Long Earmarked Poems
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Somewhere out there in the world
There was a girl, No! strike that—a woman.
He saw as a girl, but knew as a woman.
And loved her only like a man, only a real man can.
A full grown man. Past his trials and tribulations that plague an adolescent youth, posturing while attempting to prove his valor, worth and to much a female’s ambivalent chagrin, his dominance. In his tiny kingdom. Which was really the vast universe of all that crazy phenomenon human beings gave the quirky abstract thing a name. They called it love.
That’s been written about by bards and authors alike. Between a male and a female, the dark to your light. Hey, who is dark anyway? It must be Eve.
Anyhow. Somewhere in the world this forthright, upstanding citizen of a girl, this woman had such an “understanding that she’d see him [in his entirety] like a poem or a story. And "find his words so valuable after all that when he confessed his apprehensions she would explain why they were in fact the very things that made him precious to her.” The Gestalt view of the man. She knew him entirely. Read him like a book. She knew the plot the exposition, the conflict the Rising Action (wink wink) the dénouement and the resolution. As the French would say, n'est-ce pas.
No, like a poem. A poem she wishes she could write. She knew where the best pages of him were. Existing in dog-eared pages with phrases that described earmarked features. Monumental features that tore her heart asunder. Features that filled her up. As god as her witness shed never be hungry again. To lie awake and think of his soul, seeping out of his mouth with words reverberating her own. Oscillating tiny bones, giving semiotics new meaning with each locution.
Don’t over analyze the symbolism here reader. She’d lie awake and ruminate his gestures, his mannerisms. His smile. And the way his face would look in different light. And how when he laughed the crinkles that formed around those intelligent eyes after he eloquently would mouth some truism. And she knew this face appeared throughout history. And she knew a writer of ballads wrote “don’t shove me while I’m drowning… were all just hunting for love” and she read once an author noted: “almost all the people on the boardwalk were paired off into couples.” The end.
When the stomach of a child
Who has overfed rumbles, it is not
In memory of the empty hands of the past
Or what the future holds in hand
It is to mock hunger by saying all is well for now!
All is not well for tomorrow’s grinding hunger
When the Ministers of chronic poverty
Are the symptomatic children of gluttony.
The politicos eat their fill of the national cake
Down to their kin, while the dry crumbs
Are earmarked for poverty alleviation.
Today, like yesterday immemorial
They formulate policies, sign MOUs
Host conferences, organize seminars
Then publish readymadecopypaste reforms
Before the press and assembly
On how to terminate the gene (ration) of poverty.
But then, await aids, charities
Foreign loans, Sani and Diezani’s loots
Which are then looted again.
Only for the political meme
To procreate poverty, a social gene.
All is not well
When inflation drowns and hunger mounts.
You who eat until your every anatomy become fibroid
And then you say all is well.
Have you ever heard or felt
The roar and bite of empty stomachs
Or the crackling ribs of raving hunger?
And have you felt the hopelessness of trying
To perceive the aroma of tomorrow’s break of fast?
We cannot live by charities
Palliatives and crude empowerment alone
But from every sustainable development
Infrastructures and industrialization.
Our palms cannot always be spread under the sun
Awaiting bronze coin and silver manna.
No more nagging stomachs, colourless eyes
And furrowed brows
No more the darkness distributed by PHC
No more the public wealth shared by NASS
And their fellows, the contractors
No more business monopoly, hoarding and inflation
No more the love for foreign lands and goods
To the detriment of the homeland
No more insecurity, hate speech and division
No more fraud, immorality, tribalism and mediocrity
No more laziness, vain speech and promises
No more the birth of the almajirai and abandoned projects
No more the suit, cassock and agbada ministers of poverty!
The essence of wit is brevity
which interestingly evinces chivalry
delivered verdict to hex hoar size
(once and for all) president
dons mantle of deviltry
and trumps constitutional credo
defining American elementary
particular edicts denoting, enshrining,
framing, grand honorable inalienable rights
when foolhardy lobbyists prevail
evicting execrable“enemy”
i.e. forward thinking (progressively liberal)
which subsequently might help
timid citizens to invoke probate, procure, produce cojones
in opposition against rabidly power hungry,
misogynistic courting among the body politik
fostering future feverish fortuity,
toward risking life and limb sans
Uncle Sam selfless gratuity
(especially as Benjamin Button syndrome –
reverses aging process
acquired thru heredity
gets in full swing) stamping mindset
nonestablishmentarian identity
with my Kosher blessing despite any infamy
permission to go ahead with jocularity
from a superstar coach named Kennedy
thereby garnering homespun liberty
where icon bank on direct
laudable, linkedin longevity
with unrolled Scottish grandeur
(Pomp and Circumstance broadcast)
synchronized with precise
unrolled welcome mat
yule receive granted “FAKE” feted soiree
as curtain call doth close toward
final decade of mortality
yet dismiss bing hash-tagged
a scofflaw at any opportunity
especially if legislated mandate
earmarked as priority
in tandem with the key quality
apothegm stipulates decrease sing sanity
as the hands of father time
spin (Doktor Dude Little) backward
away from present day turbidity
increasing revanchism uber victory.
