Long Verdicts Poems
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Loving People
By Curtis Johnson
It must have been at least five years ago that I saw him for the first time
I must admit, his looks and the way he dressed, were not the inviting kind
He was quiet, presented no threat to anyone; and he never got out of line
I observed him and looked around to see if anyone else would pay any mind
So often, when a stranger or someone looks distant, we hesitate from being kind
We stand back and keep our distance, and start hearing things through the grapevines
Were there dress codes, or requirements to be clean bearded and freshly trimmed?
Why do we render judgments without knowledge, and verdicts without evidence?
Why do we conclude that he doesn’t belong? We leave him alone; and we get tense
Why do we assume the worst? Of his guilt, we are rather certain, and quite convinced
Of course he was different, and some may have even said, “He looks homeless and out of place; he’s not well dressed, and smells just like the rest of them”.
Well, I must tell you my friend, that I refused to develop the mental pictures I took of him
I quickly erased those snapshots from the edges of my brain, and decided to get to know him. I could clearly see that he needed us; and we needed to look beyond his appearance. He had not only stepped into a structural sanctuary, but also a sanctuary of people. He needed to be assured that this indeed was a place where living waters flowed; We needed to live up to our call to serve God, through serving and loving people.
The once distant looking gentleman, now radiates a sense of security and belonging
Eyes once dimmed and barely readable, are now sparkling with life and joy
Getting to know him has been a pleasure, and like all of us, he has a story to tell
I and others in the sanctuary are the better, because we are learning to love people.
cj07142015
As the clock continues to move forward;
Seconds to minutes, then hours to days.
The time allows more thought of beyond,
What lies ahead and how many ways.
This journey is often prepared by reflection,
Looking at history to judge the events.
As verdicts remain part of the ledger,
That contains few dollars and less sense.
Just as those have traveled before me,
Our lifes' affairs become a burden elsewhere.
When family or friend begin making decisions,
Between life and death and how much to care.
It is here in these later chapters when
Many more questions arise of an afterlife.
Because no matter the amount of early lessons,
One's faith labors on to a midwife.
At this point my questions see direction,
As if gravity shows the way up or down.
To where sudden signs light up the roadway,
And heaven or hell expose a smile or frown.
These efforts fail to offer a conclusion,
As to any ultimate or final resting place.
So as long as the clock keeps on ticking,
I'm resolved to go on laughing in its face.
While this delay may upset a grand father,
My time will continue to populate only the earth.
Where my hands can control the hourglass, and
Those of time must patiently await my rebirth.
As soon as Odey arrived,
The villagers greeted in roar
Like the verdicts of Lions.
He was lifted high and
Gongs gave their salutations,
For Odey, the great salt
Discoverer has arrived.
Wrestlers pay allegiance
By displaying black skills,
He walked shoulder high
And his praises were lifted high.
Women swung their backyards,
Making the men's mouth water,
For the great hunter has arrived.
Jubilation is sure, all anger cured.
Gun powder entered the air to
Inform the sky of the black discoverer,
The seed of Yala*.
Children orchestrating black rhythm
And rhyme, happy to see the salts.
Welcome Odey, welcome black hero,
For thou art a true meaning of an African sunset....
===========================
Yala* is my mother's tribal dialect.
Born into this world –
with a cord around my neck.
Wrapped around 3 times –
my cord of life brought me near death.
Funny now to think –
I’d live my life with the same battles.
Foreshadowing my future –
(fighting) with demons in the shadows.
Fighting for my life alone –
seems no one hears my screams.
The things I love so much –
most of them cause danger to me.
My lovers over time –
in their own ways felt right to me.
Just to find that each of them –
would just cause me to bleed.
Not bloodshed in some valiant way –
no, bloodshed of the weak.
Beaten, battered, broken, –
it still haunts me in my sleep.
Pushed to brutal limits –
beaten like an injured dog.
And when I finally snapped –
see, only I was in the wrong.
Friends are just the same –
whenever presented with conflict.
Nobody wants to listen –
unless there’s favorable verdicts.
Throw away the whole relationship –
For sakes of being right.
Nobody really cares –
they’ll leave me here, far out of sight.
Family is truly fleeting –
they just seem to come and go.
Even those you’re close to –
(turn) into people you don’t know.
See, I have no true safe place –
nor a happy place nor peace.
I’m plagued by suicidal thoughts –
for my mind is diseased.
Why should I want to be here –
with no purpose, with no home?
The absence of my children –
is the worst pain that I’ve known.
“Stay alive for them!” –
so many foolish people say.
But I cannot fulfill their dreams –
(they’ll hold) false hope should I stay.
For the Haven’s advancement,
the Elite may extend a courteous backhand,
or a fist wrapped with opinion
that some may mistake for abuse.
Dante’s girl fell from her steeple
head first into a cauldron of pride,
now her feeble corpse twitches
trying to vomit the blackest pitch grey.
