all of it, hoping that maybe one day you would see, and you would believe what you meant to me, all the I love you’s, all the distant stares, heaven was a place for after death but I had already been there, I wrote this for you, through blood sweat and tears, as my writing improved through the years, in my head, I told you I’d change, and I did, I wrote the furthest of dreams, on one sheet of paper, and I hoped you would see them later, for the lovers you know, and the limited lengths they are tired to do, I wrote this for you.
The 8th of September twenty twenty two
A day of sad news is brought to you
London Bridge has fallen this was said
At eighteen thirty two Queen Elizabeth II is dead
Her Royal Highness reigned for seventy years
Her subjects she'd blood, sweat and tears
The longest reigning monarch to ever have served
Mourning across the world will be observed
A Queen, a monarch and a mother of four
The only Queen to do your bit during the war
A granny of 8 and gan gan of 12
Being a great monarch you did delve
Born Elizabeth Alexandra Mary in April 26
To Prince Albert who became George VI
No-one knew you would become Queen
The first decade of life being pristine
In 1936 uncle Edward abdicated the crown
Your whole world just turned upside down
Your first radio broadcast at the age of 14
"God will care for us and give us victory"
Your first inspection of troops in 1942
Pragmatic and kind but that's what you do
In 1945 you did your bit for the war effort
Joining the ATS as a mechanic and driving expert
In 47 you married your childhood sweetheart
Very seldom was it you were ever apart
Your true resilience again was shown
As you collected fabric coupons for your gown
In 1948 your first son charles was born
Then came Anne whom I've met on the lawn
Ten year later Andrew did come
Two years later Edward your youngest son
In February 52 your father did pass
You became Queen as a 24 year old lass
June 53 the your coronation year
First one broadcasted caused many a tear
In the 70 years you did so much
The commonwealth you kept in touch
Your political views almost always hidden
Even recently meeting president Bidden
Stiff upper lip and done what's right
Keeping the family together a real fight
You are now on your final journey
Together forever with Philip and corgis
You will be missed as Commander in Chief
I thought this poem was going to be brief
From all your citizens on all your land
We shout out loud Liz was grand
R.I.P your Majesty
God's Speed
Forever eternity.
Circa February 28th, 1968 - The Former Leiper Estate
Soon after our family settled
into the sprawling estate
named "Glen Elm" approximate
half century old from date
mentioned in title, said treasure
rosy Gypsy foretold fate
Harriet Harris, (daughter
of Antebellum Rebecca great
Kuritsky - Brooklyn transplanted
Southern Belle), create
head "FAKE" story, whereby
former did absquatulate
with jack of all trades (Boyce
Brandon Harris) too late
above named ramshackle
mansion, they remained mate
to each other til death did
thee mum part, congratulate
sans, her high school chums
felt envious - girls did rate
papa (now octogenarian widower)
most handsome (master) bait,
whose smarts earning advanced
degree applying his pate
as mechanical engineer for
General Electric did satiate
penchant solving complex
mathematical equations tete
a tete for super intelligent
entrepreneurial fella alleviate
head real passion rehabilitating
derelict property, allocate
ting leisure time resuscitating
neglected homes ameliorate
head procreative itch practically
rebuilding this did animate
dad's profuse true calling
spending hours fame did anticipate
(though papa quite modest,
and other people gushed appreciate
ting self taught revitalizing
unseen hidden gem and to articulate
unique artistic flair himself
as taskmaster masterpieces intimate
ting creations nobody, but
himself could imagine brilliance pate
drew forth unbelievable
enhancements doppelganger did berate
rarely could family, friends,
strangers...do more than capitulate
with ceaseless praise always
adding final touches to captivate
most flattering aura, charisma,
karma (credit) perfectly calibrate
head aesthetic qualities even
shabbiest building communicate
ting magic touch of, who plied
blood, sweat and tears culminate
ting in unbelievable transformation
particularly, how to designate
ideal amount of appeal to abode
came to screeching halt dissipate
head after mum passed, and papa's
raw talent earned thru educate
ting himself, no amount of inborn
inherent blueprints did illustrate
native bent, BUT no new life could
resurrect demise of his queen soulmate!
There is no place like home
I represent the black, green and gold.
Out of many, we are one people, driven to succeed
Global excellence is our only mission to achieve.
Reggae and dancehall are the rhythm and beat in our feet
Only champions are born here
Marley, Louise Bennett and Bolt are all homegrown.
With blood, sweat and tears, we work hard for our own …this is the Jamaican way.
I come from a great nation, with people of strength and determination. I am proud to call myself Jamaican.
We move to one love and drink our Jamaican white rum …this is the land we love.
The aroma of blue mountain coffee mixed in the morning air, the taste of ackee and saltfish with a little roast breadfruit are heavenly delights only a Jamaican can understand, the national dish of our homeland.
Look at our smiles we celebrate 60 years in grand style.
