Long Firmed Poems
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Bottle of tears is my first version of this poetic legacy series
Skeleton of tears is which the venerated versatility carries.
This might be called as a sequel of alacrity or prolongation
But best before this is a celluloid and my heart and art collaboration.
In this poem “I or me” signify tears
Tears personify her expressions and emotions
Read this and know the life legacy of tears with concentration
And finally your fur, fleece and fuzz stand erect in attention.
Tears personify, I am compacted in stars
I am compressed between hurdles and wars
I am combusted on scorches
I am confided from Ishtar torches.
Tears epitomize, eternal bone of mine is an ominous emotion.
The Sagaras; Sarpada, Satluj shaded a challenge to my dire destination.
That one eve ever the fever of cleavers cannot catch up with me.
And the damp humidity of drought could not cope up with me.
Tears embody, I float on the branches of poignant army
I flood around the builds of happiness
I reach the borders of hell-heeled layers
And I roof down the clouds to my feet and make them rain prayers
Tears swank ,When my real steel sizzled atoms of blood,
Come together to conjure a flood.
The heated ink of emotions ignites to molt the black clouds
And let me visualize in which eve shall it swounds.
Tears exemplify, my liberty leads the immense flame in the hands of torch bearer
My prodigy evokes the waves hard under visions of volcanoes
The lust of my silvered glory was inspired from the shiny heavenly threads of feudal dart.
And the symptom of my introduction will be the rise of a burning heart.
God of hostility typify: Convinced that the fever of lava can't cope up with me
And the humidity of drought can"t hope up the level with me
In such a water working poem this is the conclusion
That even the pacific evaporate when my eternal strength feel thirsty after a tear solidification.
And now the spirits incarnate, my iron lungs had oxidized with the bitter-sour chilled water
after reading it and they crackled their internal matter into ignitious crater.
And now I will come to compete with and complete the legacy BOT(Bottle of Tears)
In the new form and with new fire firmed eyes to show you the third part “Kingdom for Disarmament of Tears ”.
4/14/2016
An abode you can drive down a road is a trip,
but the learning curve’s steep. It’s a help to be rich,
strong, and good with your hands (for things often go wrong
that you will not expect). All support’s a trip too:
fun can stop for repairs - your transmission goes out
at some watering hole where you’re barely a guest.
A rebuilt one located takes days to arrive.
You’re hung out on a limb with relationships cash-
based, though credit cards help. With a vaporware smile
and some luck, a motel has a room you can wait.
At some point, you’ll be glad a towed car’s on your plate
for just parking a motor home can take a while.
Overnights on the streets of a city are rash,
but a grocery store parking lot helps one survive
for a night in a pinch. Cops uncalled, let you rest.
If you buy some supplies, it will give you more clout.
I am happy I bought mine though big trips were few.
A gas engine, no slide-outs, I stole for a song
in year slide-outs and diesel were salesmen’s fresh pitch.
But low tag fees, no property tax floats my ship!
Farms have Quonsets to soften Dakota through time,
hide from hail, sun, and blizzards, a part of the year.
Coach revives, as my residence, when I am there
with the usual hookups, propane, and TV.
But one April, the snow where it parks saw a drift
that eclipsed a man’s height more than corn grows (rains bless).
Weeks would pass till it melted, ground firmed, spring wheat drilled!
But the highways kept clear, a spot found I could park
where Missouri’s clear waters reflected cloud’s path,
and fish leaped as they struck hard and tasted hook’s bait.
I’m a poet who frequents cast lines till they rhyme
and replace my lost bait with a new thought as dear.
Souls and poems will bloom that we offer our care
though we see droughts occur and earth’s water’s not chi.
May some readers drift with me when words are a gift,
have a color they own that eclipses their dress.
Bait rejected? God bless! If you chow down, I’m thrilled.
Who would want to burn rubber alone in the dark?
With a transparent purpose, I don’t fear God’s wrath.
