Ossified Poems

Extinct Eden

The skyline wheezes through gauze-thick breath,
its lungs ossified in scaffolded sighs,
where children etch constellations on smog,
and pigeons strut in soot-stained pride.

Dark as coal, and quieter than sleep,
the city dreams in monochrome,
its rivers choked with yesterday’s sins,
its gardens traded for silicone.
Traffic flows like veins in a dying beast,
pumping noise into the marrow of stillness.

We built this Eden out of exhaust
and liturgy of engines.
We now beg for the Adam's apple
to drop back down.

Time Wash

Memories can feel like bodily extensions 
Memories can haunt the very oxygen I breath
Memories carried around like a boat anchor
Memories that felt heavier than the present
Memories that gripped my slumber’s steering wheel

Memories that miraculously became ossified
Memories which mysteriously sunk into the ocean
Memories when grown transfer into learnings 
Memories buried in the wavering wash of time
Memories buried with time’s ceremony

Presidents and Poets

Their names have become
hollowed out husks
blown about the graveyards
of history. Emperors who once
claimed divine favour 
and the imprimatur of the gods 
now seem profane, despotic
caricatures of their age. 
Loud cheers have ossified
to a silence or a curse lodged
in the throat of the citizenry.
Power still seeps its poisons
into the body politic, 
even now into Prime Ministers, 
Premiers and Presidents
of so called united states.

I look for a place to find
a little peace from the crowd
and the howls of an angry world. 
Where once churches held
a sacred quiet, they too
have become loud stadiums 
for opposing forces, 
doctrinal battlegrounds 
between the lost and the saved.
I retreat to that private space
where like souls meet, a room
somewhere, a forest or a beach,
or a corner of one's own garden
and there teach myself to listen.
I hear what has always been there, 
transcending the reign 
of emperors, wealth, privilege 
and the power of the State. 
And so it is, I hold to my chest 
a well worn book of poems
by that saint, Emily Dickinson,
and here - renew my faith
and find a little rest.

Spectre of sex appeal

The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a 
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity

I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses

Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection 

Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone

She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart

No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground

Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone

Hide Your Bones

Look for the bones in shattered statues.
Look for the missing, the mauled limbs,
do not blame time,
seek out the mob,
you will find then hiding in plain sight.

Look for the bones of the Yamaka,
they are there, look closer,
the persecuted, and their dead years,
all their ossified hopes,
forever restless,
they are the bones of their history.

Look to the monuments,
those stone gifts of a nation,
those communal bones of the bygone.
When they come for them
then you will be next.

Hide your own bones,
they are your cherished beliefs,
keep them strong and living,
dig them deep,
behind your eyes, your silent lips.

Know that the slavering wolves
hunt you for your bones,
or whatever else you call freedom.

The Longing

There is always 
a dull longing
that goes unlabelled
and hangs a layer or two
below a joy, a pang
somewhere in the soul
that can't be coughed up
or cut out, just endured.

A nonsense to the skeptic,
no more than perhaps
a twitch of an evolutionary
relic left unemployed within
the brain, now ossified
into an irritant jumping
across the boundaries
of our troubled sleep.

Whatever its origin,
it's always there
be it a hollow left in our psyche 
from an umbilical when severed 
by God or a buffering problem
in our brain,
the longing never leaves.
We try and quench it
with beauty, love, art
and myth but it remains
unfulfilled, as if a speck
of the infinite resides within
us all, that can absorb 
everything we have 
and then ask for more.

Would the Stream Return

The stream lost in tectonic turmoil
Arterial channel skeletal
A pebble poised on the brink
Petrified still
Unrolling inertia
Thwarted by the sands
Of static time
Patina of moist caress
Weathered in the strife
Of ossified life
Existential essence
The primordial building strands
Covered the inert facet
Layer by layer
Grew the malachite moss
Elemental life sprouted
As verdant veil
Wrapping the stony heart
Before turning to fossil
Abrading hope pondered
Would the stream return

May 14, 2019

Be True To Yourself

 
Be True To Yourself
6/4/2018
Tom

Some use their wile, and a mask they wear,
Unable to speak of life, they pantomime.
Satan is unfailing in his effort to ensnare,
And all life will become bleached by time.

We each absorb some of time’s atmosphere,
While considering life and all its unknowns;
To God’s commandments each must adhere,
Before being ossified to mere dry bones;

Canis Familiaris

In days of gray, my legs will lumber,
As time moves swiftly on, it does not break,
In my sleep, dreams will drive me wide awake
And the nightmares keep me deep in slumber.

