Long Laurel Poems
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Shall I relay a sidesplitting hoot from my “care-free” on campus fun phase?
It entails a laboratory session involving three mystic world colossal oafs.
One had an unerring penchant for Laurel and Hardy mishaps, the other this beautiful dreamer whose attention span rambled for miles.
a meandering focal point tourist with no yen for one spot or one task.
As for me the fault-prone narrator I had comic book deficits too.
Pulitzer Prize petty fog pinpoint, fastidious fat head by gum!
At the hearth of this tale is a chemistry prep that was doomed from an innocent outset.
It was aptly enough “Anodyne,” this soon to be splitting head bushfire.
From uproarious weighing scale howlers, to starter material gaffes, to say nothing of sequential missteps, Mount Everest blunders galore.
Our ill-fitting glassware threw tantrums, miscellaneous beaker’s burst dams, reactants rose up, a calamitous farce, they shed buckets of organic stuff down the sink.
For all my precision I seemed a right goof with this risible maximum brownie point fetish.
My beautiful dreamer close comrade who by turns Walter Mitty pale stand-in now immune to chaotic abandon at large.
That accident-prone other pal
would be every insurer’s worst nightmare.
Nearby class mates could barely restrain widespread glee at us laughing stock hapless quaint bunch.
The poor teacher in charge had a seizure, quite gormless, green faced and gobsmacked.
“I wonder what next can go wrong.”
“Quite frankly I shudder to think as you merry buffoons soldier on.”
This thunderstruck teacher was known as the “doyen of do it right down to the dottiest detail.”
After a humorous pause his eyeballs rotate in jocular mode then made a ginormous grand gesture.
“Put this jinx ridden self-destruct day in some tuck away memory file.”
“Write a one page report, say the gremlins prevailed and I’ll give you an average mark.”
“For goodness sakes don’t blow this offer like you’ve nearly blown
up my whole group.”
On an ironic note “doyen do it right” gave a brief safety course start of term.
It seemingly fell on deaf ears.
I’ll be blowed as my parents once said when life took a damned awful turn.
We three “Einsteins” in technical garb almost were, blowed that is!
Posted ; 11th January 2022
The others are left to roam on their own…
Everlasting sorrow spills out from the carcasses…
Love has already spoiled…hate is the main event in the picture…
Laurel…Save yourself from death or hell...below...…before it’s too late!
The others are left to rot…they took their leave long ago
Hell has opened its gates and gravity pulls them down below the blemished ground…where they once slept…
Ashes placed here and there…buried…left untouched…unseen for years
Tell the others…”LEAVE OR THEY’LL FACE THEIR ABOMINABLE FATE”
Seven souls are casted to the graveyard
One must crawl out…of the crust…
Unveil your true nature…unwind for a time…scream out the truth
Learn to listen…learn to gain understanding and wisdom…GAIN INSIGHT…
Tread the narrow path…not the sinful, rocky trail…
Oh God, will you lift them up from their deathbeds?
Empty…lost…don’t forlorn for your love…she’ll return to you soon…go forward, despite your loss…
Shameful…alone…don’t look back – don’t step into that trap!
Calm down…you must leave her behind for a time…and forget and forgive the perilous past
A petite, sweet, black rose is placed next to her tombstone…I’m sorry for the agony that swallowed you whole like an immense tide
Pour forth your Mercy…upon him…let him trek the road to paradise
Exit the land of the dead…and live for eternity and you’ll earn true happiness
Forget not the gifts you come in contact with
Rummage not into the Storage Room full of horrid memories
Off you trot…run away from this nightmare…this living nightmare…
Marvel at the black, velvet sky and pray to Him…welcome the sun with open arms
Isolate yourself from the ghosts that doused you with long-term grief
Torn apart by your absence, I finally found my way out of my own wistful snare…
Sell not your heart of gold…keep it and treasure it…it’ll serve you good
Dark spirits…GOOD RIDDANCE…purge from him his painful distress…
Escort him to a better place…a palace he calls Home…
Make sure to spread out good news upon him…so he won’t feel that searing stress
I hope for the best for him…I don’t care how insane I sound right now…
Silly how much I can actually sympathize with him…LOOK up to Him
Exactly…I’d be careful what you wish for or pray for…
You care about the Kardashian's and what celebrities are dating on Valentines
I care about Right and Hoping for the people of Palestine
I'm seeing people argue over what name they hear on a recording
It doesn't matter if you hear Laurel or Yanny because it's really not important
I don't know how to start this verse
Seeing the state the world is in, my heart is hurt
I'm seeing more heartbreaking things as each day goes by
People seem to focus on so many unimportant things and I don't know why
The Internet is one of the worst things to happen to this generation
Talentless people getting famous for being stupid, what happened to education?