Pray rhymed sojourns bring respite, share love, and not hate.
Brian Johnston
12th of September in 2021
Poet’s Note:
A new metered poem that uses what I call ‘distant rhyme.’
Employed by Boeing before I retired
An engineer, then into management
I had good writing skills, as were required
When I wrote, you could tell what was meant
Poetry wasn’t of interest to me
For the first seventy five years of life
In fact, when my three daughters lived with me
They had no interest; neither did my wife
Interest first kindled by Troy, my grandson
With his poems, written for an eighth grade class
E-mailed to me, read them all and when done
Wrote my first poem, it came together fast
While at my desk, looking out the window
I observed a robin seeking a worm
While watching his movements, let my words flow
Wrote “Bobbin the Robin “and interest firmed
Asked Troy if he’d like his poems in a book
Maybe enter his best in a contest
Joined poetry websites; learned what it took
And we entered poems, but mostly in jest
Demands are high on a teenager’s time
Troy’s poetry was on the back burner
I kept composing with words that rhyme
I posted, although I’m just a learner
Didn’t know when I posted on the sites
The members were free to give them a read
And just the thought of that gave me a fright
But found out member comments fill a need
When I Read the comments on my poems
Fascinated by what they say
Encouraging with so much support
A sincere one would make my day
One commenter had interest in my work
When as a poet, I become seasoned
Given my age, I couldn’t help but smirk
I never live that long is the reason
Meaningful comments received on my work
Keep me involved and my efforts on tract
Without them, my work I’d probably shirk
My fellow poets made such an impact
My first poems were all written in Quatrain
It’s a form that was came natural to me
At the time, didn’t even know the name
But rhythm and rhyme, my poems had to be
Explored forms with which I’ve never dealt
It’s never too late to learn something new
Over a hundred poems under my belt
Trying something else was the thing to do
To my fellow poets, I say, "Thank You!"
You’ve made this an enjoyable pastime
I now know it’s something I love to do
Molding my thoughts into rhythm and rhyme
HEAL THY SELF O WOUNDED AFRICA
(no to XENOPHOBIA).
Wake up a voice shouted
You slept like a pregnant woman
While the drum beat of my assagil sounds like trumpet
With fear and deep chill I listened
The ghost of mighty black warrior standing in shiver
As I face the Great Zulu warrior lost in fear
I saw him Shaka cry to the members of Mambers the great Gods of Africa
There before him stands the Mighty Nile in disbelief
With the Niger filled with bloods disagrees to stay calm
The Senegal and the Congo revolted with flood
The orange and the Limpopo grumble and cried as the sky shared their pains with continuous rain pour.
O you failed cried d Zambezi as she invades her neighbors with flood
A knock on my door I heard a voice shout
Speak out for Africa
It is I Kwameh Nkrumah speaking
This is a sacrilegious act echoed the Mighty Zik
When the house is not in order the cockroaches becomes violent
Cried out the anguish voice of Awolowo
From afar I saw a running giant coming with the force of a chariot
Then I heard a voice so mighty was it that the visitors chased it with fear
He a mighty figure decorated and protected by glory of stars
Stood there is burning eyes of anger
Cover in the black glasses with general pride
As curious as a questionnaire
I ventured in to the glorious illusionary scene
Standing before my trembling eyes was The General Abacha in his full stature
Like a Ligtening spark the mighty figure bent his head in shame
As I looked to behold who thou art
There before me I saw The Mighty Mandela in tears of betray
Weep no more thou wounded soul
The thunderous voice of King Sailaise shouted
In council with the great Ghaddafi as furious as
Idi Amin
Sankara frowned like a disgraced old man
While the ghost of Seda Sengho felt it lost its victories like Anthonio lost all his titles
In schock I turned as a firmed hand gently parted my hand
It was a mighty spirit with two heads
It is the heads of the great secretaries
Achebe and Giwa
Handing me a pen a paper
Written on it
Heal thyself O Africa before yesterday bleed to death.