The narrowing of choice, opaque or black?
Unconfident die castes vote ballot blank,
How has our circus bread become this bland?
What a diverse homogeneous blend,
All stitched to sleeves but less with blood to bleed,
Philosophy’s deep silenced sonar bleep,
Who knew the watch dogs had been put to sleep,
Medici summoned now with suits so sleek,
For their next trick Baal’s prophets call down sleet,
Then cloak us in their mortuary sheet,
Cold commissar eyes never lose death’s sheen,
A czar’s measure is taken in fleeced sheep,
How many million buys innocents’ cheep?
“mere statistics”, our comrade says, “what cheek!”,
Their power balances upon a check,
Rewritten history toward useful spring chick,
For fellow travelers and bovine chuck,
Reach into chest for the last missing chunk,
Doublethink starts with a skull cracking thunk,
Are indulged proxies all we have to thank?
By any other name the modern thane,
Sign here and soon all you see shall be thine,
The thirst for gods is legion, but none trine,
All dissention is dismissed in a trice,
Indentured mankind’s earmarked wholesale price,
Vaccine for thoughtcrime just the smallest prick,
The focus groupthink directs prompter’s prink,
Omerta code tells us what will reach print,
The emperor’s new crypt may need more paint,
Astute to take the questions not the pains,
Hedge bets on war and peace for greater gains,
The deadly chasm yawns less than it grins,
When all is dust, then will they cease to grind,
Triumvirate writes finale most grand,
The so called rulers occupy by grant,
Go test the spirits joined in graceless graft
A silly superstition enwraps and grips me,
It holds me and will not loosen its vile, crushing deathgrip:
It is a numerical one, this foolish superstition to which I have my subscription,
For this is the numerological sorcerous fallacy to which I've subscribed:
That, as I have yet published a baker's dozen of poems hereon,
(Though this poem or that preceding it, might have in fact made it fourteen),
I must exceed the number somewhat, and do for today the writing of
Four poems, yet the dilemma in which I currently awash,
This quandary, this conundrum, this balk and qualm of mine,
Is as follows:
In my troika of notebooks and journals and leather diaries I've earmarked
For poetic use, the tally of poetries I've written therein today is but two,
Thus I would not reach the somehow sacred number,
That numerical goal I've set for myself of seventeen,
Unless I were to write two more poems, extra-notebooked ones:
Being ones beyond and without the notebook,
Beyond the papery, lined realms of the manifold pages of my
Threefold notebooks.
So to solve the insoluble, and resolve it, what was I to do?
I tasked myself with reaching the putative goal of seventeen,
But how would this devoir I achieve?
Only by the conception and composition of a pair of extra poems,
Thus, to accomplish that total, this poem and the one that preceded it.
So, have I paragraphed this page thus, in the manner most befitting
That of the poem.
And now this emptiest and most filler-like of my poems yet, it be done.
Form:
The train approaches in the distance
Through a tunnel we gave birth
The chimney smog marries the low clouds
Of increasing heavy traffic and haze of garbage fires
Red roof tops absorb long wave radiation
The neighbourhood’s listening to the world
Through aerials and satellite dishes
The potholes feel like exploding landmines
As vehicles detour onto the pavements
People stroll in the middle of overcrowded streets
While children play soccer and drive brick blocks
Through new eyes,
Everything still looks the same or worst
Who will drive the train of progress,
Who will pilot change?
The township must be demolished!
It symbolises everything wrong with us,
Stagnation, procrastination and assimilation
The corners are occupied by gangs of ‘nyaope boys’
Who have made it their career to be unproductive
It’s a gaping sore of apartheid’s legacy
That will never heal, not in a century...
It is on the periphery, a dumping ground
Not prime land earmarked for human habitation
Through new eyes, we must have a clearer vision
A landscape with a lush vegetation on the horizon
No amount of money can ever buy a slum,
The infrastructure of a safe neighbourhood and good sanitation
When the very same people who seek to improve it,
Don’t reside within it and merely claim it to be their roots
No RDP can ever be a beautiful home, through new eyes
No amount of Shoprite stores will make it look right
No township will ever evolve into a City proper
I repeat, demolish the township!
Phantom Readers
I thought I had it all figured out, given the difference in location of countries and time,
Local time here is something like 12 hours ahead of USA which uses Pacific time..
As a fledgling writer of prose and posting them up as original bits of my poetry,
It’s best to post new poems during daylight hours there in US and European countries.
I presume I am just like any other writer, trying to craft and string sentences that rhyme…
Hoping that glimpses of creativity and originality are visibly displayed every time..
Hoping too each poem will be well received and readership number increases steadily so…
Checking ever so often if some phantom readers here would leave a comment or two..
Experience has proven that readership numbers is hugely dependent on the timing of a posting,
Given that newer postings will push the earlier ones down the List of the New Poem postings..