Social media has turned most people into selfish souls
We no longer care for real life friends or love, acting like our own destiny isn't in our control
Someone tell me why Meek Mill got jailed for riding a dirt bike
But an old white man got house arrest for raping a 5 Year old, tell me how that crime wasn't worth life?
He's still free to attack more kids when he should have his genitals cut off
I'm seeing all of this on the news and you wonder why I'm shut off
Why would I believe in a system so broken?
I'm English so I shouldn't care about America is what they'll say
Am I wrong for believing in right and showing emotion?
The heart and Love I have, I refuse to let them take away
Tell me How can you walk past someone in need and not feel a thing?
How can you walk past an angel who's broken and not try to heal their wings?
But your on your knees praying to God when you're in need
But when everything is going right, you and God don't even speak
I'm not even religious, But I'm sick of living in a world of selfish hypocrites
I know they'll hate me for saying a lot of this
I'm focused on making it through today and anxious about what tomorrow will bring
While most of the world is focused with arguing about Yanny or Laurel and important things
I don't care about the Kardashian's or what couples have broke up before Valentines
I don't care about Jersey Shore, I believe in hoping for the people of Palestine
I don't care about arguing over a recording
The whole Laurel and Yanny debate really isn't important
O, I see you're coming back to Ella
of the Cedar's Tale, more and amore,
as she gets between your skin, like a beetle at bore.
Lang-wishing, fang-wishing her wiggle,
at open door stairs case on her forest floored.
This tales tail like a Cedar, mystery umm'biblical,
Laurel lining in-cyclicall of
Maples that get swathed,
in rainy season's roots spreading tows
in brackets math tables of shoots and ellipticals.
In shadows deep,
where whispers weep in the will o's
the shade desperately tries to cover
her in-seep of soil, like a tree snake in coil.
Ella of the Cedar, her name echoes clear,
a flame in hearts, dancing ever near.
The Cedar's Tale, algorithes, quickened, Time Ago.
A story sung where the wild winds blow.
Her spirit fierce, like a fire untamed,
a haunting melody, forever staking claim.
Lang-wishing, fang-wishing, the night's embrace,
unveiling enticing worlds with ethereal grace.
Her voice, a river of silk, in moonlight's glow,
imbued with sapporon, a delicate flow.
Washes a ways canopy, Kimono.
This ancient grove, where memories reside,
Ella of the Cedars, she'll forever abide.
Her resonance lingers, like a bittersweet sigh,
a poet's muse, beneath the moonlit beams
taking a bite of darkness in injection plunge and hallucinogenic strobe of light, slide.
So let us listen more, to Ella's whispered lore,
feel her essence as it stirs us to the core-
occupying like a lush dream.
In her words, emotions seam to adorn,
a garden of feelings, once in dormant sea,
now align with the O Pines scent of new winds whip of greenery creams to soothe like a suave poultice of potpourri over the mind pine al g land ent C.
In every verse, a wish song''s awakening,
sultry synthesis,
a bud delicately reaching for the light,
in a chamber of trembling treble,
naughtiness probing.
Lyrics to linger, imprinted deep,
like the rings of a tree as
counting your time of bondage..
Stirring souls,
harvesting their reap and frontage
of fond-agery.