Death calling
Very few are talented; gifted to discern the undetected sleeping peacefully, Whispering tightly sworn secrecy. Few are specially hand-pick curse to detect.
Numb wind- gentle breeze, cold air breathing salty rusty slightly decayed; mask in air intakes; provides disguised to skeletal fingers velvet faint touches
Rested underneath wet fresh green grass lay dead plant, surrounded by nourishing fertilizers. Eyes blind to nature signs channelling its impressions.
That washed away like evidence in sinking sand; fermenting fruits stored in olive brown wood containers stock shelves untouched by elves chanting for solid goals,
That fell and died, alone in the wilderness wild uproar sensation vibrates castle bells signaling preparation for battle that rang hollow almost undetected combing un-defensive ears, which sleep harmoniously with hidden danger.
Mind scratches away symptoms; deem forgotten but he’s still their lurking; like a tiger snares approaching his pray in fear, but dared to kill growl softly
Disguised itself in thick bushy deep grass advancing like a young cub learning to feed, sheath teeth slowly unsheathed; watching patiently for opportunity to strike
First it killed mood then pinch joy. Attacking peace while planting seeds, which sprang discomfort, leaves hosting buds of confusing flower, eradicated concentration draining essence thirsty; deplete my life source.
I feel it coming standing firmed leg shaking waiting to collapse. Defenselessly overhearing whispers organizing Leisurely, slaying my alliance; paralyzed functions fade.
I heard his voice but helpless to null my silent screams Cocked ears and listened to my death calling.
Form:
When I first planted trees I thought it was for shelter
From the ocean gales blast, and the wild rain lashing rain.
I needed to help them, so I built up some fences.
I needed to feed them, and dug in some kelp.
The trees looked so weak, so fragile, so lonely
The trees were so small, but they grew.
Next year some had died, but most still grew bravely.
The gales blew again, the frost hard and deep.
I fussed and I worried, I planted where gaps came
I fretted and fiddled and firmed in loose roots
The trees bent with the wind, then straightened their backs up.
The trees drank from the rain, and they grew
Each year they grew on, and the next and the next one
The gales blew again, and the snows came and went,
I thought about training and pruned very gently
I did some light weeding, I mulched and I mowed.
The work was a joy, I loved to be round them.
And oft stood in silence, to think, as they grew
Now after some years there are trees all round me
The gales still blow hard, but the trees still grow on
I see the wind kiss them, and now hear them singing
I see the rain weeping, and now see them smile
They draw strength from each other with roots intertwining
And give back to me those rewards you can’t buy.
When I first planted trees I thought it was for shelter
They have given me that, and so very much more.
I planted my trees to find how to keep growing
I planted my trees to be brave in the storms
I planted my trees to cherish my loved ones
I planted my trees to make hearts smile and soar.
I planted my trees to give hope and redemption
I planted my trees to bring peace to my soul
I feel bad that you all got to stand on my path for your livelihood said sandy, Sandy will be less harmless in the days ahead. Sandy is glad to have a short life span. Sand is trying as much as possible to give you folks only the crumbs of her majesty cruelty. The peace and progress of this wonderful nation is too much, we shall never reduce it to minimum .
I regret why I brought rush into your quiet lives. Sandy regret why she brought pains into your lives. Sandy regret why she put sorrows into your lives. I regret why I brought tears into your lives. Sandy is just a tourist. My coming is sudden my departure is so sudden.
Sandy you brought down all our lifetime achievements but thank for given us a second chance. Sandy you brought tears into our hearts. Sandy you brought blood into our eyes. Sandy whiles us. We will be firmed to pick up shattered pieces impose on us by you when you will be far gone. Bye sandy.
Sand you make me shaver, you make me fear Sandy. Sand you make the trees and buildings of the nation capital tremble as if it was the capital of the unbrave. I will not be ashamed to start all over again dear Sandy, we almost love you only if we will not see you again so soon bye sandy. Sandy we known we have been stung by your wicked venom but we will over come it Sandy.