Provoked by the simplest things, a clumber,
But saddened by the man who forsake
It’s gentle heart, of broken love, it aches,
When the raging fire inside doth cumbers!

So then! We shall fight until the very end,
With sharpened dents and needle-piercing eyes -
Dare the mingy man cast us both aside?

At war, with enduringness, we defend
Our fragmented souls as we chastise,
Until your mangy skin is ossified.

Here Again

Let me take a little sip of your ossified beauty
Listen to your moans at night
With the buccals yearning for each other
Pour ice in the glass in nibbles
How I long to breathe your scent always
Happy birthday once more

So smooth,so sweet and silvery is your voice
That the silky whales cannot defy
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and dark valleys
But none surpasses your beauty in tulips
Let the ripples of your love be felt
You have added another one

May the morning's ripe air unfold your mystery
Bite the berries by the tips
As your lips shineth against the light
For I have never seen you smile for a dime
May your spirit reach new heights and free like the butterfly
Life is ***** with its twists but don't quit
Live with the beauty like you never had
Another one is coming

You are felt through the milky ways
May the hearts that you touch be adored 
And forget the stares upon you
Let this day bring you joy and laughter
And keep them flying in fours
As you soar to new heights
Follow the bumpy trail and dwindle to a new beggining
Happy birthday

Puppy

Puppy!
She is one of a kind
A woman of reason and love
Purely ossified and ornate
Puppy! A mother of all people

Slender but not much,
She’s a figure of compassion
Ready to share with others in their plights
Happiness of others is her joyful rewards
Touching every heart to burn,
and to live a new life
Puppy! Changing even the iconoclasts

She feels and wipes away tears
She has the beautiful face that,
that encompasses wisdom and knowledge
Ridges may exist, but his love levels them,
Wonders may cease, but she cannot forget others
Puppy! a woman to be revered

She is an impetus for every help
An angelic apostale
A mother of unfathomed help
A helper for the burdened,
and a tower of hope for the less fortunate
A light for the depressed and,
A source of strength for the weak 
Puppy! the stature of mercy

In me she is always present
She’s a reflection of joy
The sparkles of the light
The twinkling stars and,
A surgeon of the heart
Puppy! a magical touch of love

Haiku: Miss Spoken

miss spoken mind set
ossified pseudo-christian
no rhyme or reason

Brian Johnston
August 26, 2015

Outlaws of Love

There is a bounty for our hearts Luv,
gold and fame for the flat riders who dare lower our flame
seeking to steal our fortune of raw carnal currency, our soul gold,
Love's law has decreed our passion a sedition against tradition,
a violation of virtue, a willful act of feral freedom, unauthorized love prize,
the old and ossified Judges are corrupt with dry eyes
the flesh upon which these laws are scribed suffers from necrosis,
they allege we are prisoners of passion
they say you are my **** of seduction
they assert I am your beast of brawn taboo
they know not that you are a rose of fire within my heart,
they fail to realize that I am your lion of lust and trust, 
they squawk and hiss in their chambers of spoiled embers,
jealous and freezing from forgotten romance
what do they know of our embrace and fury,

When we cry for eachother, when we touch like none other,
when we come for one another, when we battle with scorching thunder
our love justice soars supreme, our only law, to love with rebel youth, to never surrender -

J.A.B.

The Glow Beneath It All

The glow beneath it all
We’ve forgotten
Is still here and comes from within

Scrape away the burdensome layers of meaningless deposits
Filling the voids accumulated over half a lifetime
You once thought so defining

Shaping you 
Now an ossified vague form of you
A spirit buried beneath its weight

Excavate the unnecessary 
Then you’ll see
It’s you alone who conceals your shining.

In a Sleepless Silent Fog

and in a sleepless silent fog
memories burnt out in faded sun
ossified bones shape quaker guns
the past a needle of deeds undone
dusk another skirmish yet unwon

and fogbound in silent sleep
hypnagogic gagged and bound
susurrous floating low and 'round
inducing visions, throaty sound
form the stranger, kundalini found

and silent in a foggy sleep
drop the level, slip the drum
slackened grip, faintly succumb
a final twist with nasal hum
shadows cling like spirit gum

and now asleep in fog and silence
quelling heart and stifled brume
nestled deep in cotton's tender womb
dawn burning off chimeric gloom
hearts in morning burst abloom.

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