Stains her soldier’s dress blues
duty has him answer the bench’s call.
Gaveled verdicts now deleted,
appeals one site’s ambitions.
Often found in a library,
their little boy plays with
his toy box full of straw men
and overused emoticons.
Each breath billows the forge,
black smoke void of The Father,
they beat a gift’s beauty into a weapon,
the cutting edge of the Deceiver’s con.
At last, Mr. J Bugman is now a retired Judge-man.
For many years he has punished many, spared few.
His verdicts never alter even if there is no hangman.
He had no rest, no serenity, working is all he knew.
Retiring, he sought peace by sleeping with content,
He has never slept; yes, he has but not in true sense,
Now, sleeping his first real sleep is his sole intent.
He is slave to none, lies on the bed of own manse.
Night was silent, his eyes dimmed with drowsiness,
Suddenly, there was a soft noise, then, it was louder.
Switching the lights on, he crept towards the mess
Of Newspapers on the base, something was there.
It was neither a thief nor a beast, it is a cockroach
That has spoiled his much-awaited plan, he howls
With rage, he will not relax until he makes poach
Of that tiny rascal, He aims at it with books, bowls.
Pages of books fly, glassy dishes shatter into pieces,
But that swift creature is unharmed as if it’s charmed.
Bugman picks up his ever-faithful Stick, then, chases
And slays it with one blow, its death is now confirmed.
Next night, he makes sure that his sleep is undisturbed,
He has already sprayed repellants, a good night’s sleep
Is waiting for him, his eyelids shrank and eyes dimmed
But again a soft noise hurt his wakeful ears with a beep.
Disgusted, he left the bed an turned the lights on again
And found a rat that eating biscuits loudly that can undo
His sleep or already has. He sighed, “O God, O heaven!
Well, here is another nice mess you have gotten me into.”
Life passed, within an eye’s blink, like a reflection of Narcissus on a death pool;
A lover of a hypnotic time, a withering away in the end. Fossilized glory of a fool.
Silence heard the river of words;the words listened to the sound of the fullest brim,
Moonlight dipped in the shades of sky, and that tasted more like the ego of a whim.
Premature death was marked in French. Followed by a friendly comment,
Pas de problème! All news will be good news on a single, special moment!
Verdicts take too long a time to fix typos when judges are getting ready to pray.
Life turns in full swing. Too late a moon to conceal the break-out of another day!
A toddler teaches a sound of a typo, in a solid sermon of preach.
A strict timeline to heed the call of a preferred way to the screech!
This pattern should surely follow the cosmos to greet back the comet, Halley.
The myth of a narcissus flower goes on; pining moments in a masterpiece of Dali.
I saw a girl,a fair beauty,
Whose sunny brightness
Impressed my eyes.
I thought i was confused,
No!i have to be composed.
"Hello,eyes desire?"my
Words were in slow motion.
"Hello,strange comer,"her
Words were even slower...
She must be without palaver.
My notion got unleashed,
Truly and carefully,
Convincing her like never before.
A melodious subtle laughter followed,
Like something from my guitar,
Making her display her verdicts.
She is the karachi girl,
Hometown in pakistan,grand daughter
Of a goldmine,in love with me,
A penny boy for nature
And affection's sake.
Form:
Vultures verify vulnerable villages,
Vacuuming value, venerating vaults.
Voters vilified, voices vetoed,
Votes vanished, victories volatile.
Visible villains veil violations,
Virtuous veterans victimized via vanity.
Vast vaults versus vacant vessels,
Value vaporized, virtue vandalized.
Vice validates violence, violence validates vice,
Vicious vortex, vicious vice.
Victims vilified, victors vindicated,
Verdicts valued via victory.
Vassals versus visionaries,
Veins vibrating, voices volcanic.
Volition versus validation,
Vital versus virtual vocation.
Verify every version.
View every veil.
Value verification versus verbal virtue-signaling.
Vision without visibility becomes voluntary blindness.
Vengeance? Vacant.
Virtue? Variable.
Victory? Valueless without volition.
Value lives via voluntary vision,
Verses vibrating with visceral veracity.
I asked the sun
rising slow over palms—
How much more
can a place bend
before it breaks?
The sun didn’t answer.
It just burned—
like truth
too hot for hands
that hide it.
I asked the courthouse steps,
worn smooth by pleading feet—
How many lies
have you carried upward
in polished shoes?
They said nothing,
but I heard the echo
of a thousand verdicts
whispering
not quite justice—
not quite.
Down by the water,
where the tide keeps time
better than men,
I asked the ocean—
How deep does corruption go?
The ocean laughed,
rolled back blue shoulders,
and said:
Deeper than your questions,
but not deeper than change.
And in the streets—
where the poor stand waiting
longer than promised —
I heard a voice,
cracked but living:
It becomes what we allow.
So I ask you—
not the sun,
not the steps,
not the sea—
How much more
can Florida become
before somebody
stands up
and says
Enough.