Long Young blood Poems
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I slash with my sword and I push with my shoulder. Every muscle and every tendon is screaming in agony. I can feel every pressure when my blade makes contact. I’m grunting with passion as I push every extremity to the very breaking point. I let my mind wonder to the past, where my family was butchered and mutilated when I was 10 years old. I lost everything I loved and anything that mattered to me, but my passion. Revenge echoes in my mind over and over, like the rumbling of thunder in the summer storms when they pass. Revenge against those who could do the things I’ve seen, beasts that slaughtered my whole family. I have spent years here, learning the warrior’s way, feeling the grunge and toils from everyday training.
My sword is now a part of my body, so swift and true. I can draw it sharply and silent to bring it up my enemy. I spin my body and crouch down low, dodging my enemy and thrusting my sword into his chest. My body has become one single weapon for me to use. My mind is sharp and ready for the challenges of all those who oppose me. I will fight for honor and what is right and damnation to those who are evil and selfish. In the distance a voice echoes in my ears, “Piiid!” “Pid!” This sound grows louder as I strain my muscles and sharpen my skills. “PIIIDDD!!!” “HAULT!” and then I realize that master Baracus has been calling me. Turning around, I see Baracus standing there with a puzzled look on his face. He is a tall elder man with a chiseled chin and scars across both cheeks. His skin tone is deep red from the Sun’s scorching heat of the day. His balding head has traces of white hair around each side and the tunic of a trainer is all black with gold trim. His deep blue eyes gaze upon me in frustration, “You must focus on all things around you Pid, you will leave yourself open to attack without it”.
Baracus turns to walk towards the shelter as he mumbles various curses at me. “You young bucks have no attention and focus” as he slowly walks to sit down. “I was focused on my training you old goat” I persist. As we both sit down, he makes his brittle response, “Damn young blood makes poor fertilizer for our fields” as we both bellow with laughter. He is my mentor and trainer, but most of all he took me in and called me his son. He has trained me in the way of the warrior and what it means to be honorable and noble.
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
An old cow Bholi and it's cub were running
Hard to save their lives from the flogging
A young boy having stick with lather laced
Was chasing them, showering flogs with mighty hand.
Bhola:
Mom, why we are beaten so bitterly?
What are our faults today?
My young blood is running hard in veins
I want to teach him a lesson just now
If you allow me to save ourselves
I can hit him with my sharp horns.
Bholi:
No! No! My dear ,don't do this mistake
For God's sake, Please
First run hard to save ourselves
After an hour hard race
They were facing face to face
Breathing hard under open sky
An angry ox not a cub now
Asked questions for proud now
Why did you stop me to teach him
A lesson in his method, poor cow?
Bholi:
My dear Bhola
Your name and my name were fixed
By my kind master who loved both us
The chasing boy was his only son
I didn't want to hurt my master
So I stopped to hurt him.
Bhola:
What a ridiculous!
Kind master kind master
A homeless foodless
Jobless timid cow
How could you justify it?
Bholi:
My dear son
The master and his son are not our real enemies
Our real enemy is UNEMPLOYMENT
Now i am barren due to old age
And you are jobless due to machineries
The few years ago i gave them milk
And bull helped them in farming.
I couldn't say how much they loved us.
NO WORK NO FOOD
This is the rule of Nature.
Bhola:
If no work, no food is the rule
I will fight against the rule.
I will raise my voice for dignity
I will fight till last breath.
The earth is not only for humans
It is also for us.
I will fight, I will fight
I will strike for sake of you.
Bholi:
Please don't do this nonsense
Nobody is here to hear
You will get punished, dear.
Some rebellious bulls
And their leader Bhola
Was standing in midst of highway
A loud noise for deaf ears
WE WANT JOB
WE WANT JOB
GIVE JOB US or BREAD US with honour
We are not lazy and crazy .
Theirs voices were lost
In crusade of traffic jam
Some cops came to solve the jam
Rebelion Bhola declared mad
Soon they shot down the bull.
A canticle I think I'll be,
A rimed thought, hoary and ancient,
Stinking as the dust heaped up empyreal on the hills of
The Judean sands;
And as dulled and dimmed as an archaic coin tarnish'd.
This is what I think I might be.
I'd as lief be this as any other you might care to name.
Valid is this, my remote and removed claim,
And it all began hereon.
O, that was an age ago, that remote and bygone time,
Rimed with hoar-frost and the whitishness of ancientness,
When as blood-soaked, cruciferous hills remote and circumvallatory or else
Perhaps circumferential to the great, walled city, itself circumvallatory;
When all this began.