The story continues beneath
the eventuality of hopes chest
pounding, hearts in the surrounding raw,
pump of primal, Forest maw.
Ella sets her sights...
Wired mortal from the English Art
Banished from his home, spotted from a distance
Noble amongst scrawling African inscriptions
First veneration of mystical minds
Take a bow, take a bow.
Obliterating deliberate disregard
From interrupters of our histories,
With trophies, allays a regret and loss
So little for so great a heart,
Take a bow, take a bow.
Liberal lord of limpid looks
Grand philosophy too many for little minds,
Art of African arts
Impenetrable obscurity to the impatient,
Take a bow, take a bow.
Entangled genus in the darkest harbor,
Found in a waste howling wilderness,
Left to die in the gaols like their many kills,
And death too weak, spewed him in his flowers
Take a bow, take a bow.
Scrupulous dexterity of the bearded laurel
Multitudinous nobility and countless soothing saccharine
A restoration of our dignity not celebrated, and un-sung.
Tyrannous candor engulfed intelligential
Take a bow, take a bow.
Obdurate at the palaces of murderers
Smiling at military cavalcades, the terror of comrades.
Where barrels pacify the wrangling of children men.
A beholding bluff like Ogun’s iron garb
Take a bow, take a bow.
Yea, the snow-like signature in scraggy form
Impresses nature’s validity on his authority,
Corroding flesh lacerate aptness from his brow
Gyrating orbits of unmatched intelligence
Take a bow, take a bow.
Invisible man from the “kongi” kingdom
Imposing trepidation on pharaohs in the jungle,
Brawny penchant where others retire,
On Lagos streets and London’s courtyard
Take a bow, take a bow.
Nibble in niggle, stripping rogues of honor
Loathing unsavory milk unlike sycophants
Discarding opulence to mediate for the poor
With no reward or crown in intention
Take a bow, take a bow.
Knack for wars with imperious monsters
A constant blustery of unrepentant “Vagabonds”
Dusk till dawn, yearning for Justice.
Crying still, for murdered motherland
Take a bow, take a bow.
And if he dies tomorrow,
As death to all must come,
His posture, a statue for ever,
On our minds and in those rulers of the jungle.
Take a bow, take a bow.
Dedicated to Prof. Wole Soyinka
Nobel Laurate 1986
(A Christmas Collage)
The sun has set and night is stealing
Softly o'er the silent land,
While snowflakes slowly down are falling,
Shaken from an unseen hand.
To the top of Thorburne Tower
Light from windows streams around;
The glow of twenty thousand tapers
Sparkles on the snowy ground.
High arching o'er the graceful altar,
Wintergreen and laurel sway;
And all about the pews of alder
People kneel and humbly pray.
The rosy cheeks and smiling faces,
Rising at the last amen,
Return to rhythmic rows of places
Raising songs of praise again.
Oh hear those olden carols going
O'er the tower to the skies;
Noel and joyful tidings flowing
From warm hearts and gleaming eyes.
So far above the frosty forest,
Father God and Jesus see
The flick'ring flame of faith fulfilling
What on earth was meant to be.
There below the boundless heavens
Beams the Spirit's blessing full;
Bestowing peace and tidings holy,
Bearing love that makes us whole.
Th' enchanting ev'ning passing onward,
Ev'ry street once empty filled;
Then all-enfolding light descending,
Endless eager voices stilled.
To those who trolled triunal praises,
Angels lit the topaz night;
Attuning to the trilling trumpets,
Sounding in triumphal might.
The harps and high harmonic voices
Hold a hope no man could give,
Enmeshing in enchanting fashion,
Showing how archangels live.
E'en later yet they light their lanterns,
Laugh around the firelight's heat;
The children look around and listen,
Laps all full of things to eat.
Even now the endless snowflakes
Eloquently, gently fall;
Adding to the festive feeling
Held alike by great and small.
The youngsters holding hands are happy,
Dancing 'neath the holly wreath,
While horses hauling sleighs and cutters
Jingle homeward on the heath.