I will tell my cousin Katarina not to frequent come on land again but both of us are still storbbone said Sandy. If Human Beings were borne educated our society will be a very perfect one said Sandy. Sandy our subways will go better than ever. Sandy we promise to keep a fatherly eye on you dear. Bye san…
Twickenham's green mead is dank and gray
The sun behind the clouds has gone away
In the drying woods a solitary soul, O alone,
So alone, translate grief to incessant moan.
Nature shows its one with us, in all things
We suffer it shares and times our stings
And often sorrowing, but ah muted mouth
Of trees tell us then what mortality is about!
We were one hundred eighty strong to start
But some could not endure, the long shaping
That mettled a special breed, firmed the heart
Till we became comrades, dreamers hoping
To give our land a new birth and happiness.
Soon only a remnant was left for the process
And how played, fought, laughed, loved, ate
And thought we were captains of all our fate.
Perhaps some were, but some so soon, as dust
Would grow the visioned grain, and more the pain
For those died last, than when in youth's distrust
Some left to explore that other dimmer terrain
Here now in old age each passing friend assures
Us, time is slowly evening up the haunted scores
We grieve for this sense of lost, this vanity of life
This less than social ending of unfinished strife.
Yet something human in us grieve for human loss
Beyond the fathom of our ken, missing each friend,
Each classmate, each ole farmer from the grass -
Knowing not where or when each journey will end
O but Twickenham green mead do not cry, we hail
You immortal in the work you set us, our hopes prevail
That beyond the memories of our rustic days, again
We shall meet husbandmen of the bright celestial plain.
I’m a Pessimist
We will cry even more
The misery will increase
The suffering won’t stop
We won’t get away from life with ease
We are the gloomy creatures
We are sentenced to grief
What life but a nice covered book
We read, but nothing firmed in mind
The kitsch dominate the art
Wars run the world
And hate heads the chart
Love will diminish
We are heading to perdition with a leash
Made with solid gold and vile wish
Can we flee this darkness?
Can’t we just life break and build an utopia
I’m sick of sharing the oxygen
With wolverine people, bloody monsters
And haters whom pop up with no reason
The elements of life are five
Hypocrisy, hate, blood, lies and some love
We are brain-cuffed with something with something the call school
Pressed with something they call traditions
Free yourself with something they call art
And the pressure will finally lessen
But sometimes I think quieting life
Because them crazy bald heads as Bob Marley said
Will eat up you corn and ask for more bread
Because money is time and time is money
They kill more children, chewing their gummy
Simply because we are human-beings
We will kill each other and branch to several teams
Maybe you’ll say I’m a pessimist, in life I can’t pass
And if you ask: ‘’ how can you describe the glass is it half empty or half full?’’
I’ll say… it’s a foggy glass
At the end
of the river's exhausted reach
where swamp firmed
into solid ground, there was a place
the locals used as a tip.
Broken, worn out stuff
from clean outs, hoarded
household effects finally let go,
garage junk
and the discarded leftovers
from deceased estates
were dumped there.
The place was a goldmine for boys
on the hunt for soapbox wheels
and parts or anything
that could be used to build
wonders blueprinted
on raging minds. Pipes bent
into chopper handlebars
to lend lift to a boring bike, fit outs
for tree houses, defenses for forts,
the frames for boats and airplanes
that were born in hope
but would never float or fly
beyond a backyard.
The thrill was in the making.
When the council closed the tip
and moved it miles away,
it was as if a vital organ
in the neighborhood soul had been
taken out. Boys were deprived
of the lifeblood and source
of their making. For some time,
groups would ride their bikes there
and pause before an empty space
and stare. They had no words
for their grief. Slowly, the hole
healed over though something
inside had been lost. The bounty
that was once provided by the tip
was replaced by shiny things
bought brand new from shops.