No matter where we are, yard or abroad with heads held high we are proud to call ourselves Jamaicans.
We celebrate Jamaica's 60 years of independence by re-igniting our greatness within all who call themselves Jamaicans.
"I am Jamaican"
blood sweat and tears leave
no stone unturned move heaven
and earth pull your weight
go to great lengths make
a supreme effort bust a
gut and go all out
give it everything
you’ve got burning desire
step up to the plate
fire in the belly
spur on drive someone get the
ball rolling take pains
take the bull by the
horns jump on the bandwagon
and pull your socks up
eager beaver stay
the course give it your all throw
yourself into it
keep your eye on the
prize light a fire underneath and
pull out all the stops
roll up your sleeves bite
the bullet and pushing the
envelope spur on
He enters the neighborhood bitter
from cold cases old grudges and gripes
his musty breath is shallow stone cold
coming from his angry nostrils transferred
yet again for bad behavior after sucking
the life out of another non suspecting poor
individual while suspended to the desk duties
for a few months he lay in waiting creating slander
perpetrating falsehoods for the weak the helpless
the vulnerable homeless the disabled the injured
veterans families down on their luck he's mastered
the boroughs villages canals valley's street corners
and hills throughout the city children run from his
thumping hoofs craving blood sweat and tears
of urban survivors holding on by mere threads
praying for spiritual guidance redemption from
this evil hoping for strong minded individuals
to somehow provide ethical support leadership
crumbles rams locking horns while performing their
civic duties of washing the scum off the streets
when instead Mr excessive force organized brutality
home invasions intimidation fear corruption
abuse of power rises about the small towns
of little people whose cries are never heard
until a sudden riot approaching engulfing a city
the watchers always look on in disbelief as the flames
crawl block for block windows smashed glass shatters
into a million pieces reflecting the eyes of despair
graffiti begins to cover store fronts meanwhile
friendly fire explodes sifting through reasoning
remorse the crying kind Danny boy oh boy oh boy
a quiet calm cease to behold a sullen peace
the trying time beckoning the emptiest eyes
malice unfolds first responders are grieving
as Mr excessive force is now leaving
Our parents years. Our parents fears.
Our freedoms earned with their blood, sweat and tears.
Those moons have gone. History still sings their songs.
When did we say? When did we betray all the sacrifices made so we could have today?
The night is full of black and stars. Some light up legends, but does the dark hide the scars?
History will tell and history will see that we let evil destroy our democracy. We let evil come and shook its hand and watched evil take our prosperous lands.
So no matter what we now say or do. We let evil play us for bloody fools. We opened our gates and saw our cities fall. We stood by frightened and watched it all.
Now we stand and see what we’ve lost. So many bullets flew - do we appreciate the cost? For now we stand in a different place. How do we compare to our brave ancestors on our history page?
(2/11/13)
Blood, sweat, and tears he would shed
On the path that lied ahead.
Imagine a child preaching the word of GOD
When even the adults had found it hard.
Can you picture him walking into town?
And his followers sitting on the ground
Listening to what he had to say
Their hands clasped together as they prayed.
Can you picture him in your mind?
Telling his mother that he is fine
And not to worry, not to bother
That he is not alone but with his father.
He was just a child, but he was the son of GOD
And preaching for him did not come hard.
From his birth she knew that to his father he would be true
For she was told ahead of time, what GOD had on his mind.
That he would be the leader of men and nations
And stop many of the devastations.
His childhood was about as normal as can be
But there was so many things that only he could hear and see
He knew that he was different from the others around
For they could not see the visions or hear the sounds.
This was the child called JESUS that we’ve all come to know
Two thousand years later and he is still loved so.
© L. RAMS
Tired of sterilized poetry
And endless odes to beauty
Though life is so full of these
And everything sweet to please
There is a much darker side
Where sorrow and pain reside
Where shattered dreams do haunt
Rejection and madness taunt
Tired of sterilized poetry
That tells an idyllic story
Where life's as it’s meant to be
And sunshine is all you see
What about the living hell
Souls under an evil spell
Where fear rears its morbid head
Monsters terrorize in bed
Tired of sterilized poetry
Where love’s a sweet mystery
Passion’s power is hush hush
Euphemisms used too much
Where people do not care
Their souls’ desires to bare
So afraid of being real
Or allowing hearts to feel
I’m tired of sterilized poetry
That shows the hero’s glory
Ignores the losers who bleed
And the hungry ones in need
That pretends life is alright
And there is no endless night
That’s perfumed with flowers fair
Not the stench of evil’s lair
I’m tired of sterilized poetry
A fairytale like story
What of the blood, sweat and tears
And the tales of wasted years
Betrayal sealed with a kiss
Everything good gone amiss
I’m tired of sterilized poetry
There’s more of what’s meant to be
Let poems speak of real life
Highlight agony and strife
Shades of sexuality
Degrees of conformity
Speak of you and speak of me
The thirst for eternity.
Eileen Manassian Ghali