The embers glow in evenings echo,
Shedding reddish light afar;
Expectant eyes reflect its sparkle,
Shining like the morning star.
They sing of Mary, blessed mother,
Meek and willing, pure and mild;
They magnify the great Messiah
Born as Mary's holy child.
[Look for the acrostic in the alliteration. There is one letter for each verse.]
By Isaiah Zerbst, November 16, 2013
Every flower has its own color
With annual observation,
this we springtime discover
Give a womb kernel cede
of acknowledgment
To the spectrum birthright
of each other
We are all one,
tho’ from a different umbilical mother
Notice the bloom of time,
come rain ... come sunshine
First eclipse dawn —
tyranny tares grew with the
the golden amber grain —
The face of nightshade oppression
had a dark tone
Steel magnolias was the fetter fragrance
of the pyramid rule chain
Pharaohs, (of no melanin discretion)
who wore the ornamental godhead,
sat atop the pinnacle
While the slaves were downtrodden fed
at the bottom below
Their crowning achievement
was to erect great tombs
But papyrus thieves in the temple
stole the toil of the ruins
Skin for skin,
this is a-fertile sowing season true
Each summer solstice empire
passes into autumnal decline view
Every bird has its own color
And the length of each wingspan
differs from one another
Take an umbilical hover,
acceptance flight
To the spectrum birthright
of each diverse other
We are all one,
tho’ tear delivered
joyously from a different womb mother
Notice the migration of time
come swaddle skybound ... come burial ground
Last obscure sunset
was the Legion silo bane talon —
The thorny wrinkles of oppression
had a pale monotone
Caesars, (of no pigment distinction)
who wore the prickly spiked laurel bled,
sat atop the carrier chariot
While the plebs were commercial shackle led
to the amphitheater above
Their crowning achievement
was to deify great destructive bombs
As scrip crooks in the palace
pilfered the taxable gift of the palms
Skin for skin ~ Epidermal blend,
this is birds of prey a-nesting season true
Autumn equinox tech empires
passed into cold war, nuclear winter view
The nature of wisdom
teaches cross-pollination pure acceptance love:
Tho’ each fruit has its own color
Why then, doth this root of affinity divides us?
This is crystal clear!
Yet, what is the color of water,
of which thee Mist of Life doth bring?
It is snowflake known —
Tears of repentance
is from whence salvation doth spring
of things d\found the scope
peace has existed with hope
even if a dope
did a bin blooper
had become a storm trooper
real super duper
together did click
with such a good looking chick
who of crop was pick
while wearing muzzle
put together my puzzle
together nustle
fell off of the curb
did violently disturb
shouted ugly verb
what we must mention
must bring on abolition
needing ammunition
around tree was stirrup
then did make maple syrup
when we ate would burp
state of total shock
when we saw value of our stock
was a bunch of crock
had heard wise old owl
perfect and always my pal
said jokes which were fowl
(hit balls which were fowl)
(needed crying towel)
(movement in big bowel)
we could always check
how dirty had been the deck
was a complete wreck
thought he was a twit
not only that is a nit
had another fit
clocks we found a few
that would go coco coco
then he went coco
for soil need tester
buried there is ancestor
where they would fester
what we do detest
women who are with big breast
involved in incest
was a ding a ling
horrible songs he would sing
no brains ever bring
lighting caused thunder
there had been a blunder
we misplaced plunder
are both sides of fence
and prefer experience
without an offense
republican gerrymander (Gerry rigged)
was dozy and a dander
when they would pander
even though trial rig
convicted put in the brig
took another swig
heard they called him Carl
should see snake when it will snarl
slithering through laurel
virulent vulture
much trouble tried to culture
now in sepulcher
neither did annoy
and liked both girl and boy
both did enjoy
could be a carrier
am bored and need barrier
walked my terrier
was under much strain
no stain would ever remain
so we went insane
(efforts were in vein)
(ran over by train)
(born without a brain)
will have to admit
when we would catch wind of it
had been a big hit
would you be so kind
help me find lost peace of mind
I had left behind
known to resemble
Trump and did disassemble
had made us trimble
he had blown his stack
had hard time bringing it back
while making wise crack
O some day to come, it may be that time will bury my memory deep as the hidden sleep of those who lie in some forgotten churchyard;
but my judgment is that the future holds for me a fadeless crown of amaranth and gold.