When this particular beguine to which we've all been dancing lo this many score of years began.
It was as a woman bedecked in black on a Sunday morning newly kissed by the auriferous dawn,
(A goldener dawn than even that on which she met the man whose coffin she was now appointed to follow in a moribund processional, a macabre and solemn, ceremonial dance of death,)
Going down to the fixed graveyard.
That day was as the day on which I first deigned to join this,
And adopting unto myself the sobriquet, shibboleth "A canticle I think I be"
(For I was not permitted to use the full appellation I wished to apply to myself,
Owing to some stupid and recondite rule regarding and regulating the use and due conservation of characters: Yet not those as those of the mainstays of literature, no! I mean to say the characters that are synonymous with words and spaces and punctuation and the like,)
And here the tale ends, though 'twas not Moschean nor Noahide as
I perhaps meant it to be.
Oh, well: All's well that ends well.
(For was this not an idiotic tale, yet a harrowing one, whose lightest word would harrow up the young blood of any and all who saw it, read it, perused it?)
Form:
Young and naive ,
Submerged underneath the melancholy ;
Amid the chat and giggles .
We laugh and cry ;
Through the misconception and dispositions ,
For tides of life aren’t meant to last but to strengthen our soul and mind .
We hear them all the time .
The damn sematics and lame rhetorics ,
Who from the parting moon to the awakening sun deprive us from the possible possibilities and second chances .
We won’t be like them we take their form .
Never will we be blind to plights of the needy ,
Nor be adamant to the pleas of the lonely .
Young blood
Young dreamer Young
Stakes are high the odds are crippling
Gradually forge ahead
Until sensations reach its limit
In the What ifs and the what nots
We will take our ample time,
To earnestly unsheathe our gifts for good of all. Sealed in sprightly with music and poetries ,
Vividly enshrined with surreal illustrations and hype-realistic images.
And all the little lights and even the twinkles in our eyes sparkled with eagerness never felt before .
So we dance
To the senseless musicals assorted rhythms
Through our misgivings and missed opportunities
We chant nominal hymns and aphorisms
In nothing will be anxious and in everything with thanksgiving and prayer !
So we Alter our moods with fanciful thoughts
Untill the city is drenched in our youthful voices
And We will live to serve with love for all hated for none !
So we paint our visions
Upon the vast opalescent daylight sky
Imaginary or illusionary but void of all divisions
Entrenched deep and pure they can never deny
Into the sea we will haul all our indecisions
Gradually we urge on until the last embers of the daylight die !
Mirabella had a big garden of pretty Azaleas
and towards moon she started a tap dance,
showing her ballerina dress made by Chris;
young boys came around and stole a glance!
What was the secret that made
her so glamorous and famous?
What did Mirabella have to deserve
admiration and hundreds of claps?
Follow me and I'll tell you a great story,
her incredible beauty charmed tall
and handsome Harry instantly;
they met on the breezy Amalfi Bay;
he wasn't very young, a friendly guy
with a head full of aging grey...
and he came from Montreal!
No woman was lovelier than Mirabella when she was laughing;
it must been the Neapolitan sunshine on her sun-tanned cheeks,
it must have been the mandolin's hard trap beats
that raised her young blood as she began singing!
And Harry couldn't help smiling and throwing another flower,
she became the undying flame of a true soldier's heart;
and that flame burned until the war was finally over:
would he forget her and let their feelings turn into dust?
He took one step forward and whispered with the firmest voice,
" I've made a promise more truthful than I've made to any girl,
wait for me and don't count days, or nights, not even once:
have faith in me: because tomorrow is a wish I can fulfill! "
And Mirabella remembers her sweetheart who's too far away
and cries by the dull garden of withered flowers looking over
the foaming sea where dreams are created; do they soar faster
than the boldest eagles, or do they end in misery before midday?