Until and unless one has regular readers who have earmarked you as one of their regular favorites…
The readership number is slow to pick up and before you know it, your new poem out of date..
Now I am rightly very piqued, I have just posted my latest poem here in local daylight hours…
Believe me, I did scratch my head in bewilderment, for the readership did show up in numbers..
So far 11 readers had reviewed my latest poetry in the last hour, so much so I am given to wonder ,
Who are the readers, for the English readers in US and European readers are rightly in slumber?
The wheels of justice might turn slow,
but...fear not those Dom (men knows)
minions defrauding decent folks...THUS
We (the Gods/Goddesses of Olympus)
interrupt this regularly scheduled pro
gram to deliver urgent unanimous verdict...
Telegram Spake Reportage...Justice
handed down from court of King Crimson...
NO “FAKE” vaccinated exception, exoneration,
edict decrees corruption, collusion breached,
Boyscout apprenticeship annulled antithetical
American aggrandizing Aegis.. presidential
Pillsbury doughboy, who haint nothing butta
zealous wantonly terrifying questing quack
psychopathic puissant mailer daemon;
earmarked legal writs excusing and/or
recusing himself, and his denizen, nee
army practicing vanity, thuggery, pernicious
perjury, ornery odious obloquy, noxious
notorious nincompoop narcissism,
muckraking manhandling malodorous
majority, lewdly lecherous, larcenous knave,
knowingly kickstarting jabbering jackanapes,
impertinently impeach-ably impeccably
impiously impudent, hoodwinking haughtily,
gum-shun grubbing, groping, fondling females,
exploiting exemptions, expunging executive
excruciatingly, excellently ersatz erected,
egregiously delightfully crotch clamping
chicanery, commander in (Mis)chief,
bonanza axed...Effective immediately!
A more qualified individual, or any other
livingsocial creature sought for present
vacancy of PRESIDENT
OF UNITED STATES ASAP!
Curse of the twenty two
Ole Con he was a Yeoman at bloody El Alamein,
And he lifted out the mines where lead fell like bloody rain,
Driven sort of crazy, with death buzzing all around,
And the butcher shop of blood an guts, sort-of made him friggin frown,
Bronco Don had earmarked Bally Watson,
after a fight at the bar,
Put a bullet through his earhole ,
So he left the town hurrah,
And the coppers couldn’t find,
A witless witness, bloody now,
cOs they thought ole Johnson,
might get the word of “top-off” any how?
{Aussie, Police spy or dobber}
Con he did borrow the same rifle,
That earmarked Bally’s ear,
And his son was using it the rifle,
To shoot Rabbit, eat him here,
Rolled up in his swag ole twenty two went off,
As the swag it hit the ground,
Shot the boy dead .22 lead,
Bloody sadness all around,
Ole Con came racing up the stairs,
Plane crash very near,
Four Dirran. Men, were burning when,
The word old Don did hear,
At a hundred miles an hour he drove,
to save the lives of none,
The police said they are bloody dead,
Though he battled the flames yes some,
Four funerals we all went ,
Our friends were surely dead
Four young men to heaven sent,
Our hearts had the weight of lead,
So I swapped it away, the bad luck gun,
Ole Nodder Smith he got it,
He built a special case for that one,
The curse of the twenty two, on-nit…
Don Johnson
There is a building down town in the MIDST Of POVERTYVILLE called the
POCKET. The pocket is used to store supplies and house programs for the poor.
Open the POCKET DOOR. No need for proof. Of IDENTIFICATION.
LET it be a source of Charitable DONATIONS FOR anyone
In need.
Let the money SURGE.
LET ALL PHILANTHROPISTS SPLURGE.
AND screams of DELIGHT the impoverished plight.
Open. The POCKET DOOR. LET THE POCKET MONEY BE
EARMARKED for the poor, PROVISIONS and PRIZES for
Prosperity.
Grants in tow. Watch. BILLIONS POUR .
DESTITUTE UNITE. PARTIES AT THE FIGHT. THE LAND OF
MILK AND HONEY.
Tear. Stained faces UNFUNNY. REVOLUTION AT HAND.
VIOLENCE IN THE STREETS, IN THE STRANDS.
PROSECUTORIAL PROCEEDINGS HAVE BEGAN.
DNA IN QUESTION
DNA INFECTION?
In actual WE NEED billions in capital for ANTI-POVERTY
PROGRAMS.
Hear the people roar WE NEED MORE, OPEN THE POCKET DOOR!
The POCKET is a PROGRAM for ANYONE in need.
Money KNOWS not where it FALLS. WITNESS all the poor
ENTHRALLED.
Let the POCKET have earmarks for poorly proforming SCHOOLS.
APPOINT TZARS to oversee COLLEGE PROGRAMS IN MASS.
The POCKET should be EXPANDED not discarded as trash.
OPEN THE POCKET DOOR WIDE AND STILL WIDER UNITIL EVERY
IMPOVERISHED MOUTH HAS HAD ITS FILL.
HOW PROFOUND.