O thou Anonymous Reader, when I, a bard whose graces are plenteous, and has a memory like the British Museum Library, and its material arranged as orderly,
When I, a bard, whose words sunset burst upon them with a variety of forms and colors like those the Divine Artist throws upon the evening sky : they are matchless words on birds and flowers and trees,
“Indeed no poet has given us more Nature poetry than he. In it all, one who reads is astonished at his wealth of simile and metaphors, at the music of his lines and the cooling freshness that delights on every page.” says the Scribes of Thebes, the men of the Scrolls of the Elders, the cavemen and Shamans.
When, I, a bard whose lyrics awakens the response in a common man’s breast, and makes him feel stronger for the day’s work and superior to the day’s faults and failures,
Strives in vain, to share my Art’s disgrace
And then I die like the unknown hero in silent rank beside my passion at the birth of dawn,
Without a wreath of laurel for a nation’s thanks,
You O Anonymous Reader, might have a careless glance upon my works!
So then, my dear reader, listen to my far-off call:
For thy sake I sit in the garden of books mating pen and paper with muse just so I could create a piece in our own image by weaving letters into words and words into figurative languages.
And now here it is, the broken thing, the created piece, happily waiting to be read but breathes in nostalgia like a patient peasant, suffering scorn and wrong, to labor in his people.
Why, O Anonymous Reader, do you make critics wonder why the skillful lowly bards write and write when no one seems to read,
When Fame and Success still refuse veneration,
And when the world gives but a wreath of weed?
O pity for thy writers show! When will thou appreciate the work of the ink?
So I may sleep a sleep remorse cannot affright ?
~Jamuel Yaw Asare
O Girl,
They are telling me about regret.
My spices that reek in my kitchen locker;
My friends smell it in my shirt but never see it on my lips.
The praying mark on my forehead is a lonely pigeon
In the nest at the doors of my stupendous grotto, watching the sky .. 1
Wandering its strange sight in the daylight,
In the blue dome, in the heavy clouds,
In a mountain top hiding the horizon.
A lonely pigeon in the nest at the doors of my stupendous grotto,
Looks for once to the laurel darkness,
Then flies to the tip of whiteness
And vanishes in the horizon.
O Girl,
They are telling me about regret.
The people in my small phone index are a rainy forest;
Its branches with the wide leaves, at the morning, keeps us from rain;
At noon is a shield from winds and being hunted;
At night is a clamber for every passing suspicion.
O Girl,
They are telling me about regret.
My formal white robe on my fixed arm is a new road
By which I pass through, filled with hope at the head of every new year
By the side of the road. Tents are already fixed
With its Gypsy wandering and the hands are the stranger's destination
Stigmatized; they derail the extreme loads on his back
And roll the wine, time after time, in his mind, till he was covered by dusk. 2
At the morning he opens his eyes "THE END OF THE ROAD",
And clears out his bags afraid "THERE ARE NO EXCUSES",
In the medicine book "NO PRESCRIPTION .. NO CURE".
And I always get back to the road, step on the emptiness,
And from the shallow side of my broken arm, the robe goes down.
O Girl,
They are telling me about regret.
My spices that reek in my kitchen locker.
My friends smell it in my shirt but never see it on my lips.
The bird that I once gifted you, came back --
His thin bones now at the eyes of guests is the dinner's destination. And the
people at the door of my old grave are twaddling and telling me, unbored, about
the exploits of regret ....
Forewarning me from the departure
And silence
And hope,
Without seeing the worms on my corpse as sheets --
Sheets of bitterness and pain.