Of cotton candy and candy apple’s crunch
I remember the circus tent and dusk
The smells of donkeys and elephant dung
And heady smells of smoke that hung
In the air almost suspended
Up in the air trapezists flew
Catch and grab as we sat with gasp
Trumpets blared and clowns blew hooters
At the man that was shot from a cannon
The man with the red jacket boomed and joked
As bored fathers sat and smoked
Our eyes were wide with wonder
At the horses run and elephant’s thunder
The thrill and glee of young blood pumping
Through our young veins as dogs were jumping
And the smells and tastes and colours merged
Into memories and dreams and golden moments
As we sit and reminisce, wondering why the past was bliss
Whilst the now was dry and dusty, crusty with rigid thoughts
What we lost was more than the circus
What we lost was our sense of wonder
As the age trampled us with its relentless thunder
As we stuck our head’s in life’s lion’s mouth
Our sense of fun just slipped away
Like the circus tent was packed away
And the site is empty now, silent and cold
Even the elephant dung is dried and old
But all is not lost, all is not gone, ride after the circus, find the tent
Find the wonder in candy canes bent
Find the life and the love and the smells
Find the children with their gasps and their yells
As they live on in wonder, jumping to cannon shot’s thunder
Shouting at clowns and clapping for dogs
In awe and wonder
Daniel Human
21 September 2014
> holy godless troubadour
>
> saint of beauty's truth
>
> cigarettes and shades
>
> acoustic electric real
>
> all despite himself
>
> wisps words notes for us
>
> tries hard to set us straight so
>
> he can find the keys
>
> slim poet shaded
>
> behind the lenses a world
>
> where what is is all
>
> history's losers
>
> found light hope space or justice
>
> in dashed-off lyrics
>
> lonesome deaths or worse
>
> songs sung and shhh shhh listen
>
> all whispered demands
>
> reluctant poet
>
> his mysterious women
>
> blueprints for Bronx girls
>
> curly hair blue eyes
>
> sliced into green eyes straight hair
>
> across vinyl years
>
> forever aged
>
> his young blood blonde on the tracks
>
> dispense theft and love
>
> his words notes guitar
>
> venomous antidotes cured
>
> some isolation
>
> slim medicine man
>
> without advice or consent
>
> his unknowing salve
>
> highways horses war
>
> spaces between the words tell
>
> nothing everything
>
> museless save for him
>
> behind dark shades and guitars
>
> kids pretend to know
>
> songs of souls' desires
>
> innocent criminal finds
>
> you me and himself?
>
> pissed off cranky faced
>
> chubby baby cheeks tell of
>
> loss more loss and hope?
>
> slim still no wiser
>
> wise enough for forty years
>
> screw the weatherman
Bob Dylan's french kiss
mixed with plastic soda
and beans.
Drinking solid newspaper
jeans young girl wants
to be inside the scream.
Fade to color
the scene
turns black.
Attack of the bees
honey singing to
the cows.
I want to be your
makeup girl we can
sing until the sun
blows pearls.
Bubbles blowing
the doors of candles.
Music flames for
our butterflies.
Wear the note
and the french kiss
danced from the moonlight
of your tongue.
Restless angels.
Love's arrows.
Swing to me again
and tangle the breeze
with your magic covered
stick.
Butter meets the melt.
Heat for the present day.
Summer hot babes
but your tongue is born
to rain.
Falling the swift stars
of earth.
Shining the lips of
silver wrapped for
presents of skin.
Piece by piece
young virgin sleeps.
Reminder you can dance
like a cat and lick your last
bones.
Lock up the chains and
sleep with the fire's night
light on.
Dylan the star of the belt
hold the tie and loop through
the fabric of teeth.
Soft like your hair between
the two chairs.
I want to be your shampoo
between your french kiss
young blood and perfume.
Fresh night moon shining
under the black sweet
truth.
Two blue shoes on your
last history feet.
Walk on the sun and listen
to your heart beating spots
of tragic age or a sweet voice
blessed us and we know the
last ride home is you.
Form:
In a city, today at 11:am in a nearby town,
An elementary student took his own life down.
In sorrow and anger I do murmur and walk.
Children do not die of Covid, such b.s. talk.
The Unions just want more cash for teachers.
Children have falling grades, stop saying school
on a screen is at all sane!
The Union can pay for his final expenses.
He's not the first to do this.
Suicide is no way to go.
Kids need one another not a teacher's face on a screen.
Politicians should fund all suicides.
Lockdowns driving people out of their minds.
Who wants to live like an animal caged?
My heart weeps crimson tears. He was my grandsons's age.
This fills my heart with rage and hot tears.
But you and I know lockdowns will expand,
As socialism infects this great land!
What good is poetry, as children and adults end their lives.
Lockdowns will kill yet more.
Unless we stop hiding behind our doors!
We all need human contact and parents cannot take the place
of peers.
Our governors, with their fat heads up their rears.
CNN lies with death count fears?
Pray for his mother...no son this Christmas or any other.
No Birthday, no Mother's Day.
To Covid nonsense, he eternally....pays,
The moon sheds tears of lost young blood tonight.
May it cause us all a sleepless and restless night.
12/2/2020
6pm PST
Form: